Author: Shameka The Writer

Earning The Friendship Badge

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 1 Comment

This weekend, I had the pleasure of spending time with my best cousin. The two of us are like kindred spirits to the 100th power. Now I have friends, good friends, great friends- the best friends. But there’s nothing like a best cousin. At least, there’s nothing like mine. I’ve known her since she was born (1 year and 3 months after me); we even have the same alma mater. She’s in Philly and I’m not, so we don’t get to see each other as much as we did when we were younger. But she’s still the person I trust the most in the world- the one I’m 100% confident will always be there. Anyway, we were spending time together, and as we usually do, we talked- about everything. The conversation we had today made me want to cry- not because I was sad, but because I was relieved. Why you ask? Because she… gets me. I think that for most of us, the need to be understood is almost as urgent as the need to be loved. So having someone “get” you is a pretty big deal- and she does. She asked me about things, things that no one ever asks about. In the defense of everyone else, no one knows me quite like she does- so she pretty much always knows what to ask. But I’m getting off track- as usual.

We were having an interesting conversation about friends, which led me to some thoughts about levels of friendship, earning your status as a friend, as well as giving support to and receiving support from your friends. I’ve had similar conversations with my friend Nikki (@DarlingNiq on Twitter), so it’s been stuck in my head for a while. I just didn’t have the words to express the idea… but I do now.

I’ve always been an advice giver to my friends. Many of them look to me for an honest opinion and they care what I think. Because I know this, I shape my words very carefully when I’m talking to them. I tailor my advice, I try to make it as personal as possible. I feel like this is the least I can do, as a friend. I feel like the more careful and personal I am with the way I speak, the more they are sure that I am focused on them, and on our relationship. The more they know that I mean what I say, the more they can be sure that I am speaking from a place of love… even when I am saying something that they don’t necessarily want to hear. Sometimes, when you’re having a discussion, emotions run high- so I don’t always succeed in this. But I always try. Likewise, in other areas I feel like I try with all my heart and strength to give you what YOU need when YOU need it. In all honesty though, I don’t know if I feel like that care is returned. Let’s have an example…

I’m a bit of an independent, and I don’t usually ask for advice. But when I do, I expect it at the same level that I give it- because I believe in reciprocity. I believe that I’ve gone above and beyond to earn the badge of friendship- and I don’t think it’s wrong to expect a star effort if I’m giving one. Or at the very least, a star attempt. Sometimes, the advice I receive (from my friends) is impersonal and vague. How can this be, you ask? Well that’s what I’m wondering. They’re my friends- they know me- they… get me. Right? But maybe not. Because sometimes I get the coffee mug cliche advice- and it makes me sick to my stomach. I do have my own brand of spirituality, so I do believe in the power of speaking to God, and asking Him to show you the way. That having been said, if I ask for advice and all I get is, “you should pray on it,” I’m instantly angry. Now before you nail me to a stake, let me explain. I’m not angry because I don’t want to pray, nor am I angry because I don’t believe that prayer works. I’m angry because that’s not the advice I’m asking for- and you should know that. To me, that phrase is just a fancy way of saying that you have no fucking idea what I should do- and if you’re my friend, I’d rather you’d just be honest and say that. I’ll respect that. Let’s go again, shall we?

A lot of my friends are in relationships. My best cousin in a relationship; I have four very best friends and in our circle of five, I am the only one still single. Don’t worry, I’ve acknowledged and am working through my complex about that. But back to the point. I’ve noticed that sometimes when people are in relationships, the advice they give to single people is condescending and inappropriate. It’s almost as though every memory they have of their single life is filed away in a safe and they don’t have the combination. Don’t tell me to put myself out there more. What would you like? Me standing on the corner wearing a sandwich board that says, “Relationship Wanted. Inquire Within?” Don’t say that improving your social life helped you unless it actually did. Don’t tell me I’ll get him when my heart is ready to receive him because this is not a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel. And for goodness sakes- don’t tell me this is an opportunity to get to know myself. That advice will bring out the asshole in me and I will regale you with tales of my frequent masturbation. How’s that for knowing yourself? I know that there’s no magic fix to a single relationship status, but that’s not what I’m asking for. I’m not asking you to cry with me, or male bash with me. I’m asking YOU to tell me that you’re still here. I’m asking you to let me know that I’m never alone; that loneliness is temporary. I’m asking you to call me your friend- not your single friend.

This kind of advice breeds resentment and it alienates your friends. I know that there are relationships where I’ve been distancing myself because the reciprocity isn’t there anymore. The compassion isn’t there anymore. The personal element is lost. Friendship has become something we say, when it’ s supposed to be something we do as well. I know we think we’re being all deep and enlightened, but the truth is we’re being lazy. I’m a grown woman, and I don’t have time for fortune cookie advice.

I know I sound angry, but the topic has been building for a while. I think we get too damned comfortable and we stop earning the friendship badge. We forget to turn on our compassion and understanding for one another. We forget to put ourselves in each other’s shoes. We forget to reciprocate. I’ve tried to work at my friendships- to recognize their worth and seek to keep it. I think that’s what we all should do. My friends have a special place, specifically carved out for them, in my life. And I want a space too- in theirs. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with removing myself if I don’t get that.

I guess I just think you should be careful with your words. You should be honest with your words; if you’re giving advice to a friend, you should be personal with your words.  For most of us, the need to be understood is almost as urgent as the need to be loved.

Kill Them With Confidence

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been writing up a storm these days (short stories, mostly- they’re my specialty for those who don’t know) and I’ve been having so much fun. Now it’s not so much fun for my blog, because my blog is my real life- but creatively, I couldn’t be in a better place. For instance, I’m working on a story now and in the story, my main character is a stripper- a headliner as a matter of fact- and it made me think about my dream of being a stripper myself.

