…Pots & Pans…

.

..a hungry man is an angry man…

~Ish Jamaicans Say~

Am I taking you out or are you cooking?

 I’d asked him to repeat himself and the answer was the same as the initial request. Me cook dinner for him?

I mean can you cook?

Now. See. I was not above firing up my gas and making my pots and pans sing. However, I was very aware of the state of affairs in the tomb for leftovers formerly known as my fridge; and since being on the road for most of 2013 meant that  I wasn’t cooking for myself…it hadn’t occurred to me to cook for anyone else.

Perhaps my lack of domesticity came from a place of…the kitchen isn’t necessarily the room in which I find happiness and joy in my home. And while I do not rebuke it…romance with special sauce gravy wasn’t necessarily on my list of to-dos.

Plus why couldn’t he cook for moi? I’ve been the beneficiary of a man’s desire to feed me. True enough Dread’s idea of sustenance that evening was spaghetti with meat sauce and a slice of Kraft American Cheese on the top, but he def got an A for effort if nothing else. I didn’t have to be the only one in the kitchen twerking suttin in a dutchie.

“So how about this…I’ll cook if you buy the groceries. Teamwork.”

 I might as well take you out if that’s what we’re doing.

*replaces lid on the pot*

…24…

 …oh ms. parker can I ride with you…

~Playa~

November 23, 1988.

The date was a full seven years and six days after I had made my own grand entrance into this life of sin. I could look at him and tell that he was young. I just didn’t realize how young.

How old are you…like 27?

Close, but no cigar. I’d conveniently left my late 20s somewhere between the red clay hills of Georgia, the lush mountains of Tennessee, and the decorative cracks of the Concrete Jungle. While I was only four years removed from 27, I was thoroughly and unapologetically enjoying the hell out of my 30s. The whole entire hell out of my 30s.

“I’m 31.” He looked surprised. Yes the good black had not cracked.

That’s not old. It just makes you flavored.

Cute, but a pretty standard response from those that had not quite yet experienced the tango with a quarter life crisis and crawled out shaken not stirred. A dame had already been through the fire and lived to tell about it. Yes…yes I was at a minimum…flavored.

Typically, I would have wished him well and went on about my business but I was drawn in by his wit, humor, and the perfectly placed dimples that he sported on each cheek. Yes, the young man was…fine. Maybe it was all of the Hennessey at the open bar or the way that he moved on the dance floor or the fact that I had entirely nothing to lose but you know…

It’s not that I wouldn’t be open to dating someone younger than me. I guess I hadn’t really ever thought about it. But I guess thinking ain’t living…huh…

Carpe Diem.

 

 

…Bags Packed Will Travel…

…get here if you can…

~Oleta Adams~

“So uhm what is that you said that you do for a living again…”

I realize that being in a relationship with an array of frequent traveler rewards programs may not be conducive to the “getting to know you” process much less building a relationship. However, since traveling is how bills get paid on this boulevard, I continue my romance with points programs and their kind without much thought about it, until that specific question arises.

It usually…not always… comes out as a stammer, followed by a pregnant pause, left there for me to provide clarity about why I’m always gone.

It’s not that my job is complicated relative to other roles, but without an understanding of the mission of my organization, sometimes explaining what I do sounds like I’m blowing hot air. So I’ve scaled my answer back to, “I’m kind of an education consultant.” It’s fast, easy, relatable, and if we’re not even really going to make it beyond the courtesies of an intro conversation, saves me from getting deep off into what it is that I do that keeps me 36,000 feet in the air a couple of weeks out of every month.

In this recent case of the inquiry into my employment, his hesitation about me being gone played itself out on rinse and repeat.  I was upfront in telling him that I would be on the road for much of the two weeks of our initial meeting and that my level of tiredness post would likely be high.

Straight no chaser, boy I’mma be tired from being on the road. Consider it my very own cliché, but true version of the, “it’s me not… you” speech.

Okay confession. Truth time. I also wasn’t really interested in him. After napping through our first date, having limited recollection of what he looked like, and declining two invites to come to his house for wine and ordering-in, I was either not interested or really uninterested.

So maybe it was a me, not him thing. Or a him, not me thing.

Wait, I digress.

What I did learn in last year’s dating experiences is that I either have to date someone that is as equally busy if not busier than I am or someone that gets that my level of travel is not in competition with the level of attention that one shall get from me.  I travel like a single person because…I am. For now I’ll just keep up my hapless flirtation with my boo skymiles and let the chips fall into place as they may.

Skymiles a make her dance.

