Friday, August 28, 2009

Here's a factie xoxo, Blackie

Did you know the penalty for masturbation in Indonesia is decapitation?

Great, now there's even more reason for people to lie about doing it...

Have an amazing weekend!*



*Make it a luau and get laid. please and thank you.

Can A Woman Still Be a Hoe?




A few nights ago, I was out with a female friend, who’s also a dope blogger. The drinks were flowing, the night wore on and she started getting frisky-no, not with me… She was having a back and forth text session and as the minutes ticked by, the messages became more and more risquĂ©. I’m nosey and all my friends know how I am, so I was privy to the messages. Hell, I was helping write the responses! They decided to rendezvous at her apartment in an hour, so we finished up our session and headed out in separate directions.

Just as I was walking into my own apartment, my phone started going bonkers. It was blogger friend, nervous and worried she couldn’t do the booty call route, unsure whether it was the right thing to do. I didn’t really understand the question. She was knee deep, tossing out the innuendos through her texts mere minutes ago, but as the moment drew nearer, she was worried whether it was alright or not?

This got me thinking back to my post about the double standards between women and men. I took to the blogs and found an article on Guts.Glam.Grace where the writer basically states the days of a woman being viewed as a hoe for owning her sexuality are gone. Which, I’d love to agree with, but I am not so sure. My friend was worried about giving it up, appearing fast, or loose. There’s a very huge difference between getting it in and doing it with any and everyone. I know few women who don’t have at least one regular partner (regardless of the relationship status) and a male friend of mine insists that every woman has at least one guy that wants to f-ck her. (B. has more than one, but this isn’t about me for once.)

So while the dudes are singing, “I wish I could f-ck every girl in the world,” and meaning it with all their hearts, would they really be so quick to latch on to a girl that was singing the same lyrics with just as much oompfh?* And furthermore, why are we still worrying what other people think of us. I was under the impression that once we passed the age of 25, we started realizing who we were and more importantly, stopped apologizing for it.

Happy Hoeing!

That bitch stole my line,

Xoxo



Blackie Collins



*sub in boy for girl in song lyrics...

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

It's A Rat Race, Kenny


I like men. Let me rephrase that: I like manly men. I do not like skinny jeans wearing, Zac Efron hair flipping, weird, non-prescription glasses sporting, take longer than me to get ready men. Nothing makes me feel more butch than feeling like I’m the guy in our union. And nothing makes me feel more feminine, than being with a man who is just that: a man. There’s something about broad shoulders, a nice suit or regular fitting jeans, maybe some crisp Tims, a few tattoos, those nice cuts along the abs…ok, you get it. If you’re the kind of guy who waxes his eyebrows, you’re out.

Let’s be honest, if you’re too busy at your waxing appointment, you won’t be around to protect me (and maybe you should be protecting Steve instead). I need to feel protected. I need for you to be the dominating animal in our pack. I need to know that if something goes down, you’re on it, or at least we’re in this together. Even my gays can remember they’re men when shit pops off (have you seen those guys fight!), so I know you can do it too, punchanella, punchanella.*

I have a classic manly man test. There are many ways to skin a cat, but if you want this one to purr, you’ll comply as needed.

NYC has 12 rodents for every 1 human being, and in the summer, those suckers are out in droves, searching for hot garbage. You have to bob and weave, dip and dodge to keep them off your path. I am terribly frightened of them. I do not bob, weave, dip or dodge them. I usually scream like I’ve been shot and jump on the nearest table or person. Yes, person. So whenever I’m out with a guy, I let them know up front. “Just so you know. I’m very afraid of rats and mice. If we see any, I’m on your back. Just know that.” They always nod their ascent, I mean, who doesn’t understand a fear of rodents. But the real test comes when we’re out strolling on the street and Fifel shows up in this little American tale. As promised, I scream like I’ve been shot and most likely leap towards him. There are no grades here, just pass/fail, black/white, man/pussy. Passing includes but isn’t limited to: getting me out of harms way by swinging me onto his back caveman style. Failing would be anything else, but especially screaming and running faster than I can say Ratatouille (that has actually happened and I haven’t seen him since he took off down Broadway).

I really feel like I’m onto something. But what do I know? It could be completely bullshit. I will tell you this though: the ones who fail are usually in skinny jeans with waxed eyebrows and have names like Mat with one T. The winners? Well, they don’t wear anything at all in the end…and who doesn’t want to win?