Before you get all judgmental, let me explain. Someone once asked me what I would do if I was free and completely unafraid. When I thought about the answer, I figured out that besides owning a restaurant and writing to my heart’s content without starving like an artist, another thing I’d do is become a stripper. Most people laugh when they hear me say that- because I say it with an absolute straight face. But after the laughter, of course they ask why. And when I thought about why, there was only one answer: because to do that job and do it well, you have to have a confidence that is unmatched- and more than anything, I want that confidence. Now, after I give this answer, most people burst my bubble by reminding me that a lot of strippers are afraid and insecure on the inside, struggling to make it, fighting coke habits- all that yucky stuff. So, in response to that, I had to tailor my answer. To do that job, and do it well, what they have, even if their lives are a mess- is confidence in their sex appeal– and that’s what I’m missing.

Now, I don’t have to tell you people how hard it is to be a plus-size girl these days. People take so much pride in ripping you apart- they attack the very essence of your physical self and then when they’re done, they twist the knife deeper by implying that your size is your own fault (because you’re lazy and you eat too much), that’s it’s easy to lose the weight- and that (and this is my favorite part) you should simply learn to take a joke. I love a joke as much as the next person, but this is serious… very serious. Anyway, when that’s the world around you- confidence is hard to get, hard to keep, and hard to show.

*As a side note, I know that people of other sizes, races, sexual orientations, religions, and ethnicities get attacked on a daily basis as well- and I’m not trying to nail myself to some fat girl cross and imply that we have it worse- but this blog is about my life- so I have to write my experience- you guys get that, right?* Moving on…

I have this theory that when we raise our young women, we give most of them a complex because we imply (consciously or subconsciously) that they can’t be both beautiful and smart- that they have to choose one. I have seen this in action. Pretty dumb girls who think their looks will get them everything, and smart girls who don’t even bother with their looks because they’re convinced they’re not destined to be beautiful. I was definitely in the latter group. When I was young, I must have heard a billion times how smart I was. How my grades were going to make me the doctor in my family, how the fact that I read books all the time was going to make me rich- all of that. I can’t remember anyone ever telling me I was beautiful. I mean sure, I was “cute” on school picture day, and whenever my mom made me wear a skirt- or when I took one of my many “Student of the Month” photos- but I don’t think I was ever called attractive on a consistent basis. Add that to puberty making me plump and glasses in the sixth grade, and that is NOT a recipe for confident. Now this is not to say that I never had anything to be confident about. I was almost to the point of arrogant about books and reading, and school- I just had zero confidence when it came to what I saw in the mirror every day. I know that what’s inside matters more, but if you’d asked me what I saw when I looked at myself- I would have said a fat nerd with glasses. And that’s it. I didn’t see anything good about my outward appearance- and that’s indicative of a bigger problem where it matters most… on the inside.

The after effects of this thinking ranged from sadness, to anger, to finally- apathy. I stopped caring about what I looked like on the outside- because it didn’t seem like anyone else did. Everyone else was just focused on me being so smart, so I tried to focus on that too. I didn’t meet boys- the ones I crushed on didn’t notice me, and the ones who expressed interest in me were rebuffed because I didn’t believe them. I realize now that it wasn’t because I was unattractive- it was because I thought I was. I had no confidence about my appeal to the opposite sex. This went on for years, and laid the groundwork for my stripper dream. It didn’t help that I seemed to be surrounded by sisters and cousins and friends who flipped their hair, popped their gum, switched their hips and had boys falling all over themselves to talk to them. I didn’t have any choice but to hang out with them (it was better than hanging out by myself at the library- which I also did, by the way) but most of the time when I was with them, I felt inadequate in some way. And the beat goes on…

As I cruised into adulthood, I discovered more flattering clothes, started paying someone to tackle this hair and got eyeglass frames that didn’t make me look like a grandmother- and I felt better about myself. My social life picked up, and so did my sex life- and we all know how attractive that can make you feel. But I have to confess that it’s still an everyday struggle to show confidence, to feel confident- at least about my appearance. My friends are some of the most beautiful women I know- they’re all intelligent, talented, fabulous, fearless. And they all know it- and show it. They attract men like bees to honey- but like I said, I’m still struggling. I just don’t project what they project- and sometimes it makes me sad, like they all have some special magic that I’m not privy too. I’m proud of them- and we have a lot of fun when we hang out together- but honestly I still see that 13-year old girl, feeling inadequate and unattractive, feeling dim surrounded by everyone else’s light. Sometimes it’s so real- I can smell my own fear, my own doubt… my own lack of confidence. I don’t see a fat nerd with glasses when I look in the mirror anymore, but I don’t see a sexy, plus-size, dynamo either. Most days, I see a kind of cute Shameka, who has brown eyes like my Grandma Bert and awesome hair (when it’s done). I think my outfits are cute, but most days I liken myself to an adult Punky Brewster- comfortable, casual, colorful. I still don’t take the kind of care with my outward appearance as other people I know- because somewhere inside, I still think that it doesn’t matter- because no one is noticing me anyway. When I feel myself slipping into that, I try to pull back- but sometimes it’s really hard. It’s pretty tough when you have something people commonly make fun of; but when you don’t have confidence you make it harder by warring with yourself, as well as the world. I know I do. And I wish there was a magic switch I could turn on to make me more self- assured- but alas there is not… I guess there’s always that stripper dream .

I’ll have to keep tuning up my insides though- ultimately, it’s the only way to project my light outward. I know that most of the time I only see what my mind believes- so I will continue to work on changing my mind. No matter what though, one of the things I do have confidence in- is my ability to push through, to keep going. And to write it all down…

You Say Goodbye- And I… Don’t

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 1 Comment

Channel surfing is so dangerous. One minute you’re flying high, pressing buttons, ruling the TV, dodging commercials like that ball in your elementary school gym class- and the next minute, you’re getting sucked into the last twenty minutes of Love and Hip Hop and all is lost. Now there’s no need for me to repeat my paragraph on my hatred of reality TV- you guys should remember my loathing of it. But tonight, I saw two segments that did the absolute impossible- they connected with my life. I mean, my real life. I watched the conversation between Tahiry and her father and I also watched Mendecees try to explain the possibility of jail to his seven year old son. Those two parts pulled me in, reminded me of myself. Since the memories start with childhood, of course, I’m going to address the two scenes in reverse. But first, a little background…

A few months ago, I wrote a blog about whether you should share your whole past in a relationship (Let the Past Be Present). And in that post, I explained that the emotional trauma in your past should be shared. And then I admitted that my biological father wasn’t in my life the way I needed him to be. In actuality, he’s been an addict most of my life. Now, I had another father- a wonderful, honorable man- and a mother too, so I don’t want anyone to think that my life was this struggle- and I don’t want to take away from the fact that this struggle has been 1000 times harder for my dad- but it is what it is.

