Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (19 page)

I am not introverted, by nature. I do not feel
"refreshed" by time alone. Walking around alone, or sitting
in a coffee shop alone, or crafting alone does not sound like fun to
me.
I've never been a "pretty" girl. I could give two
shits about my nails. Getting my nails done does not sound like fun
to me. And who the hell says it should?

Brainwashed women.
Women I love and respect.
Women I know, and women I don't know, and women I don't like have
tattooed the lip service onto their brains of what you're "supposed"
to want and "supposed" to need.

Here's a short list:
When you get divorced
you're "supposed" to get your "groove back." I
assume this would be by sleeping with as many people as possible and
becoming really fixated on the validation of male attention.
We
are all "supposed" to need "me time" that
includes vanity rituals such as getting one's nails done and/or
shopping.
We are
all
"
supposed" to need time alone wandering through the
world with our own thoughts? I'm not sure. Again, I'm extroverted
so alone time means dick to me.
We are all supposed to be
exhausted by our own children and parenting. Spending the entire day
with your kids should be difficult because GAAAWD, kids are JUST so
ZANY!

I'm sorry I'm such a fucking enigma.
Trust
me, it's not the first time a demographic I belong to is bothered by
my inability to fit the mold. It was not fun being a ten
-year-old
black girl in Alabama who listened to Guns N Roses and Talking Heads.

So here's the deal:

When the people who have
seen
me and who
know me and who make the fucking effort to know me start worrying,
then I'll worry. Otherwise, please take your unsolicited advice on
what I "should" be doing and eat it.

This, I promise, is spoken from a place of love
because boundaries are love, right?
I am aware that people are
concerned about my well-being because they love me and they care
about me. For that, I am grateful and blessed. But, may I advise you
to listen more or take this post as a cheat sheet:

I am energized and refreshed by
people
.
That
is why, since I moved here, I have opened my home to friends and
visitors at all hours.
That
is
my
"sitting alone
in a park
,
getting my nails
done." All of y'all who linger in my living room until
two
and
three
in the morning
running your mouths
are
the “me time.”

I'd like to go out and be more social but, again,
I am
still
putting my life together. I have neither the
wardrobe nor the disposable income for that sort of social life right
now and
,
frankly, it's okay.
I was plenty rowdy when I had the time and money. I am enjoying this
time of sobriety and calm.

As for needing time away from my kids, please
don't project your shit onto me.
I
like my kids. Sure, they
get on my nerves like all humans do
,
but not as much as you'd like to believe. I
can
spend the
entire day with them and be okay. I got it like that.

And when I
do
get annoyed with them
,
I have a big, amazing
bathtub
to
soak in. My kids are finally old enough for me to do so without fear
of someone putting their finger in a socket or starting a fire. An
hour, bubbles, essential oils
,
and
music is enough to refresh me
,
probably the way your French manicure does.

All of these things are things I wasn't allowed
to do, for one reason or another, for the last decade. I have worke
d
outside the home, on the opposite schedule as my kids
,
off-and-on
since they were little. I love, love, love that I
get that time back. My kids are finally old enough and
self-sufficient enough for me to take time to myself. The bubble bath
is a Bahamian vacation.

I'm fine.

I know doting and mothering is sort of the
language of girlfriendship but listen:

I'm not the one.

When I ask for advice, I want it. When I don't,
assume I don't want it.

My new friend, Jenn, said she was a "quick
study." And she is.

In a few short months she learned that I really
love bath products.
I am a sucker for some fizzy bath bombs. She
deposits sugar scrubs on my kitchen island every now and then. It's a
show of love we both recognize. And she acknowledges my innate
rebellion against "the tape."

The what women/black
people/moms-are-supposed-to-do tape that we've
all
been
playing and believing doesn't – the fuck - apply to
me
.

So enjoy your glasses of wine, beautifully
manicured nails
,
and long
walks on the beach.

I'm taking care of myself the way I want to, the
way that feels good to
m
e,
and I'm learning and re-learning constantly to let people's love
in, and remind myself that their love comes in many forms, but to
always trust
myself
first.

And also "letting someone love me"
doesn't mean "appeasing their agenda over my own."

And on that note, time to draw my bubble
bath...
The Book
True
story.
My ex's parents had this really amazing history
book.
This history book was often found forgotten in the bottom
of a closet, but every time I found it, I sat and read it.

I'm
confident that in ten years I'm the only person who ever did.
It
was gigantic and had a huge timeline of major events, aligned by
continent.
Eventually, the amazing history book found its way to
their garage beneath a pile of other forgotten and unused items.

When I was packing to move back to Mobile, I my
ex's mom my intentions to either home school or develop an education
enrichment center. I asked her for any unused educational materials
she might have (she had LOTS) and she told me no. Despite piles and
piles of unused Legos, dolls, toys, atlases and books she decided
she'd rather keep them in her garage than let them be used by my
children.

So I left, being reminded of my place on the
family totem pole, being reassured that leaving was the best thing to
do.
I left that amazing timeline history book behind.

Today a dear friend, whose children are nearly
grown, donated piles and piles and piles of books and materials to me
and mine.

Tucked in with the chemistry books, the
literature, the math, the maps, and the magnets was – you
guessed it – that amazing timeline history book.

It came to me anyway...

I'm not a religious person but every now and then
I get a wink, a gift and a "you're doing alright, kid."

