When Love Calls...

So I got home from a hard day’s work from a job that I hate. Well, I don't really hate it, but it's just not my passion. What is my passion? I'm not sure yet. I’m still trying to figure it out. So I got home from a hard day of work, from a job that I'm not in love with and gather the mail from the mailbox. And while I shuffled through the mail with one hand and tried to maneuver the huge screen door with the other, I see it, the dreaded Save the Date card.
“I gotta go mom,” I said cutting her off mid sentence.
“Ok, what are you going to do tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, sticking my head in an oven,” I said while staring hard at the two brown faces smiling up at me.
“Now don’t be so grim. Getting older is a part of life. Lord, don’t I know it.”
“Yeah mom, I know. Look I gotta go,” I said again as I held onto the card and searched through my huge, cluttered leather purse for my house keys. As I balanced mail, purse, and a brown paper bag that I made sure to hold on tight because I didn’t want to drop my rum, I listened to my mom drone on some more about the circle of life. Where the hell were my keys? I finally found them deep in the left hand corner of the purse and said, “Uh huh mom. Well I’m home now, so let me call you back.”
“Ok, honey. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Alright bye,” I said as I turned the key and dropped everything onto the couch. Everything except the Save the Date card. That I took with me as I made my way to the kitchen to make dinner.

Sure I knew that my best friend Cara who had vowed that she was never getting married, because the only good men out here were our daddies and our brothers, had gotten engaged to a wonderful man she met on some Black Ski Trip weekend. Funny every time I went on those ski trips there was always like a ten women to one man ratio. And the men were obvious losers. So, I would just post myself up at the all you can drink during this hellish weekend open bar and laugh at all the women looking for a love connection.

But the one time Cara goes on a ski trip, it's sponsored by the Alphas, so they were definitely rolling deep. Apparently the male to female ratio was practically even. And one afternoon Cara just happened to be falling down the slope (although knowing her it was probably all graceful and dainty and shit) when this fine brotha named Desmond came to her rescue. Apparently they laughed their way on down the hill and he asked her to join him for dinner. Then they spent the rest of the evening chatting in front of the roaring fire. Well that's the story she told me. For all I know she could have thrown it on him that first night after they got liquored up on free long island iced teas. No she's too classy for that. It was probably cosmopolitans.

Anyway. Check this man's stats: banker (notice I said banker, not teller), homeowner, no kids (so there's no baby mama drama), has a 401k, is HIV free, church going, parents have been married for 30+ years (so there are no stories about how he would spend weekends waiting on the curb for his daddy to roll by and pick him up in a Lincoln), and to top it all off he was smitten with Cara. They had an eight month courtship of fine dining, fancy gifts and trips overseas.

Three months into their courtship, all of us girlfriends were certain that Cara was the one for Desmond. Our hunches were confirmed a month later when Desmond's line brother revealed that Desmond used to be a dog, the love em and leave em type. Apparently he and everyone close to Desmond claimed that they had never seen him throw this much time and energy into a woman.

"That man is in love," line brother #25, because you know they never let anything from their pledging experience go, told me at a house party Desmond threw one night.

We were watching the two of them on the dance floor. The DJ had decided to play a set of slow jams, a rarity for our generation, and Desmond and Cara were grinding all up on each other as they gazed into each other's eyes. Desmond with his six feet plus self bent down and whispered something in Cara's ear and she giggled and then kissed him on the lips. I looked back at line #25 wondering if and when he was going to ask me to dance. I mean how crazy was it that two attractive people were standing next to each other watching other people dance? What a punk I thought. But I said instead, "Is he now?”
"Yup. He's going to ask her to marry him."
"Do you know this for a fact or are you just guessing," I questioned with furrowed eyebrows.
"A little bit of both."
"Shit," I muttered under my breath while pushing my cleavage even closer together, and smiling a little wider at line brother #25. It didn't make a difference. It turned out he had a girlfriend, not engaged yet, but clearly going that route. So there was definitely no need to remember his name. Or keep the business card he handed me at the end of the night. Black people just love to give their card to any and everybody. And the only reason I remember the twenty five is because he had a huge keloiding tattoo of the number on his nicely muscled left arm.