When I watched Mendecees try to explain to his son that he may not see him for a while, that moment got to me. I remember being 11 years old, and sitting with my dad, listening to him tell me that he was going away to get better and that I wouldn’t see him for a while. I didn’t understand addiction- so of course, I didn’t understand him leaving to deal with it. He said he was coming back, but deep down I was always afraid that he wouldn’t. I cried, because that’s what you do when someone you love says goodbye- but I had no idea what it really meant.  He did come back, and things were good for a while, but a year later, we had the same conversation- this time, over the telephone. I guess he thought it would be less painful if we weren’t face to face; it wasn’t. And I had no idea that years later I would be hanging on to bad relationships, to outgrown friendships, to things I shouldn’t- because he made me afraid to say goodbye. And even though he did come back, he’s still not fully in my life. Sometimes I feel like we said our final goodbye that night on the phone, when I was twelve years old, because nothing was ever the same between us after that. My dad is a decent guy- and he loves me. But I don’t know that he’ll ever be able to appreciate how long it took me to reconcile that feeling of abandonment. I don’t know that he’ll ever see that my need to hold on to things was a direct manifestation of my inability to hold on to him.

The other scene that connected with me was the one of Tahiry’s conversation with her father. She talked to him about how his failings as a father and husband shaped her as a woman. And I thought about that too. In dealing with my biological dad, I felt like the parent most of the time. I looked for my dad, made sure he was eating, sleeping, and generally getting along. It made me think about the partners I chose- and why I chose them. It made me think about the men I’ve loved, about what I was looking for when I fell for them. I know this is classic Psych 101 shit- but it’s pretty real. I wanted to save my dad. I wanted to make him better, fix him up. And I wanted to keep him- so much that I chased him. And that’s how I was as a woman in love. I loved people who I thought needed me- needed me to fix them, look after them, save them. I chased them when they left- and forgave them when they returned. I thought that love meant never walking away. I didn’t believe in saying goodbye- not even if it was going to save me.

Five years ago, I wrote my biological dad a letter, telling him some of these feelings. I never mailed the letter; I just needed to get my broken heart on paper. I needed to see and hear and read- out loud- how I was killing my own spirit by following this man’s example. I don’t want you guys to think that I don’t love my biological dad. I do. Very much. But I can’t forget who was there for me, and for a long time, it wasn’t him. I can’t forget that he made me afraid to cut my losses, afraid to save myself… afraid to say goodbye.

It hit me a few years ago, after I broke up with my ex, that I had a great example that I was ignoring all this time. My father. Not my biological, but still my real father. He was the man I should have been emulating. The person I should have let guide my decisions. I took for granted what a great job he did, and what a great man he is. So now, I’m trying to be the woman he raised- finally. Love myself- as he loves me. And define myself- the way he always wanted me too.

Like I said, channel surfing is dangerous. I don’t have the energy for another blog… no more TV. I’m going to bed.

Treat Her Like A… Woman?

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 3 Comments

Hello again. The last few months have been an age of discovery for me. I’m having more fun than I’ve had in years, my friends have saved my spirit- as well as my life, my job is better and dating doesn’t suck. I’ve been learning so much about myself- and falling in love with TV again. But we’ll get back to TV later. Today, I want to focus on Twitter.

I’ve been on Twitter almost a year and a half now (@ShamekaErby if you feel like following me) and I think I connect with it on a different level than Facebook. Twitter is the home of random thoughts- people say whatever comes to their minds. And anyone who’s my friend on Facebook knows that I live for my random thoughts. It’s interesting to see random spurts of comedy from people that you thought were completely serious, or thoughts of romance from those you thought were the biggest cynics; random bursts of insight from people you thought were too dense to have any. Now don’t get me wrong- Twitter is as fraught with frauds as any social networking tool- but just like the rest, it’s all about who you associate with. That being said, there are many tweets that make me think…

A couple of weeks ago, I saw some tweets from a guy- just sounding off about what kinds of women he liked. And didn’t like. He made mention of liking his women to be softer, more ladylike. One tweet in particular caught my eye because he expressed his displeasure with the kind of girls who “wait for mixtapes to come out.” Now, the reason this tweet caught my eye is because I am that girl. I am the quintessential hip-hop lover. I have a book full of mixtapes in my car, the DatPiff app on my phone, and I check the site every week for music I might like. So when I read that I immediately started thinking about how strange it was that my love for hip-hop made me less “ladylike.” At least in this guy’s eyes- well his, and all his friends that retweeted him. It brought back so many memories of when I muddled through this womanhood/ ladylike shit before.

If you were ever my friend years ago in the MySpace era, I used to blog there too. And one day I went on a bit of rant about how I wasn’t ladylike and had NO desire to be. To me, womanhood was the adult thing that every girl wanted to achieve- being ladylike was doing it without causing a fuss. So womanhood is what you do, ladylike is how you look when you’re doing it. That tweet brought all of that back and I realized that still have some lingering issues with it.