That bitch stole my line,


xoxo

Blackie Collins


*if you don’t remember this childhood song, that makes no sense. I realize this, but I don’t care

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Here's a factie xoxo, Blackie

Did you know that about 70% of ALL women do not usually (or sometimes ever) experience a sexual climax from regular intercourse alone?

That. Sucks.

(And I have no idea what they're talking about.)

Sh*t Hitting the Fan...

Sorry kids, it's been a busy week (and it's only Tuesday!), but I promise to blog my ass off in the next few days!

PS- If you can keep a secret, you may be reading B's stuff on some of your favorite online magazines sites soon! I'd tell you which, but I can keep a secret too...

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins

Thursday, August 20, 2009

I Love It When You Call Me Big Poppa (THE DICK ISSUE)

Meeting the parents is always a bit nerve-wracking. You want to make a good and lasting impression while also receiving the stamp of approval. 


But what do you do when there's more approval than necessary?


I was chillin at my boyfriends house, circa summer after freshman year in college. It's hot out.  I'm in cut offs and he's attempting to teach me how to play basketball.  I'm a football girl. Put a basketball in my hands and it's over.  His dad pulls up in the driveway, turns off the car and comes over to say hi.  

I think I catch him ogling my legs. That had to be a mistake, right?  Maybe the sun was in my eyes.  

"How is everything guys?" I'm telling you this man is looking where he shouldn't be.  We chorus, "Fine," and he heads in the house.  

A few minutes later, nature calls and I run inside to use the restroom.  BF's dad is watching tv in the family room.  On my way through, he says, "I'm not gonna lie.  You look like you're doing really well."

What?

I mean, maybe I misunderstood.  The tv is loud...or something.  I go to the bathroom, give myself a good talkin' to, and head back outside.

There is no mistaking this time.  He is full out salivating. 

"Those shorts are a bit short don't you think?" He punctuates with a chuckle.

That's it.  

I'm going home.  

Pops is off his rocker.


D. I. C. K: Dads I Could Kill.  

They ogle you, smile a little too much, and perhaps even make a few comments. Oh and don't let them get a few drinks in their bloodstreams! They suddenly become that gross uncle at Cousin Pam's wedding that keeps telling you how you how much you've, ahem, "grown." 


Gross.


I know they are men and the whole "I'm not blind" analogy, but there's a friggin line, dude, and you have high jumped that sucker. You're my man's father! Therefore you're most likely old enough to be my father.*  So you're not only out of pocket, but you're a perv as well.  I mean, how do you tell your boyfriend that his dad is a pig?**  That's a break up waiting to happen.  But can you really go forward with someone whose dad wishes he could corner you while Jr's out grabbing some milk? 

 

I've always wondered why I've never liked calling my man 'daddy'...perhaps this is why.


*I have no qualms with older men. In fact, I think time is a man's best friend, but not when the clock belongs to my beau's father. Sorry Papi.  
**I also have no problems with pigs. Oink Oink!

That bitch stole my line,
xoxo

Blackie Collins

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Cardinal Rules: Don't Sh*t Where You Eat


I know it's fun to date someone you work with, but I'm telling you: don't do it.  Sure, it gives you an extra pep in your step on your way to work and yeah, it's cute to have the office gossiping about you, but when it goes sour (or you two get caught in the copier room), you're up a creek without workman's comp.  

Back in my bartending days, there was a waiter named Sean whom all the girls fell for.  He knew he had it going for him at the restaurant, but honestly Sean wouldn't have had a chance in hell in the real world.  A thirty-something year old waiter with two kids? Wrong.  But he was cute and quite the charmer, so most of the (young) girls threw their draws at him.   Not I, said the fly-ass twenty-one year old Blackie.  Not even in my young and dumb days, did I break this particular rule (besides I had a boyfriend).  I watched from afar as he made mince meat out of those unsuspecting girls.  One got played so badly, she ended up quitting.  Sean apparently liked to dabble in photography and when pics of her head game were put on display like an exhibit at the MoMA, she fled.  It was sad, but honestly, she had it coming.  They all did in my opinion.  Why would you pee in a bucket of water that you drink from every single day?  It makes no sense-especially with the number of grown men roaming this city with better jobs and no kids.