The day that Desmond finally popped the question (which was so elaborate I don't even have the energy to go into detail) Cara called me squealing and crying, saying, "Can you believe that I'm getting married?"
"Hell no," I said. Yes, I said it. Yes, just like that.
"What?"
"Hell no," I said again. But this time I threw in a little chuckle so she would think I was joking. I wasn't joking. She started laughing and I could sense her relief.
"He's just so wonderful. I never thought that I would be the type of person who would get married."
"I know."
"Well you know that if this means I can get married, you're def -" I cut her off before she could say, definitely next, definitely getting married, definitely gonna get hit by a bus and fall in love with the doctor who operates on you and brings you back from the brink of death.
"Yeah girl with God all things are possible. I'm so happy for you."

And I was happy. And I'm still happy. I mean I'm not a love hater. And she is my best friend. But dammit, she wasn't even looking. Although that seems to be the cliché constantly shouted from the rooftops to single women everywhere. That and 'just work on you and love will come.' But I'll deal with that another day. All I know is that if I hear: Girl, you gotta stop looking. Love will come when you least expect it, I swear I will let out a scream. Right now when I hear it I just smile and nod. Instead of saying what I really want to say:
"Stop looking huh? Well I have stopped looking. And yet I haven't been asked on a date in six months. I haven't been fucked in four months (yeah I know those numbers don't match up, but that's how it is sometimes for a single gal). So where is my man oh great one? Where is my man?"

But you can't say those kinds of things to people. You just have to smile and nod and tell them that you have given it to God and that you know that He will provide in His time. Someday. Someday soon I hope.

Out of my circle of friends, one is married, one is engaged, and four of us are single. Granted we are in different stages and acceptance of singleness, but we are single nonetheless. And it seems like we are always scoping and fighting for the same man. Black. Professional. Although nowadays we'll take a blue collar man who can read. No kids. OK, one child is alright, maybe even two, but they better have the same mamas. Sane. Ready to settle down or at least put away the games. Church going. OK, at least be willing to come with me to church so I can pray that you get saved. Disease free. And did I mention sane? But somehow Cara clawed her way past those stupid numbers and found a good man. She found love. Something my friends and I have looked for, not looked for, put prayer requests in for, dressed up in the tightest outfits and shook our asses in the wrong clubs for, hit up different churches trying to find a single deacon or pastor for, waited for, and wanted. And waited some more for.

That's my time y'all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

links of the day (in the life of a stressed pd)

i was all set to write something fabulous today...something about tall women and short men. but alas, wack ass district attorney slapped an expedited appeals brief on me this am. despite my efforts to get more time to reply, i am now rushing to put something together before 3 cst. thus nothing cute and witty from these parts.

i will link you to this interesting post over at on being a black lawyer. hard times for folks like myself and such.

but in the wow-we-actually-won-that-case column, courthouse killer brian nichols will spend the rest of his days in jail, instead of as georgia's next execution victim. the life without parole, thanks to the 3, verdict from the jury highlights the evilness of prosecutors, who refused to take a guilty plea in exchange for a life sentence and almost bankrupt the criminal justice system in georgia in the process.

political potpourri, vol. i

How can the end of 2008 come and Americans not go out with a bang or rather bust. The bust of the economy just sucks, but what comes up must come down… which now leads me to your girl Sarah Palin.

Why did Senator John McCain throw her under the bus on This Week with George Stephanopoulous? That shit ain’t cool and yet it was all so funny. And to add insult to injury, I doubt - Sarah saw it coming. Ouch! And I wonder why Senator McCain couldn’t have been this honest on the campaign trail? In all honesty, I kind of feel bad for Sarah only a tad bit. Being a Washington novice in politics, when you’re trying to come to Washington is a huge disadvantage. The RNC and McCain’s folks just used her as a prop, but Sarah –Bellini doesn’t pity the fool too much—the lipstick wearing pitbull of self was aggressive enough to compete. Some people actually think you’re dumb—I don’t. You’re pretty wonkish when it comes to energy policy. I do think you were naïve, but now, not as much. I heard you got a book deal—smart move. Your dreams of coming to Washington to reside on Observatory Lane aren’t realistic. Although, you do have charisma- but that’s not enough right now in politics—we need a lil’ more heft. Have you looked at Obama’s female cabinet positions? Their qualifications should make you want to hide under a rock. And unfortunately for you, I think America’s anti-elite crusade is over, we want the best & brightest...