I remember telling my grandmother once that I didn’t want to be a lady. Needless to say, my favorite girl wasn’t very happy with me. But I felt like I was fighting for my life then- my right to be myself. See, for me, it used to be the age old argument of the girly-girl vs. the tomboy- but then things got a little bit deeper… because in terms of that basic definition, I’m at about half and half. I get my hair done (most of the time) but my nails and eyebrows? Whatever for that. I love handbags, but I hate shoes. I’ll wear a dress, but pantyhose make me want to throw things. I’ll wear SOME makeup if I’m going out- but doing my face everyday? No way. I don’t play sports, but I love watching them. And I know plenty of girls like that- but I don’t think that makes me more or less ladylike.

But there are other things. Like the fact that I LOVE hip hop music. I mean, more than any other kind. I live to wear sneakers and sweats; they’re two of my favorite things. When I buy things that require assembly, I don’t wait until I can get a man to do it for me (and if I did, with my dating life I’d be waiting awhile). I say curse words frequently, purposefully, and with intent and if you try and tell me I shouldn’t, I’ll probably curse at you. I drink and I like it and I can hold my liquor. It doesn’t embarrass me to talk about sex or about how much I love it. But do those things make me less ladylike? And does me being ladylike really matter that much in the grand scheme of things?

The answer to both of those questions is I don’t know. I mean, as long as I’m a strong, responsible woman- what does it matter if I’m a lady? I guess what I’m really asking is if the qualities I described above are considered unladylike and if they make me less attractive. Now, I wrote a blog previously about being self-contained- self-sufficient- and not a damsel in distress. And I worried then if me being that made me less attractive. So I’m worrying now. It’s a little disconcerting to think that you’ll be more alone if you don’t fit into certain slots- if you don’t like certain things. I know that all men don’t think the same way, but there’s a lot of them who think that being ladylike means certain things- and that those things are important.

Now, because there are some qualities and preferences I don’t have- or don’t want, it sometimes gives others the impression that I’m lazy or noncommittal, at least in the way of attracting the opposite sex. Not wanting to change and do the same things other women do, more “ladylike” things, I guess, makes them feel like I’m not trying. So in effect, I’m losing at this game we’re all playing. The worst part is that most people (even my friends) have made me feel like “losing” is my fault. That can wreak havoc on a girl’s confidence- especially a girl battling body type issues to begin with. Over the years, my swag has taken quite a beating. But I’m better for it. And that’s another blog for another day.

I guess men deal with the same kind of dilemma. Trying to live up to what women think a man should be, so they’ll be more attractive to them. I guess they do- but you can’t fight your personality. I’ll always be soft (it’s an advantage us plus size girls have) but I’ll never be delicate. I’m made of some pretty sturdy stuff and I like it. I love it. I love my sweats, and drinking dark liquor and calling people assholes. That’s just who I am. I love trolling the net for new hip-hop and blasting it in my car. I just want to be around people who get that, who get me. I’m sure that’s what we all want. I don’t try to make people over- I mean, I like what I like too, so I get it. And I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever be a lady. But I’m a woman- and that’s good enough for me.

Besides, ladylike or not, I’m pretty fucking awesome…

Fishing Nightmares

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

Anyone who knows me, knows that there is no television I loathe more than reality television. I don’t care if you sing, dance, cook or do hair. I don’t care if you are or used to be in love with someone famous; if you’re trying to show off how rich and pointless you are, or how poor and pointless you are; I don’t care if you’re trying to find love, or win money- or both. It all sucks to me. So no one was more surprised than I was that I was sitting in front of a television being poisoned with someone’s so-called “reality.”

My friend went through a hard time recently and I went to hang out with her at her house for a while. She decided that she needed a little television distraction- reality television. I resisted at first, but in deference to her emotional hardship, I relented and agreed to watch something with her. And she introduced me to the heartbreaking, tragic, train wreck that is MTV’s Catfish.

Now, even though I’m sure the entire world knows the premise of this show, I will break it down real quick: Nev is a guy who fell in love with a girl online. But when he met the girl in person, she turned out to be someone else. He was heartbroken, his brother filmed that heartbreak- and that short film has started the clock on his 15 minutes of fame. Now, he is going around the country, helping other people meet their online loves and verify the truth about them, and their lives. I watched three episodes of this show with my friend and my super-emotional self couldn’t bear how completely heartbreaking it seemed. In two of the episodes, the online love was a completely different person that didn’t even seem all that repentant that they had led someone on and played with their life. In the other episode, the person was actually real- but they had been lying and using a glamorous alter ego with a fictional life. I know I’m soft- I know this- but it made my chest hurt a little to watch it.

I don’t want you guys to think I’m naive. I know people lie, all the time, about a lot of things. But the concept of watching a person say that they have real feelings for someone and then find out that it was a joke to the person on the other end was tragedy at its best. Now I’m on Twitter (@ShamekaErby if you want to follow me), and I have read my timeline when Catfish is on. There’s nothing but jokes- people seem to find it amusing. And I didn’t laugh one time when I watched it. If anything, it made me sad and cemented my resolve to stay far away from reality TV. But, as usual, I’m getting off track…

Watching Catfish led me to some serious thoughts about online dating. These days, if you’re over the age of 21, saying that you haven’t connected/ dated another person using some form of online engine is like saying you’ve never been to Starbucks. And I am no different. I’ve met people using social network tools, I’ve joined a couple of dating websites. It’s been… surprising to say the least. At first, I flatly refused to even consider it. I wanted to meet someone the “normal way.” I thought it made me some kind of social freak that I couldn’t meet people just going out, and having fun, and living my life. What I figured out later (with my friends’ help, of course) is that I could do those things in addition to dating online- and it didn’t make me a weirdo. This calmed me- because my inner South Philly knows that one of the worse things in the world to be is a weirdo. So I gave it a shot… and regretted it instantly. Because what I met online was a long, unattractive line of- you guessed it- weirdos. Some were brash, some were disrespectful, some were just stupid. It was twice the work of meeting someone in real life because you couldn’t even trust your own eyes. The people could be lying about everything you were reading on their profile pages. Now, I know people can lie to you in person too- but the lies are completely different. If I met you in a bar there’d be no way you could tell me you were 6’3″ when you were really 5’4″. Now when you meet someone in an actual setting, you can’t trust them completely, but there’s at least some things you can be pretty certain about. Dating online has NONE of that certainty. And it’s scary, to be honest. 

