Some Sugar In My Bowl

When I was working at the skrip club, an older gentleman (and by older I mean, 65, if not older) used to come in and try to holler. His “game” consisted of the following: “you know my wife passed away from cancer. And I need someone to take care of me. I have a nice house with a pool in the back. You should come over. You would like it.” Yes, the pool in the back was the selling point. And I would be remiss if I didn't mention that he was a shytty tipper and he never bought me a drink. I mean as my momma would say, “show me that you care.” But as usual I digress…

So, the problem with men hitting on you at work is a. you can’t run away from them b. you will definitely see them again and c. you depend on them for your livelihood, so you have to be somewhat nice to them. So you have to just dangle that ‘maybe, someday, I will take you up on this ridiculous great offer’ carrot. My usual response was, “that sounds really nice. But I don’t know… Um. Do you need another drink?” And let me tell you this man was persistent. Even told me about the foundation he started for his dead wife. I mean if that don’t just tear at the heart strings! And I’d politely decline his offers each time. But I’m not gon’ lie, sometimes I wondered “what if I did just go ‘head and let him be my sugar daddy…” What would that be like? What would that entail exactly? Could I, you know, do it – pun intended.

Well one day he came in with a woman in her early to mid thirties. She was clearly a hood chick, a lil rough around the edges. So I said to him, “Is that your girlfriend?” His response, “Nah, that’s my wife. You didn’t want me.” Well damn! You right about that one! But who knew it was gonna play out like this?

That night I looked at this chick 1/3 in awe for getting with this old dude. 1/3 with respect for taking advantage of the benefits and rewards of being with this old dude. I mean she was probably living the life – or at least a step up from her life. Money, car, clothes, a pool in the back to chill at all day long. And then 1/3 wtf that she had actually gotten with this old dude. I mean really, how did that happen? F, love him, did she even like him? Did she have “sex” with him? Ewwwww…. Had to get that thought outta my mind. What did his kids think of the union? How long would this last? I mean I ain’t sayin she a gold digger but… let's just say I don't think he was what came to mind when she first envisioned having a huzband.

I don’t know y’all. There’s a part of me that believes in marriage for practical reasons: two incomes are always better than one, the tax incentives, merging retirement accounts and stock portfolios, life insurance payoffs (heh heh). But then there’s the part of me that believes in marriage for the fairytale, romanticized reasons: love, companionship, genuine attraction, enjoying that person’s company, a true friendship, wanting to grow old together, etc., etc...

However, as I get up in age, and it seems like the pool of available men is shrinking, causing me to sometimes drift into f-it mode, got me contemplating throwing out the fairytale reasons, and seriously considering a slightly (or quite) older, wealthier man who would “take care of me”. Financially and whatnot. But then I wonder what other parts of me would have to be compromised to live this life. And could I deal with it? Could I live with myself? And would it really matter, would I even care about pesky little things like scruples and this thing called love if I were draped in Dior and dripping with diamonds? Tee hee. For real though, could I exchange my values for some financial peace of mind?

And yes, I know that things aren't always what they appear to be. That the grass is always greener. That we could lose all our money in the stock market and I would be back at square one. Or he might not leave me in the will and then our house would be foreclosed on and I'd be screwed. That I'd have to maybe one day change his diapers and whatnot. But I'm just saying, sometimes this lil song plays in my head, "If you think you're lonely now. Wait until you 35..." And, like Carrie Bradshaw, I can't help but wonder will there be a time in my life when I'm willing to give up some of myself, my wants, my desires, what I thought mattered most, all in the name of comfort and security? I mean this life gets rough. Lonely. Hard. Expensive. And sometimes you just want someone else in it with you. A little sugar in your bowl...

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

ENJOY YOUR MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND! BE SAFE AND DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE!

dysfunctional tales, vol. i

So a cousin of mine has 4 kids and she’s not 30, nor did she commence having children in her 20s. Over the weekend, I spent some time with 2 of her kids (both girls). So the littlest one was eager to tell me she had books – the initial indicator that the girl is smart and is willing to learn, so I told her to show me. The child is 5 and is in kindergarten – remember this tidbit as the story evolves…

She gets the book and I point to each word in the title, however she’s creating her own title. Initially, I thought it was being done in jest, but as we turned the pages to the book she couldn’t logically sound out words. So, then I blurt out “Can you read?” And she says "yeah" a pet peeve of mine – it’s YES. So, I point to the word ‘the’ – and her response is a singular letter ‘a’ or ‘i’ – clearly my ass is lost. So, I close the book and ask do you know your alphabet. She retorts, “A, B, C, D, EFG, H, I, JK, LMP… just because she half-ass knows the song doesn’t mean she knows her alphabet. So, now I ask the easiest question of them all – spell your name… A.. y – enough, she doesn’t know how to spell her name.

Time for plan B.

"Get me a sheet of paper, I’m going to write the alphabet." Interestingly enough, she brought me writing tablet paper and not regular college ruled paper—that was a second indicator that the girl is smart and nobody is working with her. So, I write her the alphabet, capital and lowercase letters adjacent to each other and on the final line I write her first and last name. After the letters and her name were written, I began to quiz her on phonics. "What begins with A – name me a fruit, what begins with B — name a color…" This is the process I follow until we hit all 26 letters. So, I inform her that the next time I see her she needs to know how to spell her first name.

Now did the adults really think just because the proper tools were present for thriving learning environment, that osomosis would take place and ooze through the girl's brain and BAM -- she's a reader?

In this household on this given Sunday was the mother, grandmother, and grandfather. Mom is upstairs watching “Two Can Play that Game”, Pa Pa is yapping on the phone, and grandma is watching t.v. and braiding her great neice’s hair. The grandmother was present for my mini-school session. And she claims, "I had no idea all this summer the littlest one couldn’t spell her name." Lord forgive me, but had you struck her ass Bellini would have understood right then and there.

You have a child willing and eager to learn and no adult can put their fucking life on mute and dote on the child.

Ironically enough, I asked the Mother during the beginning of the school year how the 5 year old was adjusting to school and she replied “just fine”. Clearly “just fine” means two different things. I had the impression that she was on point as a 5 year old: could read, or was an emergent reader, identify letters of the alphabet, understood the phonetics of sounds, etc. cue Deneice Williams “Silly of me…” Be’cuz that’s what 'just fine' meant to me.

Unfortunately, the parents seem indifferent to the window of opportunity children have; where there could never be endless of hours of learning and their engagement is full throttle, it will be sad if this little girls aptitude for learning diminishes in the same year she officially started grammar school. And I pity the schoolteacher who has to teach this girl, but can not count on the parents to do their part. And folks holler and shout about the state of public schools, and yet the assumption is parents are doing their part, when clearly that is not the case.

So, I leave with you an op-ed piece from William Raspberry – a former Washington Post columnist during the 90’s who wrote provocative opinions about the state of black America.
Enjoy this kick-ass piece featured in the Post yesterday.

cheers,

Bellini