This is the moment I have been training for for over ten years. Like Gabby Douglas, I sacrificed many a sleepless night. Relationships were strained as I kept a laser-point focus on my goal. I stretched. I vaulted. I pulled, sprained and injured more muscles than I can count. My floor routine? The stuff of legends. Squats, splits, lunges- it all led up to this climax. This moment. This time. *deep breath* Last week, I stopped my birth control and I am officially fucking for results.

12 YO-Veri would be both shocked and terrified… Who am I kidding? 31 YO-Veri is shocked and terrified! I spent so many years avoiding procreation with all my might, that it feels strange to abruptly avert course and pursue the title I’ve always thought of in an abstract, dream sequence-y kinda way: mom. Mother. Mommy. Mum. Whatever monicker used, this is a BFD.

And to quote the man 12 YO-Veri thought would father my kids, Tevin Campbell, “I’m ready.” (A hearty middle finger to anyone that has anything bad to say about my Tevin!) My fourth wedding anniversary is in three weeks, and I still like the guy I jumped the broom with. I’m not committed to corporate dominance anymore, so I look forward to staying home a year or so with little Davonique. (Or Dav’onique if it’s a girl. You know, because I’m classy and shit.) I have great examples of motherhood in my mom, cousins, aunts and friends. And the best indicator of my readiness? I made it through this whole blog post without breaking out in sweats at the thought of giving birth. **shudders** (With all the advances in science, I can’t believe women are still expected to push people out of their bodies- I mean, really! How primitive.)

The next few months are my London. Let’s hope I make the qualifying rounds, keep my hair tight enough for self-hating, non-champions people posting on the Internet, and above all, stick the landing.
IN MY PANTS!

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There are certain things one gets used to, while living the life of a sexy semi-retiree. Big breakfasts, sex in the middle of the day, and pooping whenever and however one wants. (No, this is not my “HEY! SMOKEY BACK HERE TAKING A SHIT!” confession. Get your mind out of the toilet! Wait– Ha!)

But I digress… Imagine gently waking to your own internal clock, spending the afternoon filming your sexy romps with Hulk Hogan, then later, languishing in your own washroom (with your toilet seat, and your tissue that was not once, not twice, but THRICE quilted.) Maybe you take a book– maybe you don’t. No matter, life is good, and you’ve got alllllllllll day.

Now, surely I didn’t mean for this post to be unladylike and crude. Hence, my typing in a mildly British accent. (Don’t believe me? Read this paragraph twice over. C’mon now, chop chop! We haven’t all day to waste.) This blog was supposed to be about my first day back in an office job after a 2 year hiatus, but what it turned into is a complaint about small offices. With single washrooms. That you have to cross a loud tile floor to enter. WTShit?

Say what you will about mindless, soulless corporations, but they don’t slack on the stalls. My last office job almost drove me to homicide, but the toilets were plentiful. My poop options cup runneth over! (Wait– disregard, that sounds turd-rrible. Ha!) I was ready to deal with butthead coworkers and anal bosses, but this? I wasn’t prepared for this shit!

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So, you’ve made it through yet another Black History Month. Congratulations! At this point you’ve probably been fending off sympathetic looks from your non-cousin friends for 4 weeks (plus one extra day this year- Black BONUS!). You’ve explained your hair to folks seeking out diversity teachable moments, and you’ve been offended by at least one major chain’s culturally insensitive “African American products” display.

If you’re like me, you’re exhausted from 29 straight days of overt Blackness. And when you’re exhausted, you don’t think straight. Last week, I almost agreed to see a Tyler Perry movie. *shudder* I’ve got to be more careful. I– no, we need to practice this craft, Derrick Rose would never take 11 months off (random Chicago shout out, GO BULLS!). Get a jump on BHM 2013 by integrating (get it? integrating?) Black history into your daily life. Let’s make some resolutions!

Black History Month Resolutions:
I will increase my peanut eating by 20%; George Washington Carver lives in me.
I will use the stoplight for its intended purpose, slowing on yellow instead of speeding up to catch the light. My mom and Garrett Morgan would be proud.

I will respond to indignity with Sojourner Truth’s “ain’t I a woman?” or Nicki Minaj’s “kiss my ass and my anus.”

I will support the arts and go to see all 12 Tyler Perry movies that will come out this summer- psych, just making sure you’re still there.

What resolutions will you make?

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Now that Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell has finally been repealed, we should all fear the inevitable. Not that US soldiers will now bedazzle their uniforms and issue orders that recruits must engage in booty-based physical training; no, the threat we face is less fabulous (side note: 4 snaps in a Z-formation) and affects far, far more people than the small percentage of adults in Americans that self-identify as homosexual.