I won’t front like I haven’t had some mild success. I met a couple of nice guys- guys that turned into good friends. Guys that I eventually did verify- by meeting them in person. Guys that I can honestly say are good guys. I haven’t fallen in love, and I’m not completely convinced that I could without ever meeting them (like the people on Catfish) but I’ve had some really good conversations and spent some nice quality time. None of it has turned into a relationship- but I don’t think it’s because of the way I met them.

I guess the key to it is the eventual meetup. There’s no way I could call myself being in a “relationship” with someone I’ve never met face-to-face. It’s just too far-fetched for me. There’s this book out about love languages and how everyone has a different way that they love and like to be shown love. Now, I’m a writer so when I heard about this, naturally I thought words of affirmation would be most important to me (especially since I had an ex that never told me how he felt and that was a huge disconnect between us)- but I figured out that physical touch may be the most important to me. I’m tactile; I love to feel things. When I’m sleeping with someone, I need to be touched (even if it’s just a little) or I can’t settle down. I still read traditional books because I like turning the pages. I’m just that girl. So love strictly over the internet will never work for me. Because eventually I’m going to need to hug you, or hold your hand, or feel your touch in some way. That’s just me. But I guess those Catfish people don’t need that- I guess the email, text, phone call connection is enough.

I feel sad for them. Although there’s no shame in online dating (even with all of the weirdos), there has to be some real loneliness at the heart of these things; loneliness that makes you hinge your heart, and your life decisions on someone you’ve never met. I don’t know if it’s “deep down, black, bottom-of-the-well, no hope, end-of-the-world loneliness” as Charlie Brown once said, but it could be pretty serious. All I know is, if anything will make you scared of online dating, it’s that show.

Suffice it to say, online dating has all the same risks as face-to-face dating- with a few extra thrown in, and it can also be fun… but it’s not the joke that reality TV is turning it into. Not when it’s obvious that so many people take it seriously. I’ll just keep my current method of using it occasionally as ONE of my dating tools- but definitely not the only one. And I’m never watching Catfish again… the things we do for friends… 

Guys With Kids

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 4 Comments

I know what you’re thinking- where the hell have I been, right? And it’s a long story. But it’s all been good- and I’m back to watching TV. To that end…

Occasionally, I watch this sitcom called Guys With Kids. The show is about three friends (and fathers) who live in an apartment building in New York and how their lives’ and their kids’ lives, intersect. Two of them are married and one is divorced. Now, there’s a lot of overacting and the show is only mildly funny (despite being executive produced by the very funny Jimmy Fallon)- but that’s neither here nor there right now. On a couple of episodes, the divorced guy has made attempts at dating. And it’s made me think of how hard dating must be for single parents- and single people trying to date single parents. To be sure, dating is no picnic for the unencumbered, childless, plus-size but ultimately fabulous being that I am- but for those who have little lives in their hands, it must be infinitely more complicated.

There was a time when I didn’t want to date guys with kids at all. Coming from where I’m from, I know so many girls who are somebody’s “baby mama”- and 90% of them (this is including the ones I like, love and are friends with) bring the drama in some sort of way. Whether it’s trying to take him for as much money as possible, playing tug of war with the kid(s), or hindering his dating life (which sadly enough, ultimately keeps both you and him from moving on), I don’t know too many single mothers who are on chill. This is not to say that fathers don’t need to do better. But I have to come from a woman’s perspective first because that’s what I am. Suffice it to say, the idea of having to tangle with some guy’s rejected one night stand, vindictive ex-girlfriend, or bitter ex-wife was scary enough to make me say “No. Fucking. Way.” So I side-stepped single fathers as potential relationships. That’s not to say that I haven’t had some harmless fun with a few of them (protected, of course), but there was absolutely no long term plan in it for me. But I was younger then…

Nowadays, my perspective has changed just a bit. Now, it seems that I don’t mind kids at all. I’ve turned into an absolute sucker for some babies- and for a man with some babies. Kids are great to me- and nothing’s sexier than a good father. I attribute this to a few things. First, is the fact that my relationship with my own dad has blossomed into something really beautiful. It’s a real, adult relationship. My old man is the light of my life- and I love to hear him say how proud he is of me. The older I get, the more I realize that I don’t know a better man than the one who raised me. Secondly, besides my dad, other men in my life are entering fatherhood and doing such an awesome job of it. We only talk about the deadbeats and the deserters- but we should change that, because I know so many good fathers. Last, my own desire to be a mother makes me fall in love with children left and right- so I have no problem with a man who has children in his life. Parenthood is something I aspire to- so I think it’s a foregone conclusion that I would change my mind from the way I felt all those years ago. But as with any dating scenario, it has it’s pitfalls…

As I stated before, I know a good amount of single mothers. And dating a guy with kids means that I may have the pleasure (or displeasure) of dealing with his ex/ the mother of his child(ren). Now I’m not saying that she’ll definitely be bitter, or vindictive, or spiteful- but she might be… and dealing with that is hard. Co-parenting and transitioning into a possible blended family situation is hard for everyone- and being rude, argumentative or overly demanding on purpose isn’t going to make it easier. Remaining an adult in situations like that can be extremely difficult- and though I might be the grand age of 32, I am not always the most mature person in the world. I’m smart-mouthed and quick-tempered. I’m not always able to hold myself back. I certainly would make an attempt (more than one attempt, as a matter of fact), but sometimes disrespect is too much- even for a relatively calm person. Channeling my inner non-violent, Civil Rights Movement/ Bible verse “Turn the other cheek” isn’t always effective… but don’t worry. I’m not a child. I will give it the old college try. Just know that it may not always work. However, please know that I am not a mean person and anyone who gets cussed out or smacked upside the head by me more than likely deserved it.