Now, if you don't care, than go there. But, there are rules to the game, and when the proverbial shit hits the fan, you're gonna wish you had an umbrella called sense.  I don't do it.  I barely date people in my locale for fear I'll run into them once it's over.  However, there are exceptions to every rule and even I've gone rogue from time to time.  I broke my rule once.  He was a fine ass trainer at my neighborhood Equinox.  Sigh...He was totally worth it, but I still miss my gym.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins


Monday, August 17, 2009

When I Grow Up, I Wanna Be Jezebel

Double your pleasure, double your fun.  That's my motto when it comes to sex-no, I don't mean double the number of people in the act (unless that's what you're into-I'm not) nor do I mean getting it in with any and everyone.. I mean I have yet to meet the person with the same sexual appetite as me.  Which brings me to the double standard.  Why is it different for men and women? You hear a woman owning her sexuality and claiming it hard and she's immediately given a gardening tool label. A man does the same and he's the king of the jungle.  I know this is a moot point because its grown to be accepted but I think its ridiculous.  


I. Like. Sex. 


Honestly, most women (I'd say all, but I just watched a startling video about some women who've been plagued with some sort of vulva disorder that causes extreme pain when having sex, yikes) like it quite a bit, but they're taught to hide their desires or risk being labeled a jezebel.  But let's look at who Jezebel actually was: a woman from the bible who was a loyal and faithful wife until she was brought down by a male dominated society that felt her assertiveness and manipulative tactics were too much for her own good. I'm going to get a little scholarly with you and share this quote from Ilana Fine's Women Reading the Bible Backwards: "Jezebel can be seen as a strong and assertive woman... whose memory was continually vilified for thousands of years for the same reason — i.e. "because she was a strong and independent woman who did not let men dominate her, and who continued to defy the aggressive males to her last breath..."


Get it, Jez, get it.


I recently met a guy whose sexual energy seemed to be directly in line with mine.  I cannot tell you how excited I was. Just the thought of discovering someone who could match me pound for pound (pun intended) made me look forward to our encounters.  However, I was informed that I should focus more on getting to know him versus getting caught up in the sexual aspects of things.  We were doing that too, but why not do both-why is it either/or? Why are we not allowed to be honest about sex! Its normal, not to mention a jolly good time.  It drives me crazy that women are wired to keep quiet about their sexual desires while men are told to get as much as possible and to scream it from the Empire State Building observation deck while they're at it.  Manwhoring is a completely acceptable profession, but flip it to us and we're the actual whore going down on a john in a truck on one of those HBO documentaries (FTR, that's a completely different bird of feather, but it's not my job to judge their, er, occupation).   


I'm not a feminist.  Nor should you take this as yet another angry woman ranting.  I just believe in the strength of women and their abilities to be or do whatever they choose...proudly and without judgement.  It's so easy for women who have claimed their identities to be reduced down for the exact reasons for which men are glorified.  I'm. over. it.  Honestly, if that's a Jezebel, than I'm okay with being just that.  I'm claiming my sexual desires and I suggest you do the same or beware, you will be left wanting.  And it'll be your own fault.


That bitch stole my line,


xoxo

Blackie Collins

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Friends W/ Bennies Part Deux

A couple weeks back, I wrote a blog about sleeping w/ my best guy friend and my worries over it affecting our friendship.  I was and still am under the impression that we're JUST friends, but the last few encounters have started to make me nervous as to where he stands. The saga conitues... 

I had just gotten back in town and obviously needed some itches scratched.  Steve was excited to have his bestie back in town and I was on my way over.  It was the kind of hot out where New Yorkers just accept that they will be damp w/ sweat for the majorty of the day.  I had other things on my mind, but Steve always knew how to make me smile and laugh at it all so I was just as excited to see him and well, of course there was the sex part too.  I'd been getting the best of both worlds so I had absolutely no problems with the situation.  

I reached Steve's new apartment and met his new roommate.  I chuckled to myself as introductions were passed out.  He didn't know it, but he'd be getting an ear full from me most likely. Eventually, he excused himself to his room, making a big deal of grabbing his earphones. Maybe he already knew what was going on with me and Steve. Hmph.  I don't know why, but I'm still slightly surprised that guys talk just as much as we do...maybe more.

Fast forward to Steve's bedroom.  Music playing from his mac, moans coming from his mack. I could go into major detail here, but it isn't that kind of blog.  Let's just say, its just how B likes it.  Post-coital, we're laying in bed, talking, transitioning back to our usual friend-ish conversations when this old 112 song begins.  