Speaking of the best and brightest, Jesse Jackson, Jr. –—may be smarter than I thought. Ok, I have to give him some credit, he’s not necessarily the ilk of his Daddy, but he may have been the one who gave the FBI the ammo that they needed in this Blagojevich case. I must admit, I was pretty impressed by the way he handled his press conference, although he could have done without recounting his sister’s support especially if you was going to get emotional and stuff – that’s a lil’ too much. But hey, your emotions are just that, so I can’t knock you. And you still had the bravado to remind folks you still want that Senate seat—I can’t be mad at you one bit… Unfortunately Jesse Jr., you’re not the only who wants that seat. It appears any politician with a brain in Illinois wants that seat… so we must wait and see.

You gotta love this stuff!


cheers,

Bellini

Excuse Me Miss...

So the other night I was standing outside waiting for the bus when this dude approached me. Let me set the stage. I’m about 5’8 in flats 5’11 in heels-and I’m almost always in heels, so anyone who approaches me must at least come up to my shoulder for basic consideration of their game spitting. But this dude, this old man rather-who later revealed that he had a daughter two years younger than myself, was eyeball to eyeball with my bobsey twins. A good look for him…but definitely not for me. Not to mention that he had a jelly belly that was the by product of too many chicken wings and Colt 45. And really I just wanted the bus to come so I could continue on with my life. But noooooooooooooo! This man proceeds to speak to me like I owe him my number just because he asked for it.

Saaaaaaaaaay what?

Creepy Old Dude: (walking past…breaks neck to speak) Hello.
Unsuspecting Amaretto: Hello.
COD: I think I’ve seen you around here before.
UA: Probably, I live around here.
COD: Yeah I saw you on Thursday night. You had on all black.
UA: Probably. (I think to myself that I always wears black)
COD: Well I’m 90 percent sure I saw you. You had on black boots and you walked from that direction. I’m not 100 percent sure, but I’m 90 percent sure that was you.
UA: (getting increasing uncomfortable by the admission of stalker-like tendencies) Cool.
COD: Yeah I know I saw you. I was stilling right here and I saw you walk by. So you stay with your man or something?
UA: Uh. No. (kicking myself at my decision to be honest)
COD: So what do you think about us hanging out sometime. Can I get your number?
UA: (deciding to let old playa down easy and not be the typical DC metro chick with attitude) Um maybe next time. (wondering where the fcuk the bus is)
COD: Next time? (raises voice) Why don’t you give me your number now? Next time means you ain’t trying to give it to me. That’s so fcuked up man.
UA: (Thinks Duh genius) Well, I don’t feel comfortable giving it out.
COD: Well you know there are some crazy people around here. And let’s say I see you in trouble with one of these people around here, they trying to rape you and I see you and I’m like you know what, maybe next time I’ll help her. She said she’d give me her number next time. (Stares Amaretto down with increasingly crazy eyes)
UA: Okay. (wants to run screaming into the night until the bus finally arrives. Throws up deuces from secure window bus seat but wonders when the world got like this, and folks stop being polite)

So the incident got me to thinking about perception. I had already decided that COD did not meet my height nor age requirements so I wasn’t going to give him a chance. And therefore I was mildly annoyed by our continued conversation until COD was able to tell me what I ate for breakfast and I got scared. But let’s just say that COD was a Sexy Tall Dude. Ohhhh yea, if an STD said that he saw me from his bushes would I have been as weirded out? I might have even called my BFF and told her how romantic STD was (I know chicks are crazy like this). Told her how amazing I thought it was that STD laid in wait in foliage for me, risking barb and briar, and baiting his breath for the opportunity just to see me. Little ole me! But what’s the difference really? I mean for all I know a COD would be the best thing for me while an STD could have the internal thoughts of a sociopath.