With the repeal of don’t ask, don’t tell goes my decorum in not asking questions that my mom taught me was impolite to wonder aloud. The religious right, feared man-on-dog marriage, but the true threat lies in the death of my political correctness. These are the questions I will now ask without hesitation:

Are you functionally retarded?
Surely you’ve encountered people, in your professional or personal life, that lead you to wonder: how did they get to school? Was it on the short, yellow bus? Did they taunt other drivers on the road by licking the window? Were their parents encouraged to outfit them in helmets before letting them out in the cruel, cruel world? Inquiring minds want to know, and now we can– and should– ask.

What’s that smell– is that you?
That horrid waft of onion-based funk that slaps your face each time your coworker gestures during the staff meeting… the stench that makes you wonder if a small squirrel died in your neighbor’s mouth… Liberate your nose hairs and address Funk Master Stank with a pointed question: did the Deodorant/ Listerine Fairy violate your mother, why are you so against it?

Are you aware that the closet (you’re hiding your sexuality in) has no doors?
I don’t plan to utilize this one too often– but I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to address my well-dressed and moisturized, guy-friend that recently moved to “Hot-lanta” (his term, not mine). So here goes:

Dude, I saw pics from your surprise birthday party and noticed it was a perfectly groomed, muscular, sausage fest. I have two questions for you, 1) are you the heir to the Johnsonville Brats conglomerate, and if not, 2) when can we go shoe shopping?

Whew! That felt good! What question would you add to this list?

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[Rafiki hits Simba on the head]
Simba: What was that for?
Rafiki: It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past.
Simba: Yeah, but it still hurts.
Rafiki: Yes, the past can hurt, but the way I see it, you either run from it, or learn from it.
[swings his stick at Simba again who ducks out of the way]
Rafiki: Ah! You See? So what are you going to do?

In the Lion King, the circle of life involved a wise-cracking baboon, a melodious, flatulent warthog and a feral, feline prince coming of age in the jungle. In the real world we’re all Michael Finnegan, and the circle of life is a never-ending cycle of
1) taking an assessment of all you know,
2) making firm decisions of how you’ll handle situations from now on,
3) then realizing weeks, months or years later, how stupid you actually were to make those resolutions, as you go back to the drawing board to begin again (poor old Michael Finnegan).

At age 18, with one high school psychology class under my belt, I was sure I was destined to be a therapist. Three years and 90 college credit hours later, a psych professor prompted me to reevaluate my ambitions with the now cliched phrase, “Therapy? It’s just not that into you.” (Side note: apparently I don’t have a nonjudgemental, sympathetic ear, and that’s not something I can pick up at Target.) Unperturbed, I decided to salvage my career and transition to human resources, my one true calling in life. Right? Wrong! I’ll spare you to awful details and speed to today and my new professional goal in life- to be a sexy retiree. A noble profession, as Blanche Devereaux showed us all.

Failing at so many things would cower some people, but for others, it’s an opportunity to thrive. The difference between the two is related directly to one’s ability to not take his/herself that seriously. Shit happens– all the time. Sometimes you’re the perpetrator, sometimes you’re a victim, but the conclusion is always the same: you either laugh it off and learn from it, or you wade in a pool of self-pity and risk getting hit upside the head. Again.

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“Oh no! You’re a whore, friend!”

5 minutes earlier…
“I’m going to text him and say ‘hi, do you want to have sex?’”
At this, the Women’s Council roared. “No!” Never before had we all agreed on any one thing. Nia seized the moment and asked the only question that mattered “You don’t know how to play the game? Wait– this is important **a hush falls over the room** let’s say you’re having sex, what happens minutes before? Yes! Let’s play Memento: at this moment you’re fucking– what were you doing just prior? 2 minutes before you’re naked, what’s happening?”

Girl6: Nothing really. When we get to my place, we both know we’re going to have sex! 2 minutes before we’re taking our clothes off.
Ujima: No! When you get to your house, YOU know you’re about to have sex. He only hopes that he can persuade you to have sex.
Ashanti: So you don’t make him work a little for it? You just set it out? On a platter?
Girl6: Well…
Nia: No! You don’t present the pussy; you hide the pussy. You both still know it’s there! Hide it a little.

10 minutes before that…
“A doctor?!” we exclaimed in unison!
Ashanti: Yes! A doctor! This guy has been chasing Girl6 for YEARS and she won’t give him the time of day.
Nia: You’re running from a doctor, and we’re in here wasting time talking about some other woman’s husband?
Me: We’re still wasting time! Call him– no text! Send him a text!
Girl6: No, it’s not like that. We’re just friends. We dated in high school and–
Ujima: So you’re his first love and you’re sitting here pining for a loser?
Nia: **starts singing** I hope that you’re the one…
Me: …the one… the one… the one…
All: if not (if not… if not…) you are the prototype!
Ujima: Give me your phone. You’re fucking up, let the Women’s Council handle this…

One hour before…
Reconnecting for the first time in 6 months, my friends and I converged in the living room with wine, pizza, cake… and copious amounts of bullshittery to catch up on. As we joked about jobs, family and men, the conversation took a turn for the worst when we realized that Girl6 was in fact wasting time with another woman’s deadbeat.