The other potential pitfall (and probably the most important one for me) is that I do still want to be a mother. And sometimes I’m afraid that if I date a guy who already has children, that he won’t be open to having any more- and then where does that leave me? I wonder if being a friend/ possible stepmother will still leave an ache inside me, an empty space that can only be filled by becoming a mother myself. And is that just me being overly emotional? The old me would have said that this was proof he wasn’t the right one for me, and that it wasn’t meant to be- but what if that’s not completely true? What if I walk away from something great because I’m hung up on having my “own” kids? Maybe I’m just too hung up on the “ownership” piece, period. Because quite honestly, I have lots of children in my life now. I’m an aunt ten times over. I have younger cousins, and my friends have kids. But they’re not mine- and it just doesn’t feel the same. Hey- maybe I’ll get lucky- and my soulmate either won’t have kids or won’t mind having more. I know that’s not the practical answer- but when are our dreams ever practical?

Either way, I know I’ve grown from the way I used to feel- and I think that’s a good thing. We’ll see where it gets me though… meanwhile, I’ll keep dating- and watching TV…

Baby Blues

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

So… it’s been a little while. I haven’t been watching as much TV lately, and maybe that’s the reason- but anyway, I’m back. And my newest thoughts have been leading me on the path to parenthood. I’ve been thinking about children pretty frequently (no I’m not pregnant). I’ve been wondering if motherhood is something I’m actually destined for. I’ve wanted kids for as long as I can remember but at 32, I’m still childless. Now, don’t get me wrong; I have plenty of children in my life. I’m an aunt ten times over, one of my best friends has four kids, and one of my other best friends is going to be a mother for the first time in 2013. So children are very much present in my life- and coming from a family where I have 21 first cousins, there are plenty of kids there too. But none of them are mine. And as much as I thought all of that biological clock shit was a bunch of baloney, I think I’m starting to hear mine tick.

Having kids was one of those things that I always just thought would happen to me. I mother everyone around me. I am the constantly worrying, nudge-you-in-the-right-direction, make-sure-you-eat-your-vegetables kind of girl. I’m kind of predisposed to taking care of people. So motherhood seems like a logical step for a personality like mine. Right? It makes me wonder why it hasn’t happened yet- and if it’s even meant to. I know that most of the time, these things are unplanned- you can’t map out your life completely. And I can certainly still have children. But there’s a small part of me that thought it would happen before this. Everyone I know says “take your time,”  “don’t rush,” or even “don’t do it.” But the heart wants what it wants… and I still want to be a mother.

Now, there is another part of me that is scared. I know too many young people (male and female) that are raising babies alone, or struggling to co-parent with an unwilling, immature person. I know people who secretly (and not so secretly) resent their children because they had them for the wrong reasons to begin with. I also know that the world is a violent, scary place- and even more so when children are involved. There are quite enough real life examples to make you stop and reconsider the parenthood journey- and I NEVER want a bad situation like the ones I just described, even though I know there are no guarantees in life. But even with all of that, I never stopped wanting it.

I’ve been waiting for the ideal situation. Now I’m not talking about the perfect situation- because there is no such thing- but the ideal situation. This means that I’d like to be in love, in a healthy relationship with someone sane and supportive that can actively co-parent with me. I don’t think it’s too much to ask- but sometimes people make me feel like there’s something wrong because it hasn’t happened yet, which feeds into my own worry that there’s something wrong because it hasn’t happened yet. The whole thing is kind of jumbled up in my head. All I can really figure out is that I’m totally jealous of people who are parents. The funny thing is, I know a lot of people who are jealous of me. And I’ve been trying to appreciate my life more, my journey more- to be fully in whatever space I’m in. And I don’t want God or the universe to think I don’t appreciate what I have now. It’s just that wanting something, thinking you deserve something sometimes throws your logic out of the window.

I don’t want to be obsessive about this. I don’t want to be one of those women who empty my bank account and drain myself emotionally trying to adopt, or get married, or artificially inseminate myself. If it’s not meant for me, I want to be able to love the children already in my life with all I have and accept that. But if it is meant for me… I want it to happen. Guess I’ll just keep walking my path- and hope that kids are on it…

Boxed In

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

Yesterday, I watched the movie Pariah and as good TV often does, it gave me some things to think about. Pariah is a movie starring Adepero Oduye as a teenager dealing with family, identity and sexuality. She is a lesbian, trying to come into her sexuality and struggling for normality. Her parents relationship is faltering and she has only one friend. She lives a life where everyone knows the truth and EVERYONE is afraid to tell it, including her. And to keep up the delicate charade in which they all live, they hide all of the complicated pieces of themselves (even in cases where the truth is obvious), which makes it easier for others to label them, and put them in a box- and as such, makes it easier to deal with them. The story is both triumphant and tragic and it really forces you to think about the identity issues that we all struggle with.

As complicated as we humans are most of the time, we spend our lives searching for simplicity. We want the most basic version of things (except maybe Cable TV); most of the time, this goes for our friends and family too. We can all deny it, but the truth is that we label the people around us- purposefully. We do it to compartmentalize our lives, our feelings. The label you give someone makes your life easier- it tells your mind how to treat that person, how to react to them, how to feel about them. The problem with this system, is that inevitably people grow- and they become more than the box you’ve put them in, more than the label you’ve stuck them with. This can cause confusion- it can make you have to take on the involved task of getting to know people all over again- something that not many are willing to do.

Annoyingly enough, I’ve been in a box for much of my life (but I guess we all have). I’ve always been something, “The Smart One,” “Frank’s Daughter,” “Tia’s Little Sister.” These labels shaped everyone’s opinion about me, and all of their interactions with me. As I got older I became “The Book Reader,” “The Advice Giver,” “The Listener,” “The Advisor,” “The Girl Who Remembers Everything.” These labels were patterned after behavior I displayed, behavior that was simply normal to me. The problem, as I’ve mentioned before, is that somewhere along the way I became other things too- and no one seemed to notice.