"Oh! I love this song!" I exclaim happily remembering college memories associated with the song.

"Let's dance," Steve says.  Huh?  I started laughing because he can't be serious.  He is and he states that fact, asking me to dance again.

"Come on," he chides as he gets up off the bed and holds his hand out.  "Dance with me."  The way he says it is so sincere.  It seems like it's laced with a lot of other things.  There's no way I can say no, so I get up and enter his embrace yet again.  This feels different, though.  Dancing naked horizontally is one thing.  Dancing naked vertically is another.

Steve is holding on tightly, kissing my neck, my forhead, my lips, and face.  Rubbing my back and caressing my butt.  Cupid doesn't lie, but you won't know unless you give it a try...

And suddenly, I'm very uncomfortable.  What the hell is going here?  I have never ever had a cut buddy like this. Not even with my guy friends from college who I may or may not have made out with or slept with over the years. This. Is. Odd.  This. Is. Freaking. Me. Out.  How do can a person "stay in their lane" when they're swerving all over the highway.

And as if on cue, the song ends and Steve thanks me for dancing with him and we crawl back into bed to talk more.  I am distant, I am lost in a world with endless questions, but the most forefront being: have we crossed some imaginary line.  I'd say yes, yes we have.  I am not entirely sure what that means, but I know that I'm perhaps more confused than ever.  There was a time that Steve and I were interested in each other in a romantic way.  It didn't work out and it's safe to say that he's one of the few people that hurt my heart in some ways.  But now, things are different.  I like who Steve is to me now.  I love that he nurses my hangovers and broken hearts.  I love that he knows every inch of me and still loves me.  He knows my weaknesses and helps me see them alongside my strengths.  He is one of my best friends for a reason and now I think that could be lost either way.

It's eerily quiet in his bedroom.  I ask Steve if he's okay.  Somethings up with the energy in here.

He laughs.  "Can you tell I'm a little off?"  I murmur some sort of response.  "I remember the guy I used to be and it's so different from the guy I am now.  I've changed a lot.  I'm not just trying to get with girls anymore."

"Oh."  I don't really know what else to say.  We're quiet for a while and then I blurt.  "So, you don't want to do this anymore? You know, so you can go and do your thing?"  I'm not sure why I say the things I say, but I learned long ago that I have certain defense mechanisms and perhaps this is one of them: getting to the punch before someone else can, so I can keep the control.  

"What?  No!" Steve blurts out.  "Hold up. Is that what you want?"  Maybe, Steve has some defense mechanisms of his own.

"No, I just wasn't sure what you were saying."  This conversation couldn't be more...I don't know if there's a word in the dictionary for this conversation yet.

"Right. Yea."  Steve says and that's kind of how the conversation ends.  Yes, ambiguity express, here we come.  I don't know what it means, but I also don't want to figure it out.  I haven't got the patience or the desire to.  Some questions are just left unanswered...at least for the time being.  I flip on my signal and get back in my lane.


That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Monday, August 10, 2009

Liar, Liar, Skirt on fire

Girls. Lie.  We lie to ourselves and everyone around us.  This blog is about the girl who tricks you into thinking she's too cool for school.  The girl who always says, "I'm not like the other girls."  Yes, the eff, you are, simply because you just uttered those words.  Buck up and sell that shit somewhere else.  It's okay to be like others sometimes.  I don't mind being like my mom or like Michelle Obama or Meryl Streep.  I think I'm an individual, that I walk to my own drummer and that I am my own woman, but I'd never be so bold as to think that I'm the first person to do anything, because I'm not an idiot.  There have been trillions of people to touch this earth; something tells me I'm not the first to _________(fill in the blank).  


This stems from looking at the chicks on whatever social networking site whose profile picture is usually them in a catsuit, spread eagle or showing their breasts, but their ABOUT ME section says, "Writer, intellect, lover of God, and dogs."  Hmmm, seriously?  Who are you trying to convince?  Or the girls who utter the words, "I don't usually do this, but____."   Whatever, yes you do!  This isn't the first time you had sex on the first date.  This isn't the first time you've gotten so drunk, you vomited all over the street and cab.  This isn't the first time you've dated a guy for 2 weeks and cried when he "broke up" with you.  Nor is it the first time you ate the entire drive-thru menu in one sitting.  It just isn't, so stop saying it is.  Now, granted it may not be a usual occurrence but my goodness, stop playing it off like you never do the dumb things that girls do!   