Nia: Wait a minute– he’s married? Living with his wife? What? And they’ve got how many kids?! Ugh. No!”
Girl6- Well, they live together, but they’re not together. All they do is fight, she’s always putting him out.
Ujima: Are you really that gullible?
Me: Of course she’s always putting him out! He’s cheating on her… WITH YOU!
Imani: Why him? You’re so much better than this, Girl6.
Girl6: But the sex is so good. It’s like porn star sex! And I don’t have any other options! He’s just something to do.
Me: Porn star sex, so? Every good woman has given up a trifling man with great sex, to preserve her sanity.
Imani: She’s bullshitting, y’all. What about DoctorDoctor, Girl6?
Girl6: He doesn’t count! We’re just friends!

2 days later…
DoctorDoctor calls… stay tuned.

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“You should be able to count your true friends on one hand.” I can do this, and still have have an extra finger to salute bad drivers with. Outside of this upper echelon of bosom buddies (side note: my oldest friend has been around since before we had bosoms to speak of), I have a gang of people that consider me to be their best friend, but I have to admit, the feeling is rarely mutual.

This is not to say I don’t like these folks, on the contrary, I do! We party and bullshit (and party and bullshit), but at the end of the day, I have a clear hierarchy of friends. And a strict set of rules I follow with each. These rules dictate both the conversations I have with them, and about them– never mean-spirited, but always hilarious.

Tier I
These friends are more aptly called “acquaintances.” They’re likely to be invited out to brunch, or on a weekend get-away, but I wouldn’t call them if I had a fight with my hubby or needed to be picked up from the bus station. We may talk about their life at length, but when push comes to shove, they’re as disposable as the razor I tossed in the trash this morning for nicking the tender, supple area on the front side of my knee. If I had to assign them a role, it would be Cousin Pam from the Cosby Show: an interesting character, but without them, the show still goes on.

Tier II
Tier two friends are my homies. These people could point my momma out of a line up, and though she could probably do the same, she’d be hard pressed to tell you their names or Veri-affiliation. We can talk about most things under the sun– my good news, some of my bad news, current events… and occasionally, folks in Tier I. Most of my friends fall into this tier, but make no mistake, their escapades are fair game for my conversations with Tier III. Think of them as Lynne from Girlfriends, an integral player– but no Toni Childs.

Tier III
Tier three is as elusive as catching a falling star and putting it in your pocket. These are the girls (side note: no man has ever breached the Tier III pane) who I can talk to about everything and everybody. They know when I’m happy, sad, mad– and whether my menstrual cycle caused it. These chicks don’t even miss a beat when I throw terms like “menstrual cycle” into casual conversation. I don’t have to give them back story on any current situation I’m explaining, because they already know. They could ghost write my memoirs; give my eulogy without reading from notes. For fun, we often laugh about the antics of Tier I and II, but what they tell me goes in the Tier III vault. Their roles are that of my right arm, left leg and favorite nipple. Irreplaceable.

To thine own tier, be true.

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An old, wise sansei once said, “if everybody has a problem with Bob, it’s not everybody, it’s Bob.” Confession: the old, wise sensei in question is actually my girlfriend from college– but her words ring true even if waxing on and waxing off wasn’t a part of the process. In this case, waxing philosophic is just as good.

Though we shun them, most stereotypes and rumors are based in truth: good Black really don’t crack, “packed into a car like Mexicans” has scientific merit and women are worse drivers than men. Take a minute to get over your outrage and realize that everything I’ve written so far is true. Melanin helps Black folks look younger longer, Latino families are per capita larger than other families in America and… well have you seen some women drive? It’s enough to make you get a bus pass.

The stereotypes and gossip about you are just as valid– especially if you don’t agree with them. Perception is reality, and if you’re perceived as the office blonde, you may want to dye your hair and update your resume.

Two months ago, I sent out a text message to random friends, family and acquaintances with the following question: what’s my best and worst trait? In less than an hour, I had confirmation of what I already knew to be true about myself– I’m an asshole. I’m both loved and hated for my unrelenting, snarky honesty. (Side note: my honesty was a gift or curse based wholly on whether I used my skill for good or evil with the responder. Ha!) Even my mom responded with a Yoda-like comment on my “lack of tact.”

When the woman who shared her uterus with you calls you a jerk– you should accept it as true. An if everyone says you’re a whore, you may want to check your panties, Bob.

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