I became a writer- but I can count on one hand the number of people who think of me as that. Maybe it’s because I’m not published, maybe it’s because they’ve never read my work, maybe it’s because they never see me writing. All of those are valid reasons- for those who don’t know me. But for those who do, that’s no excuse at all- because I’ve been saying it, and showing it, and proving it. I’ve been claiming it (or trying too) and so for those who know me, those who say they love me, it should be obvious by now- and I’m not sure it is. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t been confident enough, or because others haven’t. It could be that no one will see me as a writer until I’m successful at it; it could be that they don’t think I’m that good. I also became a foodie, more of a thinker and less of a talker; I became more of a social butterfly, and a bit more spontaneous. I became more confident and more free. These are all things I’m sure of; things I KNOW about myself. The thing is, I don’t know if the people in my life have even noticed- or wanted to acknowledge. Sometimes I feel like it’s more comfortable for them to think of me as they always have (as my original thought suggests). It’s better for them to label me and put me in that box- because then they know how to feel about me and what to say.

Conversely, this makes me think of my relationship with my brother. He’s younger than me, so it’s not too hard to see him as a baby- my baby brother. I see him, and I want to protect him. I want to take his hand, and tell him what to do. It took me a long time to accept that a) my brother is a grown man and b) he’s only three years younger than I am. He’s also a father now, which makes the transition even more hard, but even more necessary. As much as I might want to, I can’t hold his hand, or make all his decisions, or even raise his children. And I will alienate him if I don’t see him as he really is, even if seeing him that way is hard for me- even if I can’t protect him. I also noticed that my labeling of him kept me from taking him seriously- which is why it took me so long to figure out how insightful he is, how intelligent, how vulnerable.

Now I realize two very important things as I’m writing this. First, I realize that as an imperfect person, I am also guilty of labeling people so that I can better compartmentalize my life and my emotions (hence the example about my brother). I know that I am not exempt from the lessons I want other people to learn; teaching myself is the reason I write these things down in the first place. Second, I realize that some of this is my own personal burden. I say that because I know that you teach people how to treat you, and that the way you think of yourself is far more important than what others think. I know both of these things, and yet I still feel so strongly about this.

The reason that this message is so important to me is because love is so powerful. Familial love, romantic love, it doesn’t matter. Love makes you care what others think, love makes you seek approval. And if you show hesitation in your love, you could force the person who wants to receive that love to hide pieces of themselves to appear more acceptable to you; to fit into the label that you’ve given them. Likewise, if someone shows hesitation in their love for you, you may hide parts of yourself to appear more acceptable; to make their compartmentalization easier. But this is a dangerous thing- for how can you truly love someone when you can’t see them? And how can you ever truly be loved when you’re not being “seen?” Pariah teaches the great lesson that invisibility is not an acceptable coping mechanism; that blindness does not make it easier to love and be loved. Invisibility breeds fear and blindness brings resentment. And when the truth is revealed, we lash out, because we’ve been hiding and labeling for so long that we can’t handle the raw honesty of our emotions.

I believe that the solution is remembering that relationships are work. You have to love people enough to notice and acknowledge their growth- anything else is less than they deserve, and less than you deserve. Since it is only natural that people change, it should be natural to us that our relationships will change, but for some reason, it’s not. You have to make a conscious effort to know this, to accept this. You must endeavor to see all people, but especially the people you love, as they really are. I know that compartmentalizing is easy, it’s safe. And hiding makes you feel safe. But take that scary step for the people who love you, the people you say you love in return. Be honest with yourself- and with others. Always.

Battle of the Bulge

~ Shameka The Writer ~ 5 Comments

I’ve been thinking of getting a personal trainer and a nutritionist. Aside from figuring out how it’s going to fit into my already-stretched budget, this is a huge step for me. But I think it’s time I considered it. I’ve never been one to want things like that; people have been shouting the praises of the personal trainer and the nutritionist for years, but I never listened. I know it’s my complete and total stubbornness that has made me block out these suggestions; my flawed, independent streak won’t allow for ANYONE to tell me what to do- and then there’s my solid belief that the only person who can actually solve my problems is me (I know- there are control issues here. I’m working on them- and I’ll thank you to curb your judgement). Anyway, I’m finally thinking seriously about it.

Weight has been an issue for me since I was ten years old. Puberty came with weight gain I couldn’t control- and combined with eating habits I didn’t know how to change, I was doomed. The fact that I got glasses at 11 didn’t help this journey. It took me a long time to accept myself, to like myself, to love myself.  I finally got around to thinking I was marginally attractive in high school. I didn’t feel sexy until college. Anyway, I spent so many years feeling bad about the weight, that I spent almost no time doing something about it. Of course, I know now that I should have made those changes in my lifestyle back then- and I wouldn’t have spent so much time feeling bad. And I wouldn’t be so far behind now.

These days I’m happy to report that I love myself. I look in the mirror, and I don’t cringe. I don’t cry, I don’t feel bad or unattractive. I feel like a work in progress- which is what I am. But I’m getting off track…

The reason I’ve decided to break down and seriously consider a personal trainer and nutritionist is because I’m afraid that I’ve become something of a comfort eater. Why am I comforting myself, you ask? Well, a few reasons. I’ve been reflecting a lot- on my life, on the redirection of my dreams, on the sad fact that my sex life (although pretty damn good when it’s active) is usually somewhat inactive. These all lead to me plates of pasta while I think- or cheeseburgers to make me think of something other than penises. Also, since I’ve been falling in love with TV again, my couch and I are spending more time together. What better way to pass TV time than with snacks? So there’s sandwiches and chips while I watch football, and basketball, and Scandal, and One Tree Hill reruns, and whatever obscure documentary I can find on Netflix. And don’t get me started on liquor. As a matter of fact, we won’t start on liquor- because I’m not giving it up- for anyone. But I digress…

I’ve been a lover of food for a long time. Cooking food, smelling food, trying new food- it’s something that’s always been a part of my personality. I like having dinner parties, family dinners, experimenting with recipes. Food has always been a great communication tool for me. Because of that, I’ve never even considered the possibility that I was dependent on it in ways other than the traditional ones. But lately, I’ve begun to notice that food can make me happy. And I don’t mean the triumphant joy of mastering something I’ve never made, or getting my friends to try something they normally wouldn’t like. I mean, I started to notice that whenever I was on the verge of being a little more lonely than alone, or a little more sad than simply reflective- food could brighten up my day. This is bad. This is very, very bad. As much as I LOVE food, it’s not Xanax- I don’t want to use it as a mood stabilizer. I just want to be a good cook who likes to cook for people. I want to APPRECIATE food- and I think I’ve gotten a little beyond that.