I know that it’s hard out there for us adults to make friends with new folks. Gone are the days where you could pass a “Do you like me” note in class. Or stare at that cutie at the school dance. And while I appreciate those bold and brazen folks out there like COD who decide to put it all out there and take that risk…as a single female living in the city I have to reserve the right to tell you no and at times hell no! But you shouldn’t call me outside my name or wish me ill will because my momma told me never to talk to strangers. I don’t know you, nor want to know you. And that’s just the way of the world...don't take it personally.

See You In Seven

Back to Basics?!?!

If there is one thing, I don’t have is first-hand experience of handling is a recession. Sure our parents can give us advice and our grandparents can tell us how it really was…but what do we really know? We, as in us 80s babies.

A couple of months ago I was telling Amaretto, I don’t know my gut tells me to put a lock-down on the amount of spending I am doing and save even more. And she says to me “Stop acting like you are one step away from being homeless.” (chuckle) That is true I am nowhere near that step or am I, really? So to ease my anxiety, I paid off my undergrad student loan and paid my car insurance in full for the year. Phew…I love it when there are only a few bills to be paid monthly.

Now fast forward, to two weeks before Christmas, my company decides to clean house a bit. URGH!! There goes one of my closet friends, who just bought a house last year and is a single parent with a teenager daughter off to college next year and pre-teen son. WOW! I felt the ground below me shake. But let’s get this straight, the ground wasn’t shaking because I thought that I would be throwing my Gucci purse over my shoulder and walking out the door before lunchtime never to return. I’ve got that covered…I will be fine for a year if things go sour. The ground was shaking because if I had children this would be a different story. A year saved up, plus six months of unemployment wouldn’t be enough for them not to have to wheel me out on a stretcher.

O-kay...get a grip Courvoisier, crazy chic is rearing her head. Either way I am just saying that in today’s economy where next to nobody is hiring and the number of people applying for unemployment is increasing…I am a little uneasy. That is right, I wasn’t uneasy with the mortgage crisis, and I have two of those. And I wasn’t uneasy with job security until last week. I always knew that advertising was the first budget cut but when you work with pharma, an industry that supposedly thrives during recession, I figure, I would be sitting pretty. Oh no, that ideal was shattered last week. Our CEO told us, that even though our sector of the business is growing we needed to show our commitment to our parent company’s need to cut back due to the lost their two biggest clients, one of big 3 and Amex, which to him meant going back to the basics…simple accounting, spend less than we bring in.

I hear you CEO! I think I might do some going back to basics myself…one, cut out cable time and increase the reading. Two, cut out personal internet – I spend more than half my life online at work and lastly three, as basic as it gets, I am officially bartering services!

Extreme?!? I don’t think so…but apparently some 70’s babies tell me it is. And you know what? They might have a point because although this is NOT my first job, it is my first time of potentially being on the chopping block. So paranoid I may be but broke I cannot. Sorry, I know a lot of people were depending on us single, childless well-paid gen-Ys to try and hold it down for the economy but I have to slow my roll on the spending.

(deep sigh) Much luv until next week…and some change? :/
Courvoisier

Inauguration or Bust!

It’s Friday! So why don’t we have a little fun today? So I was reading the City Paper the other day and I came across this funny little article. It’s about a man named G. Keith Harris, CEO of Harris Consulting Group, an information technology government consulting firm who apparently and allegedly has “two tickets to the inauguration and an all-access pass to the night’s balls and off-shoot parties.”

He posted a man-seeking-woman ad on Craigslist and in one week after posting the ad, received messages from 720 willing women. Let’s have a look at some of his criteria with Rum Punch’s added commentary of course:

COVER THE BASICS. Interested inauguration dates must include a method of contact, be between the ages of 25 and 39, and be comfortable in ball gowns. Great Rum Punch meets the criteria so far! Race is unimportant, But of course... but applicants must have “weight in proportion to height.” I love it! Love it! What a great way to say – No fat chicks allowed please...Rum Punch may no longer meet the criteria. It all depends on his definition of a thick chick...