Instead, be an adult, claim it, be proud.  Don't pretend you cut your hair, when all you did was take out your weave.  Be you!  Mistakes and all and for heaven's sake, quit lying to yourself.  You are just like other girls...simply because you are one.  Now go roar and all that jazz.


That bitch stole my line,


xoxo

Blackie Collins

Saturday, August 8, 2009

This is the diary of what a girl wants. You think you know, but you have no idea...

Work was buzzing today-after all, it's Friday-with conversations ranging from weekend plans to our favorite positions (I work in a very liberal and free environment) when, as usual, the topic turned to relationships. This time it was Robert who's been seeing a certain girl for a few months. They're on the precipice of exclusivity, but aren't there just yet and judging from the crap coming out of Robert's mouth, they might never get to their destination. Robert is like many men in the sense that he thinks he knows how to make a woman happy; that if he just "does himself," she'll swoon and it'll be smooth sailing. Of course, I had to be the one to reel his boat back into the dock and let him know some of the mistakes he was making. Robert was a bit defensive at first, but once I started to explain why his current flame was (re)acting the way she was, he started to soften and ask questions (smart guy). It's wonderful when men move hubris out of the way and admit that they don't know everything-which is something of an enigma, but it does happen. It did with Robert and he learned a lot.


In lieu of this, I decided to do a little blog for my boys out there. Methinks you might need a bit of help in the ladies department, so read on if you're open-minded and genuinely care about your sex and dating life. Yes, they're connected. If you learn just a little bit about what women want, you'll be getting it in every way possible;)


This is a compilation disc by the way-I wouldn't sit here and tell you what women want based on my feelings alone, that'd be silly since you can't all have me contrary to popular desire. So without further adieu, here we go!


1. Make us laugh. This was the number one thing my friends said they wanted, perhaps even needed. We've all been there: on a date with a guy telling what's supposed to be a funny story. He's laughing so hard before he even gets to the punch line that you assume it's going to be the funniest thing you've ever heard. The punch line arrives right along with the entree and you look at the server for help like you might've missed the joke. We may give you a little giggle, but it's purely for you ego's sake (and because it'd be really awkward to just sit there). But on the contrast, when a woman finds a man that literally leaves her in stitches, it's safe to say he's in like flynn.


2. Sex. Yes, women love sex just as much as men do. When I was asking my friends for their list of wants, the horizontal mambo was always in the top two. There is nothing like great sex-nothing. I think we can all say that some relationships lasted a bit longer than they should've because you just couldn't let that lay go to someone else. And perhaps some lasted about two minutes because...well, you know why.


3. Communicator. It is no secret that women like to talk and you guys need to pull up your boot straps and open your mouths. We're interested in what's in your brain as well and if you've got good stuff going on in there and can communicate it above a college-graduate level, we'll be very intrigued indeed. And listening goes hand in and with communication, so yes, sometimes you can get by with a few "uh-huhs," but who doesn't want a good solid conversation. If you have no interest in conversing with her, you probably shouldn't even be with her.


4. No romance without finance. This is one that I just agree to disagree with-I have very fancy smancy taste, but I also fell in love with a teacher once upon a time and their salaries leave a lot to be desired, yet we still had the best of times together. However, this little tidbit came up quite a bit, masked in different ways, but still coming down to the same bottom line-stability. Women need an anchor that will keep them in place when stormy seas are at the gate. A man that will "take care" of them, provide, protect and all that stuff. One friend actually said that she needs a man who's good with money simply because she isn't and he provides accountability when she's on a spending spree. So start saving, boys. It's a recession anyway, so you should be already.


5. Wit. Please please please don't just sit there and let me go off. Sarcasm is perhaps my favorite word. I love witty banter and if you don't come with it, I. will. be. bored. And you'll be bored too, because I won't be around.