…One Year In…

…new york city girl…hope there’s room for me…in her high society…

~Martin Luther~

Today, August 15, 2012, marks the one year anniversary of my official arrival in the Sleepless City by way of The Planet Brooklyn and man…can I just say that a year goes fast. Hella fast.

On August 15, 2011, after three weeks of anxiously awaiting my landlord’s return from Israel to approve me, I signed the lease for my lovely, light-filled pre-war apartment in Bed-Stuy and deemed this place home.

As I reflect on all of the things that have happened in the last year, I keep landing on the same conclusion…this is the absolute happiest that I have been in my adult life. And by “adult life” I do mean that time period after 25 years old when you realize that wearing your big girl panties is the only option and so you hike those thangs up and make it do what it do. And while I would def argue, that I’m not exactly the same person now that I was at 25, I couldn’t imagine having started my 30s in any other city in the world. I find new reasons to fall in love with this place daily and I hope that never…ever stops.

New York City is the only place that I can recall living …and I’ve lived in a lot of places in my 30.7777999 years of existence… that you can truly create the experience that you want. The folks that told me that living here is completely different than visiting did not lie. I live it…I love it.

Here are the 10 things that I’ve learned since moving to the Concrete Jungle.

1. NYC is home of the perpetual first date. The cycle of meeting and dating and meeting and dating, while fun and adventurous…also takes strength, courage, wisdom and…patience. Lots and lots of patience. Patience is not my best virtue. Working on this. But then again, when you’re in a candy shop…don’t you want to savor more than one of the options?

2. Brooklyn has some of the finest men on Earth. It’s like God spun a globe, landed on Brooklyn, opened His hand and dropped all of those mofos off right there. Wait. Maybe that’s what happened in Coming to America. Nevertheless, I find myself caught off guard by beautiful men of every shape and size constantly as I explore my Borough. **fans self** yes goodness.

3. No sales tax on clothing purchases under $110. I love to shop. And while everything in New York is marked up to the low low price of an ass and an arm…the whole no sales tax situation makes me feel just a tad bit better about life whenever retail therapy becomes a necessity.

4. It is possible to never have to leave Brooklyn. Man. Between the events that happen here on a regular basis and the ability to discover something totally new about even just a street on a random walk through a neighborhood…a broad could absolutely never ever have to leave BK. **clears throat** Add on the length of time it takes to get to Zumunda or Harlem and I don’t quite make it out to other portions of the City as often as I would like to, but I’m working on it.

5. The Big City is still hella small. Six degrees of separation is very real in the field. I’ve had
more than a few, “do you know so and so…yeah I know so and so” moments here. I’ve
also had the opportunity to meet some absolutely beautiful spirits and make some
amazing new friends and acquaintances.

6. Apparently I have an accent. Listen. I was raised I the South. I was around twanged up people all of the time. I can get real Blanche Dubois or Devereaux (whichever I’m in the mood for) at any given moment. I can’t help that I don’t sound like I have an accent to me. But for real…if one more New Yorker…pauses…cocks their damn head to the side and says…”Yo…where exactly are you from.” I’mma cuss. LOL

7. Unlimited Metrocards save lives. No explanation needed.

8. The hustler spirit is real. Now I’m Jamaican…so I’m familiar with this concept of multiple grinds. However, when the spirit of the hustle feels like it’s even embedded in the sidewalks that you’re walking on…yeah man. It makes you want to conquer the world and I love that. There is absolutely nothing that you can’t do here.

9. Brunch. And brunch often.

10. Have I mentioned the men in BK. Yeah. Just in case I didn’t.

Happy One Year Anniversary to Me!!!

…Typology…

…something in the way you are…

~Kimbra~

 “You know Zette…I’ve never been quite clear on what your type is.”

And as usual, my only response was a sigh.

Funny…neither was I.

What the big brother didn’t say, but I knew was deep off in the cut of that comment was…”so are you always gonna date bammas?” In my defense though, I just want the record to show that I do not go out and intentionally seek the attention of the bammas that I attract.

I’d prided myself for years on being able to say, “Who me? I don’t have a type,” only to find myself in my 30s still typeless and single.  Not that I had a problem with the single part of the equation, however, not being able to clearly articulate exactly what type of guy interested me was becoming a bit problematic. While a system requirement of tall felt like a good proxy for some things, it could not be the barometer for a relationship.

At some point in time, I, yes me, was going to have to be able to put in to very concrete terms some sort of composite profile for the type of man that I would actually be willing to marry. Wait…the type of man I would WANT to marry. Now see, that is completely different to me than just saying what type of guy I liked. I mean, I live in New York. New York City that is. This is the City where you can pick a Continent, Country, State, City, Neighborhood, and Zip Code and find that type of person.  If I wanted to date a Polish guy or a Caribbean man or a hottie from South Africa…it wouldn’t take much research or effort to make that happen.