INCLUDE A PHOTO. Forty-five percent of respondents to Harris’ ad haven’t included a photo. “That’s the first criteria,” says Harris, who adds that the requirement is more than simple vanity. With all the high profile parties to attend on Inauguration Day, Harris’ date “needs to be someone who doesn’t mind being photographed,” he says—”or being in the company of celebrities.” Oh my goodness. Please stop it. An additional 40 percent of respondents committed a similar gaffe: stating they didn’t even know how to attach a photograph to an e-mail. Really?!? Are these women living under a rock? “Given the high volume of responses, I do not have time to teach someone how to do that, in this day and age,” says Harris. Agreed, Mr. Harris. Agreed. If you can’t attach a photo, then clearly you are not on Mr. Harris’s level. I however can, so another check for me!

BE MORE THAN THAT PHOTO. “Naturally, we’re all looking for someone that looks nice,” admits Harris. “But I was raised in a manner where beauty is only skin deep.” So while some with tickets to the Jan. 20 festivities are looking only for inaugural arm candy, Harris says he wants a date who will stay interesting “beyond the inauguration.” Do you really Mr. Harris? So what are these tickets supposed to be? Foreplay? Hoping that with these tickets a woman will just ignore whatever's wrong with you. Like your breath stinks? Or you're too clingy? Be on the phone with her girlfriends, saying, "Something ain't right with him." Friend: "But he took you the inauguration girl!" That means presenting yourself as “honest, caring, respectful, intelligent, fashionable, and a good conversationalist.” Ok I'm back on top! I am definitely all these things and more. But what about you Mr. Harris? I have yet to learn if you are worthy of being on my arm...Harris also needs a woman who will be comfortable slipping out of that ball gown and donning “sweat socks and sweatshirt and jeans so we can just relax and cuddle around the fire.” Excellent! I been rocking sweat socks, sweatshirts and sweatpants all week. And I'm donning my ballgown this evening while I watch TV. Having nice legs doesn’t hurt, either. “Every man has one weakness,” says Harris. “Legs are my Achilles heel.” Alright! I got the gams…

PICK A TEAM NAME. ANY TEAM NAME. If you make it to the post-e-mail selection round—a cup of coffee—that's all I get is some coffee? Can I get a croissant or a scone with that? here are some tips to get the conversation rolling. Harris enjoys international travel, Check! I have traveled internationally. current events, I reads the newspaper. and sports. I watch sports. All of them. Some of them. “When it comes down to sitting down and watching them, I love all sports,” says Harris. “I can’t say I really have a favorite team,” he says—though an old allegiance to the Giants may still hold some weight. Hmmm...We may be fightin'...

DON’T ASK FOR TOO MUCH. Of the 15 percent of respondents who passed the photo hurdle, Harris says he’s heard from many suitable dates that meet his criteria. So far, those women don’t live in the area—and are expecting Harris to pay for transport. He won’t. So that’s where he draws his line in the sand, eh? Putting an ad on craigslist, totally cool, paying for that date, happen not gonna…Because that would look like what? Desperation? Solicitation?

NO HATERS. Obama’s will be the first inauguration to which Harris will have the chance to invite a date, but he says the tickets came to him by “being in the right place at the right time,” not politics. Uh huh. Harris keeps his own views “close to the vest”—accordingly, potential dates need not have voted for the president-elect to get on Harris’ ticket. “But naturally, I would not want to be with a person who is a ‘hater’ of the person we’re celebrating,” he adds. “That would prove to be very uncomfortable.” Whaaaat? So I can’t pin my McCain/Palin button on my ballgown? I can't hold up my Obama's not an American sign? What about my Hillz woulda done it better t-shirt?