6. Confidence. I hate the word swagger-it became so overused that it lost its...well, swagger. But you can't knock that a man who has it, sigh... There is a fine line between arrogance and confidence. Arrogance is annoying and cockiness is worse. We are both great in some way, otherwise we wouldn't be attracted to each other, so please go put your high horse back in the stable. Pretty much every woman wanted a man that was self-assured, knew who he was, and was confident in his positive traits, but also knew that there were some things he just sucked at. However, while we don't want cocksure attitudes, we definitely don't want wimpy mcwimperton either. I like pants, but I don't want to wear them in our relationship-at least not all the time. A man who cannot stand for himself is a killer. I went on ONE date with a guy and while we were walking to the restaurant, I informed him that I have a major fear of rodents and if we see anything, I'm on his back. His response was: "I'm scared of them too, so we'll both be out of luck." I couldn't even deal with that. Pretend for goodness sake! Wimps suck.

6. Shoulder to cry on. Yes, we know we need to go to our girlfriends for most crying situations, but guess what, sometimes we want YOU. If it's cry-worthy, it's important, so show some compassion and catch the tears we squeeze out sometimes.


7. You have no control over this one, but it kept being said, so I have to put it in because obviously it matters to a lot of women. Height. I mean, what can I really say? For me, I don't usually date guys under 5'10, but I also have before because he cracked me up and laid it down, so, while you can't control the height requirement, you can control the others.


8. Don't take life too seriously. This sort of goes hand in hand with making us laugh, but make sure you can laugh at yourself and the world just as often. There's enough crap to deal with, if you look at it with as little seriousness as possible, it'll be more enjoyable for you and us, too.


9. Independence. No one likes a clinger. Get a life. The end.


10. Know that once a month some of us go crazy. Either run for cover or just shut up and take it. You have no idea what a woman's body goes through when it's literally ripping itself apart, so deal with it. However, please do not blame every argument on PMS, if you do, you will be single and dating women over 50 (they don't get periods anymore so you're in the clear).


Hope you learned something. I guarantee if you do at least a few of these, you'll be riding first class with clear skies.


That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins

Friday, August 7, 2009

Baby Boom

I was on the phone with one of my good friends when someone brought a baby into her office. It sounded like the gates to a YSL sample sale just opened with all the squealing, oohing, and aahing. I almost barfed. Even my friend was participating in the debauchery. Women go ape shit when a baby comes around. Something about their powdery fresh smell and gurgling laughs make them turn into these crazed lunatics-kind of how I get when I see puppies...Look, it is a known fact that when women hit their mid twenties (maybe even younger), something snaps in them (I don't know, their friggin uterine wall?), and suddenly babies are on board.        

Remember that line in Brown Sugar when Kelbie says, "I got marriage on my menu?" Well swap babies for marriage and you've got the female remix.


It baffles me. Babies are gross. Now, most of my friends know that I am not the baby girl. Nothing has snapped in me and my biological clock isn't even wound up let alone ticking. While girls are cooing over the cute babies, I seem to only run into the ones that scream and act like fools. And of course, every chick says, "My baby will be so good." Um, why? Why would the watermelon-sized child that you squeeze out your lemon-size vagina (another reason kids suck) be any better than the screaming, vomiting, attention-stealing brat sitting next to you on the M104. They can't even wipe their own noses for goodness sake.


They steal your sleep, waking you up when they just know it's an un-godly hour. They crap in diapers. They hit a certain span of years when they are literally the devil incarnate and then they become teenagers, where finally they could be some fun, but instead they hate you and start lying and sneaking out! And before any of that can happen, they make you fat and once they come out, no one seems to care about you anymore. Hell, your name goes from the pronoun it once was to "Mom," a name that is shared with millions of other people. Bye bye individuality, hello ambiguity. Imagine having a glorious life with an amazing name and then suddenly your that lady breast-feeding in public because her kid won't shut up or the sleep-deprived woman with three day old puke on her mom jeans waiting in the carpool line in one of those ugly mini-vans with the automated doors! (Insert hyperventilation) No, no thank you.


Now of course there are the women who are lucky enough to employ a nice nanny to help out with the task of child-rearing. I had one. Rachel lived with our family when me and my siblings were all under the age of ten and both my parents worked, but the connection to our mom was still the strongest. The flip side of the coin is my friend Jeanie, who hates her mom and considers her nanny her real mother. Yes, thank you, evil child, because I needed help taking care of you, I get shitted on.