It’s not as though I haven’t done anything. But my twice-a-week trips to the gym are only good if I’m going hard every time (and I don’t). And it’s only as effective as the food I’m eating in between. Which as hard as I try, is crap 50% of the time. So it’s time to retrain myself. And since I have ZERO willpower when you put a cheeseburger or some Chicken Alfredo in front of me, it’s time to explore other options. I figure if I’m paying people to keep me on track, I might try harder to stay on track. And at least it’s something new.

I’ll let you know how it goes… now to find the money… I may have to dip into my wine budget…

Swept Away

~ Shameka The Writer ~ Leave a comment

So my Thursday nights are Scandal nights. For those of you living under a rock, Scandal is a drama starring Kerry Washington as Olivia Pope, a “fixer,” whose job (along with her associates) is to solve the problems of high profile people who need to keep their problems low profile. The show is fast paced, and smart, and scandalous. Anyway, the show is based in Washington DC and the most intriguing subplot by far is Olivia’s love affair with the President of the United States, Fitzgerald Grant. The two met when she worked on his campaign and it was love at first sight (not surprising for a TV couple). Also not surprising is the fact that the President is married, with children, and well… the President. So their love is fierce, and all-consuming, and totally impossible.

Now, as hard as the two of them try to resist one another, they often end up in contact. And that’s when things tend to get sticky. Because when they share the same space, they are instantly affected by one another- there’s no way to hide the way they feel. This is a great kudos to Kerry Washington and Tony Goldwyn (the actor who plays Fitzgerald “Fitz” Grant) by the way- you can definitely feel the chemistry. But back to the point…

Watching Olivia and Fitz made me think about being swept away, swept off my feet. I know that in my last post about cheating I made the point that TV couples are often “swept away” and this seems to make their cheating justified on some level- and Olivia and Fitz are a really perfect example of that. You know there’s no possible future for their love, and every kiss they share is wrong because he’s married, but you still root for them- you still hope that one day, their love will conquer their moral, professional, and political obligations. At least, I do. The idea that they are just totally swept away by one another gives their entire story a romantic edge- even though the reality is pretty unromantic.

Now, I also said in my last post that I have no idea if being “swept away” happens in real life- but I think I’m at a crossroads because there is a small part of me that wants to believe that it does. I know that a romance like theirs would be messy, and inconvenient, and probably even wrong from some moral standpoint, but wouldn’t it be worth it to have your breath taken away like that? To look into someone eyes and know that they are absolutely your other half? Would that be worth the pain? And if it was wrong to be with them, would that justify the wrong?

I’ve talked a bit about my romantic nature- how I was so free with it, got hurt using it, tried to kill it, and am subsequently trying to resurrect it. Anyway, that part of me has always been the dominant part of my personality (until recently). I’ve always fallen fast and fallen hard. I never had reservations- I took the plunge, every time. It’s just my way. When it comes to love, either I’m all in- or I’m not in. I was never afraid of letting it consume me- as a matter of fact, that was what I always wanted. TV couple love, Harlequin romance love, I wanted to look into someone’s eyes and get swept away. I never stopped to think about what would happen if I got swept away by someone that I technically couldn’t have.

Because I normally fall so hard, I won’t even sit on my moral high horse and act like I would stop myself. I mean, I would try to resist. But it might ring a little false… kinda like Olivia. I would tell him to stop calling- but I don’t think I would mean it. I can’t honestly say that I would care if he belonged to someone else. Not if I believed that he was meant for me. I know it sounds selfish… hell, I know it sounds like I don’t have any morals. And I know it doesn’t make any sense- because if he was meant for me, he wouldn’t be someone else’s. But I’m just trying to be honest. I think about the last man I loved, and how much I did to be with him. I think about that- and then I think that if I can do all of those things for an asshole who wasn’t even worth it, what would I do for the man who actually loved me back? Would I do anything? Would I risk anything? If I knew he felt what I felt, what would I take? How long would I wait? That’s why the “swept away” concept is scary as hell. Sometimes lust can take to places you never thought you’d be. That means love, real love, has the potential to make you do a thousand times more. At least that’s how I always saw it.

Then I wondered if it was all about hormones. Is it just the need for physical contact kicked into overdrive? It is loneliness multiplying? Is it lust amped up? The thrill of the forbidden? I wonder if it’s just me. Maybe years of reading and writing about women getting swept away makes me more susceptible to being consumed, fuzzes the line between right and wrong for me. Maybe I have the immature notion that love really does conquer all- even when the other person has a “situation.” Recently, I found myself taking a liking to a guy with other obligations. I berated myself constantly for putting myself in the position of getting caught up- but I’ll keep it real- he’s a good kisser, and I cared more about that. None of it is his fault- I told him that I was a big girl, who could handle myself- and I am- but I wondered why I walked down that road. Why I wanted it that bad. Hormones? Or something else?-

Either way, I would never want to be in Olivia Pope’s shoes. In tonight’s episode, Olivia’s friend the judge said, “You two even breathe in sync.” To look into the eyes of my other half and know he feels the same way would be my greatest pleasure- knowing he could never be mine would be my greatest pain. But the million dollar question- would it be enough pain to make me give him up? Because walking away would be more pain, right?

I’ve stayed up entirely too late thinking about this. I’m off to bed- more TV tomorrow…