What Women Really Talk About Before a Date

ME: Hey girl. I'm meeting up with the older gentleman tonight.
High-Maintenance Homegirl: You're meeting him at his place for a date?
TOC: Yes, his place on the upper east side.
HMH::(
ME: Stop with the sad face. I've known him about 5 months; he's already been screened. We're just gonna chill, cause we've both had a long week.
HMH: Well, he better have some amenities.
ME: I told him to have baked goods and/or red wine on hand. I'm bringing the movie (aka, excuse to makeout--obvi). I don't need a guy to drop alot of cash on a date--i just don't want to have to spend any.
HMH:truth... and you will be able to tell a lot by the quality of the baked goods.
here is an easy grading guide:
entemann's: D (wow, could you put any less effort in?)
assorted dunkin donuts: C- (sorry, feels like you're dating an off-duty nypd officer)
pastries from the local bakery: B+ (we can definitely work with this)
magnolia cupcakes: A- (good taste but lacks originality)
something homemade: A+ (for effort, hopefully for taste as well!)
ME: damn, white girl, you just worked that out with the simplicity of an MIT student.
well he said he would buy me "the best cookies in new york city," which i thought was a bold statement.
HMH: hmmm yes that is a bold statement. i would be interested to know where these cookies are to be found. you will have to keep me posted.
ME: Obvi.
my response to him was: "they better not be oatmeal raisin, and they better not be hard," to which he replied: "oh god no. a hard cookie isn't even a cookie."
so far, i like where his head is at.
HMH: yes, good signs thus far. a man who knows his pastry is worth something in this world.

Late Birthday Love/ An Ode to a Strong Black Woman

When I first met you, I must admit I was scared
You were a strong white woman, and said things other wouldn’t dare.
Gender, race, politics, and class
you were into it all and you had great hair and a cute ass.
After admiring you from afar, the clouds parted in heaven
Something magical happened between us in the summer of 2007.
You let me into your heart (all it took was a glass of red wine)
And I found your inner bourgie pig, and you came to accept mine.
You’re a strong black woman--or so people think when they hear your name--
And when I’m feeling down, you remind me that I’m just the same.
Inter-office emails keep the love fires burning when we were apart
Procrastination is my destination when you’re in my inbox at the day’s start.
You remind me that men are a dime a baker’s dozen,
And I even love your Swedish pseudo-cousin—
And I think me and little sis may become besties.
You help Sojourner find the TRUTH, from the very first day,
And when a man oppresses me, you tell me I don’t need them.
I know if I was still in slavery today,
You’d be the white person to buy my freedom.

Answering the Unanswerable Question

And that question is, “Why hasn’t he called me? Why? WHY?!”

This is a question I’ve asked myself many a-time, as I’ve traversed this dangerous NYC dating scene. Some of my favorite reasons have been:

“Maybe he’s in the midst of moving”
– Brandon Welch, aka “The Alabama Slamma”*

“He’s probably just busy doing some charcoal sketches”
– Me, to myself

“Maybe he’s gay.”
– any gay I’ve ever asked.

“Cause he’s a loser, that’s why”
– this response often makes me happy.

“Because he lives in Australia”
– everyone with a brain.

*Note: Only I call him this.

While all of these responses are apt, I must say that I received the best answer yet from one of my soul sisters, just moments ago. As I was plagued by insecurity and self-doubt, her sweet tale filled my inbox--and my heart--with hope. It was lyrical, poignant, and touching—and I think I will make it into a picture book. Here it is:

once upon a time there was a beautiful blacktress who lived in a harsh and unforgiving city. from time to time, the blacktress would wander out in search of not prince charming, but just a decent peasant boy with the gift of height and the inclination to cuddle. but she often lost her way in the illusion of romance, and was scarred by the thorns of love. finally she had had enough, and vowed to renounce her quest for a suitable gentleman. free of the burden of expectations, she frolicked through the meadows happily, singing with the bluebirds. suddenly, she came across a wandering minstrel. "o fair maiden", said he, "please allow me to entertain you with my witty banter and lute-playing." she was charmed, and not unimpressed with his stature. despite her vow, she agreed to spend the evening with the minstrel, where he regaled her with improbable tales of joining the circus and appearing on prime time television. he shared with her food and drink, and there was much merry-making.

This is a black fair maiden. I had to draw one my damn self, cause you KNOW they don't have that on the interweb!

at the end of the evening, she returned to her castle, pleased that she had had such an unexpected and agreeable experience. she woke up the next morning, feeling strangely optimistic about life and love. she couldn't help straining her ears for the soft melody of the lute, but all she heard was the familiar chirping of bluebirds. finally, wondering what had become of her minstrel, she set off to the meadow where they had first met, but alas! there was no sign of him. a cloud passed over the sun and the blacktress suddenly felt a shadow cross over her heart. the lute playing, the circus, the prime time television, had it all been a grand charade, and nothing more? if she couldn't promise her heart to a wandering minstrel, who could possibly be worthy of her love? in a moment, though, the sun reappeared, and she realized her own folly -- he was a wandering minstrel, after all! he had wandered into her life and then wandered out of it. she looked around and realized that she was none the worse off than she had been before she had come across him. the sky was still blue, the bluebirds were singing, and the meadows were calling to her.

EPILOGUE:

as it turned out, the minstrel had gotten picked up by the county sheriff for impersonating a clown in order to touch young children, and was thrown in the deepest darkest dungeon in the land, where he would spend the rest of his days composing odes to the blacktress that no one but the dungeon rats would ever hear. as ye sow, so ye shall reap.

Here is a rough forensic sketch done by olde tyme police of the wandering minstrel in question.

So, gentle readers, the lesson here is clear: The next time you are staring at your celly, willing it to ring or beep with textage, remember that he is probably a wandering minstrel, and has been arrested for pedophilia.