In contrast, men always say, "Yeah, someday I want some kids," like it matters, but not really. Oh, but for women, it's a given. If you don't want children, there's something wrong with you. People nod sympathetically like you just told them you had ovarian cancer and cannot have them instead of *gasp* not wanting them. It is completely possible for a woman to exist without procreating. This woman's work isn't dependent upon bringing a new human being into this world. And besides, why bring a child into a world with pedophiles, murderers, terrorist, and people who wear white after labor day?


To be fair, I'm sure there are wonderful children out there, I know some of them, but I like my body not being all stretched out and clinging to fifteen pounds of baby weight. I like sleeping a full ten hours uninterrupted. I like sex and having a social life. I like cute clothes void of stains from puking days gone by. I like showering and having my hair freshly done. I like lounging in bed and getting up when I decide to. I like being the center of attention and babies take that, too, along with everything else. Who knows, maybe my clock will suddenly appear in a couple years, but I doubt it. I'd go as far as to say I'd be shocked. And if by chance, one of those rug rats seems to slip by me, it isn't happening until I'm 40.


I could go on and on, but I won't. It just ain't my bag...baby.


That bitch stole my line,


xoxo

Blackie Collins

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Crossing the Great Divide


The long distance relationship is an interesting one. I guess now is as good a time as any to talk about the great love of my young adult life. I met my ex boyfriend at the ripe age of seventeen. We were seniors at rivaled high schools and met through mutual friends. We fell into that kind of love that you can only have at the age of seventeen when your biggest problems involve coordinating your prom outfits and deciding on a movie or bowling on Saturday nights. And when college knocked at our front door, we ended up on different sides of the country, promising to visit each other as much as possible and spending every school break together. Well, as I'm sure you've guessed, our lives grew apart and after making it a commendable 2 years, we broke up. College continued and eventually we graduated and moved back to the same coast where we somehow reconvened much older and wiser by this point. This is where I think we entered into a more grown up relationship. We were in for real love this time and planned to spend our lives together. Our families were friends, he had keys to my parent's house and fed the cat whenever they needed him. Holidays were already divided amongst our families and my gifts usually included diamonds. We were firmly ensconced in each others lives. But there was a giant unmentioned factor in our union-he lived in Boston while I lived in Miami (before I moved to the great Manhattan). We were 'grown ups' though and flew to each other at least every weekend, but it took it's toll. We got sick of having a weekend relationship and not being able to see each other on a regular Wednesday night of must see TV. It became trying and eventually the conversation came: we were going to move in together. Since I was moving to New York City, we would find an apartment together, which immediately made me nervous. We'd been apart for so long, how would we live together? Would it drive me crazy seeing his clippers and toothbrush in my bathroom? Would I go insane picking up his dirty clothes that never seemed to make their way to the hamper? What it came down to was this: did I love him enough to seal the vast space between us, leaving all his 'isms' on the shelf and loving him despite them? My answer was, maybe, which was a problem in itself. On some days I'd be super excited about the move...on others, not so much. The move started off relatively okay and then we started to realize just how different we were. We'd spent so much time apart, we barely knew who we were beyond the confines of a weekend. I started to imagine spending my life with him and I got completely freaked out. He asked my father for my hand in marriage, despite our constant arguing, at least in my opinion, and retracting into separate parts of our two bedroom apartment. He felt as though we were simply getting used to coexisting inside the same four walls. But one day, after a huge fight about my ability to clean up after myself and his inability to so, we sat on the couch and had the conversation that I needed desperately. Were we going to make it? Maybe it was time to cut our losses, move out and move on. After much hemming and hawing, it became clear that we were on two different pages and there was someone better out there for both of us. And even now, with him in Boston, and me in NYC, we're able to talk occasionally and it feels fine-like we were meant to be in each other's lives-just in separate cities.

I have tons of friend embarking on long distance unions, seeking advice on how to make it work. Well, I'll tell you this: communication is everything. You only have limited amounts of face time, so you are depending on phone calls, emails, and text messages to do the job of a good ol' conversation. It becomes taxing, but what it comes down to is the very same bottom line that it comes down to in a regular relationship-if you believe in your heart, at the end of the day, that you want nothing more than that person and will cross the firey pits of hell to bring happiness their way, than you do it. You do whatever you have to do. Men find themselves in the supermarket check out armed with tampons or putting up with the crazy mood swings of their girlfriend once a month. Women discover that they love their man despite the fact that he seems to walk out of his clothes the moment he walks in the door, leaving them wherever or not cringing when, while doing his laundry, you come across a pair of skid marks in his boxers. You find yourselves swallowing your pride, humoring your loved one or allowing them to drool all over you while they cry it out. You do what you have to do because you love them unconditionally and while distance is perhaps the biggest condition, it can become quite small when you're with that someone who makes it all worth it. And no land or sea will keep you from enjoying its value.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Taking Stock