But, ethnicity was also on the periphery of type.

Nope it had to be something more…palatable…thought out…robust. Deliberate even?

But how does one even go about determining what their type…is or is not.

Perhaps it made sense to run the film of the men that I’d dated up to this point and see if there were some common traits that I did and did not like. I found two trends…creative and broke.  Creative I could deal with. Broke not so much.

Wait…there was one more trend…a habitual lack of the truth. A lack of transparency. Not being 100.

Okay I’m not trying to call anyone a liar…however…if it’s not true…it’s gotta be false.

So what does one do with that? Seek non-creative men with money that tell the truth?

You know what…I’m going to avoid this “type” question until further notice.

I’m feeling palpations in my chest.

 

…Out of the Mouths of Babes…

…but to me she’s the sky…

~Ron Isley~

Skye: Auntie Shoozette, where’s your husband?

Me: I don’t have one.

Skye: So…WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GET ONE?

Me: *pearls clutched*

My niece, the four year old, is the most recent entrant into the, “When are you going to settle down?” campaign

Have you ever tried to explain why you’re still single and loving it to a four year old?  Nope? Well then let me explain something to you then… my niece, did I mention that she’s four, gives not one damn about the fact that my present way of life is far more conducive to a single woman’s calendar than a married woman’s obligations.  Nope. That dame does not care. With a bass in her voice that my mother and aunt would have been proud of, my four year old niece, questioned my single status…in Marshall’s.

With the other champions of this campaign, I can try to rationalize my current state of mind:

I’m focused on career and getting back into grad school to do this Ph.D. thing…give me a few more years.

Or…

I kinda like exploring what the sea has to offer and in the process of you know just getting to know a few people.

Or…

I haven’t met the right person yet…you know the person that can both love and put up with me for me.

Or…

I don’t have any problems just being single…gosh darn it!

However, having this conversation with a four year old, well I don’t think these points would resonate with her.  And I get it. My baby sees her aunt that she loves, out here in these streets husbandless and she’s not having it.  Quietly, I think she’s more interested in the thing that she knows comes from marriage…babies to play with than the man factor in this case…but I don’t want to infer from her tone that it’s anything more than wanting her aunt attached to someone via a ring on my fourth finger, left hand.

Perhaps we should work on her timing if not her line of questioning then.

Clearly…my pride and face are still on that Marshall’s floor.

…In The Beginning…

…There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven…

~ Ecclesiastes 3:1~

Brooklyn.  The new frontier.

When my rocket ship landed on the Planet Brooklyn and I raised my flag high in Bed Stuy, I knew one thing and one thing only, I was home. I’d found a new place to live and grow and be and fly and well damnit…after living 2.5 years in a city I absolutely hated…I needed to be somewhere that was far the hell away from Nashville, Tennessee.

There was absolutely nothing scientific about the move. People always want to know if there was some beau that had conquered my soul and lured me back North. No. There was no beau, no boo, and no man involved in the decision.  Outside of God and a co-sign from the mother- the decision to move was purely my own.

So, how does a girl raised in the quiet beauty of the South find her way to the hustle and grind of the Sleepless City then? I don’t know. At times it felt like New York City had been quietly calling out to me on her own for years. With more bass in her voice than the subtle charming whisper of the city in which I’d become a woman, Atlanta, New York’s smudged face mirrored my own. Unapologetic and unafraid, New York’s spunk was magnetic. And at times I felt myself craving the place that doled out unstated automatic amnesty for being just who you are upon arrival.

She, like me was special and I needed something special in my life.

I’d missed feeling alive. I missed living. It’s hard to explain to people moving through life for 2.5 years miserable. But perception is subjective and I’m pretty sure that the image I portrayed to the outside world during the period I now refer to as the ”Nashville, I’m Not Going Back Ever and You Can’t Make Me Unless It’s To Visit Years,” gave no hint to the sadness and loneliness that I felt during that time.  I won’t use the “d” word, but on the day that I packed my last things in my truck to leave Atlanta and moved to that place, I cried. Those were probably the most pitiful tears on Earth as they scorched the surface of my face and I know I scared the absolute mess out of my mother as she tried to console me while I wailed because I’d made a decision to leave my comfort  zone.

Sometimes He has to move us though…to really Move us.

In retrospect…while I’m clear that the Creator moved me so that I could grow…I felt far more like a cactus than a fern in Nashville.

And now, I feel like a rose…emerging from beautiful and majestic concrete.

Welcome to my journey.