DROP SOME PORTUGUESE. Harris is currently studying the language to help maximize his annual trips to Brazil’s Carnival. Excellent! I have taken Portuguese! I was horrible at it. But whatev I'm sure Harris won't mind. Harris says he holds a penthouse apartment on Copacabana beach, Oh my goodness! Hold up, wait a minute! Do we really need to know this tid bit of information? Does this tell us anything about what kind of man he is? I know what typa man you are Mr. Harris, and after reading that Essence article about why Black men love to go to Brazil, I’m giving you the side eye. But I’ll still take a ticket! which he makes use of during the festivities each February. Harris says that willing inaugural dates may soon become Brazilian penthouse guests. Oh Lord. “I’m going alone to Brazil,” he says. “I would love to have this date, if the friendship matures to that level, accompany me on my travels.” Wait. Is he saying he's not trying to take his woman to Brazil? But he'll take them other places? More side eye! More side eye!

BE SENSITIVE. Harris is mending a broken heart—his ex-girlfriend recently broke up with him, three weeks before Thanksgiving and two months before the inauguration. Say what? She couldn’t hold out til the inauguration? Something ain't right Mr. Harris, something ain't right... “I wish I could take a pill to make the pain go away,” says Harris, who says the new flood of interested women is a big shift from his last missive with his ex. “She broke up with me via e-mail,” he says. Well now that's just cold. And a little funny. Again Rum Punch says something in this milk ain't clean. But uh let me go send this email real quick...

So what do y'all think about this Mr. Harris looking for a date through the internets? Anyone gonna put themselves out there? LOL!

That's my time y'all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

to the women who be supporting the men and nem

dear (baby) mama,

excuse me miss. yes you miss sitting there in the third row of the audience. can I talk to you for a minute? you been psssting at me for the last 5 minutes trying to get my attention. waving me over for a while now so you can tell me about your son/baby daddy. about how you want to know when he's getting out. how much his bond gon be. whether his probation gon be revoked today. so now that I've got a minute there are a few things that I want to say to you.

I see you in here every day. you and your homegirls or your auntie and nem. ya'll come in like the prison paparazzi looking expectantly over at the men in the box. locked up. ya'll come with crumpled up papers in yo hand explaining to me bout how he was doing time upstate when he got that subpoena and that's why he didn't appear for his court date. ya'll show me pictures of the 3 year old he got at home as you rub your belly with another one on the way, telling me that you need him out now. you want me to ask the judge to lift the protective order so he can come back home to stay by you cause what he did last week, he didn't mean it, ya'll was just playin.

but ma'am, I'm getting real tired of running back and forth between you and him. truth is, he's my client, not you. but more than that, ma'am did you ever stop to think what your running to and fro, picking up this and that is doing to your son/baby daddy?

you were here just last week when the judge questioned lil Johnny's girl gang in front of the whole court. as the two older Black women approached the bench to plead their nephew's case, the judge asked where were ya'll when lil Johnny was getting into trouble? where were ya'll when he was running the street and smoking weed all day and night? every week, I get mothers and girlfriends and aunties in here crying to me to please let little Johnny go. if ya'll let lil Johnny be a man and made him take responsibility for his own life, ya'll wouldn't be here begging me to show him some mercy now. I know the real reason ya'll want lil Johnny out, It's cause lil Johnny runnin up your phone bill with them collect calls from the jail now, huh?

now miss, I saw you chuckle when the judge said that but maybe you need to take his words to heart. next time your man/child comes to court for a status hearing, how bout you not trail behind him and let him handle his business on his own? and if you do decide to tag along, when the judge finds out that your man/child's drug test is dirty, why don't you let the judge figure out what to do with your man/child on his own, instead of approaching the bench and telling the judge all the shit he's done and in the next breath asking the judge to let him go.

or when I call man/child on the phone to find out if he's done what he needed to do to help investigate his case or get into an alternative sentencing program, how bout you not pick up the phone in the other room and yell that he did what he was supposed to do. those people didn't call him back.

and when he does get out, let him find his own job, instead of scouring the want ads for him and putting in job applications at the places that you think he might like to work. instead of letting him come spend the night every night at the place where you the only one paying rent, make him go home to his mama house. or better yet, you and mama join forces and make him get his own spot.

I know it's not my place, but miss, I see way too many young Black men each and every day sitting back there in orange and way too many Black women like you looking longingly over at those men. and it clicked for me. I've been thinking of a way to say this so here goes...

damn (baby) mama! can your man/child be a man and do shit for himself?

please and thank you!