You head into a busy department store and immediately scan the room, taking in the merchandise, deciding what you need and definitely what you want. You spot a pair of gorgeous platform heels that will look amazing with the skinny, dark wash jeans across the aisle. You start mentally calculating how you will kill at that party tonight and no one will see you coming. While deciding between the dark wash and white jeans (after all you only get a few summer months to wear white jeans), it hits you that you deserve both. This is a terrible analogy, but bear with me-it might just make sense. Why don't you deserve to have it all in life as well? Why not have exactly what you desire and never settle for less. I know, I know; that's sort of the million dollar question. After all, we're all seeking the full, balanced, and complete life.

This is exactly what I told Jen one Sunday brunch. Jen, CJ and I were all sidewalk cafe-ing it on the UES when Jen started talking about her latest relationship, or at least the one she was attempting to have with an artist whose real job appeared to be tending bar and assisting at a crappy art gallery in Brooklyn. She had only met him mere weeks ago and was already talking about how wonderful he was and that maybe this would be the one-at least for a little while. CJ and I exchanged cursory glances through her diatribe and when she finished, I simply nodded in his direction, giving him the go ahead to dig into her. This is exactly what Jenny does. She did it with her last relationship and the one before that. She does it with her mailman and her dog walker. Jenny gets super attached, super fast. Before she can even hit the ground walking, she's running. It's the classic walk before crawl syndrome and Jenny has it in droves. CJ asked her what it was she liked about the artist. Jen hemmed and hawed her way through an answer that involved the normal characteristics that could belong to any guy that waltzed into a room: he's funny, attractive, smart, witty, kind, etc. "But what about him specifically? What makes him so special? I mean, does he even deserve you?" CJ probed. She looked alarmed for a minute and immediately went on the defense. "Why are you asking me all these questions? Why can't you just accept that I'm happy and maybe entering into a solid relationship?"
"Because you're not," I piped in. Jen looked at me with a sneer that had betrayal written all over it. I went on to explain that she was making all the same mistakes she had in the past. Clinging on for dear life, falling hard, making mountains out of mole hills, expecting too much too soon from someone who is essentially a stranger. I always think of Jen as my little project pet. I feel like she's the package: she's intelligent, beautiful, funny as hell with a great job and from a wonderful balanced family (despite them being a divorced one). But Jen doesn't seem to see all that. Instead of thinking of herself as the prize, she finds herself lucky when some guy decides to grace her with his attention. It's sad actually because she is quite simply amazing and would be unstoppable if she would see that. But instead, she settles for second rate. She dates guys who are fine, yet she makes them into the second coming of Jesus. She takes every phone call, answers every text, chats on the phone until they say "gotta go" instead of playing it coy and getting off the phone first. She no longer makes them wait for sex. Instead she forges ahead, seeking intimacy on the second or third date (which I have no problem with usually, unless your Jen. There is a very specific type of guy or gal that can have sex early on and not be an emotional basket case-Jen isn't one of them). She puts all her eggs in one basket and expects her possible beau to lay it on just as thick and be her knight in shining fucking armor, which they never are. They never ever are because they are too busy chasing after the other girl who's giving him some sort of a challenge. The woman who says "gotta go" first. The woman he sees out with her friends instead of knowing that she's at home longing for his phone call. The woman who could care less if he's around or not-who feels like he'd be an addition to her excellence, not the reason for it. Jenny just falls short on that and I had to get her to face the facts. It was time for her to buck up and get it together. It was time for her to realize that she is just as deserving as the next and that there's no reason she can't have everything she longs for in a man. Sometimes you have to sit and take stock the same way you would take in the merchandise. Before you grab everything in site, figure out what works and what will look good on you versus what everyone is wearing or what everyone else wants in a pair of jeans. And if the exact pair isn't there, than please don't settle for your second choice. You deserve to have everything you want and more importantly, everything you need. So take a look at the stock of the men in your life and if he's anything less than full price, toss him back in the bin. A sale is always nice, but when you're shopping for love, it's best to pay retail.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo
Blackie Collins