Rescue
Mission
While
scanning Freecycle I came across a desperate sounding post:
Hi!
I am in search of baby items, furniture, anything! I have three kids
and I just left my abusive boyfriend. I'm living in a trailer my mom
had on her property but I don't have any stuff and I'm scared to go
back to my old house. I need help.
Well,
you know this didn't sit well with me so I sent her a message with my
phone number. She called me back and told me her tale. I asked her
the ages and genders of her children and what she needed. Her
six-month-old was sleeping in her car carrier because she had no
crib. I talked to her mom who said she was relieved to have the
trailer available, but she didn't have enough money to furnish it.
She lived in a small home with her other children and everyone
struggled to fit. All of the clothes and toys were left behind. The
guy was a loose cannon. I told her to give me 72 hours.
I got on
Facebook and put out an emergency status:
Hey
folks! I know a single mama. She's young. She has three small
children. She ran away from her abusive boyfriend and she has
absolutely nothing. For the next few days I will be taking clothing,
toys, baby gear, food, and whatever else you can come up with. Share
this status. Let's help this woman get on her feet. Help me help
her, please and thanks.
Within
minutes my inbox was flooded with messages. Within hours, people I
knew, people I sorta knew back in high school, and people I didn't
know at all were dropping off furniture and supplies to my house.
Plates, baby toys, a crib, clothes, pots and pans, sheets, blankets
all piling up in my garage ready to go to their new home.
I
called her back to let her know I had supplies for her and she
sobbed. Then her mom took the phone and she sobbed, too. I got their
address and planned to bring her stuff at the end of the week.
I
had to postpone, though, because then the gift cards came in. From
around the country, thousands of dollars worth of gift cards arrived
at my house from friends and strangers.
It was kind of fucking
amazing.
I called to let her know I was waiting for all the money
to come in so I could give her everything at once.
“You're
an angel,” she said with her thick Southern twang.
“I
doubt that, but some ladies helped me when I was in the shit so I'm
gonna help you.”
In addition to the supplies I was able to
deliver about $2000 in gift cards to her at her home. Sure enough,
she was living in an out of a mostly-empty trailer.
But not
anymore.
With our help she was able to live on her own and escape
a dangerous life.
See, I'm a conduit.
I don't have
anything but my big, fat mouth and more friends than enemies.
And
with a network of amazing, generous people miracles can
happen.
Male
Stripper Syndrome

The common theme of the last week or so among my
single mama friends and lady colleagues has been sexual liberation.
But who is
really
coming out on top?
I'm a member of
several single parent groups online.

While we probably should be complaining about our
exes not paying child support, or the burden of doing everything on
our own, or the shame we feel for being blamed for the demise of the
nation
,
what we usually
spend time griping about is our sex live
s,
or lack thereof. There seem to be three views here:

There are those still smackin' on the nasty
aftertaste of fresh divorce who would rather be mauled by lions than
even
think
about being in the room with a real, live naked
man.

There are those who, after years of dedication to
their children and soul-searching, are genuinely ready to step into
the world of dating and sex with their dignity
intact
and their boundaries established.

I am somewhere between those two.

And lastly, there are the girls who got their
groove back. They are serial dating and serial screwing to their
heart's delight. They wave a flag of "empowerment,” but
from the outside appear more like starving people who have just been
released from prison camps, scarfing and tasting every buffet from
every restaurant that opens its doors to them.

Listen, I am not saying one cannot be sexually
empowered
,
and I am
certainly not slut-shaming. Everyone has an inner agenda
,
and everyone has lessons to learn from their paths. But it's easier
to spot the ones that match yours. And there was a time, in my former
life, when male attention was my
nourishment
. It was what
fueled me. It dictated my personality. I didn't know who I was if I
wasn't the prettiest, most intimidating, most man-eating girl in the
room.
But my self-esteem was wobbly
,
and if I met a girl who was all of those things
confidently
,
I would tuck my tail between my legs and shrink down to nothing. I
was all coffee and no omelet, as they say.

Sexual empowerment is not the number of responses
to your OKCupid profile, or the sheer volume of penis pics in your
inbox, or the fact that you have a hot date every weekend. It's also
standards, dignity, boundaries and self-control. When I think of the
lies women believe about sexual empowermen
t,
I
instantly think of male strippers.

In my former life, before marriage and children,
back when I was trying to convince myself I wanted to be in college
,
I
knew a lot of strippers. Tampa is a stripper-heavy town
,
and broke college girls either take to the pole or befriend
those who take to the pole to benefit from their soaring incomes.

I had a brief but interesting friendship with a
male stripper named "Almond Delight." I don't understand
his name either.

I'd met him on '
80’s
night at da club. He was a good dancer and we formed a quick
friendship. Inevitably, I was invited to see him dance nekkid. I
dragged a girlfriend with me. We were thrilled. There was something
really “girl-power” about the whole experience. There
were hoards of women. My friend and I snagged a table near the front,
our dollar bills neatly pre-folded and ready to be tucked into the
banana hammock of the stripper we liked best. The feeling was, "Now
it's
their
turn. Now
we're
in control."

I could not have been more wrong.

Let me sidebar for a second: I always love a good
trip to a strip club. Men or women, I don't care. The bottom line is
the camaraderie with my girlfriends and the stories to tell after.
That said, going to see male strippers for the first time was
slightly horrifying.

The first dancer was a stocky brute of man. After
his entertaining slither down the stage he chose a "lucky lady"
from the audience. He sat her down in a chair and proceeded to smack
her in the face with his penis.