BBM Wars

I started talking about Blackberry Messenger (BBM) in my last post and it got me thinking about that little application that keeps most BB users from jumping ship to iPhone land. I wasn't think about how BBM sucks you in and devours hours of your day nor was I thinking about the full on conversations I have on it instead of just picking up the phone and calling the person. Nope, I was thinking about how BBM has caught more people cheating, lying, and all around doing wrongery since it's inception into mobile phone history. See, the geniuses at Blackberry thought it'd be great if you could send a message to people, but not just any people, only elite Blackberry users. You could exchange pins, later to be replaced with a trusty barcode to scan, and voila! Instant messaging at your fingertips...or thumbs if we're to be technical. Then someone in the Blackberry Messenger boardroom said, "Well, Johnny, this isn't good enough! You can instant message anywhere! How will Blackberry's be different? How can we be innovative and separate ourselves from the IM pack?" I suppose he was maybe hyperventilating when he said this too. Johnny probably responded by saying, "I'm not sure, boss, but I'll solve this problem if it's the last thing I do!" His boss agreed as he'd probably fire Johnny if he didn't figure it all out. (It was all very dramatic, can't you tell?) That night Johnny did just that. He came into the boardroom the next day and said, "I know how we'll be different. We'll make it so that you can see when your message has been delivered, but even better, you can see when it's been received!" See, when a message is sent on BBM, there's a littler check mark with a teeny tiny "D" next to it, which means your message has been delivered. If someone's phone is off or they're actually on the line, it just has a check until it can be delivered. Once that person has clicked on the message, not responded, just LOOKED at it, the little "D" turns to a little "R," which means received. It also means you're f*cked if you don't answer in time because the sender can basically see that you're ignoring them.

A few weeks ago, my friend caught her boyfriend in a BBM trap. He was MIA, nowhere to be found and they were supposed to be going to the movies. It was around six or seven in the evening. By nine, she was not worried but pissed. See, she'd sent about three thousand BBM's to her boyfriend and for quite some time they all had little "D's" next to the check mark, but then a few hours after, they all turned to "R's." Only problem? He didn't respond. For another forty five minutes. Then he responded, saying he was stuck in a meeting and had left his phone back in the office. He had just retrieved the phone from his desk. Her boyfriend works in advertising and was apparently the gopher given the task of wooing some out of town clients over dinner. He told her it was last minute. He'd texted her, didn't she get the message? Conveniently, she had not. Which we all know is because he hadn't sent her one. She told him she saw that he'd received the BBM's, knew he was lying. To that, he tried to lie yet again, stating feebly that he'd never gotten the messages, he swore he left his phone behind. This is when she called me. You can only guess what I told her she should tell him to do with his R's and D's (nuts).

Thanks to Johnny and good ol' Blackberry Messenger, we don't need to snoop anymore, we can just wait until those D's turn to R's and they hang themselves by their own L-I-E-S.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

She Who Laughs Last

I know this is childish and bad, but I find some sort of solice in knowing that I actually got the last laugh with a guy who assumed he did. Whether it be cheating on a dirt bag or slaughtering his name to my friends so everyone laughs at him behind his back (or to his face as we're known to do, too), I just walk a little lighter knowing that a jerk got his due-especially when it's signed sealed and delivered from me.

Perhaps, the lightest example has to do with the guy I lost my virginity to. I've told the story of my first, but the short end is that it wasn't good-on either end. And once he told the football team, it was only a matter of time before the usual high school rumor mill worked it's magic. It was like whisper down the lane at 120mph. It was like everyone I didn't want to know knew. There was a giant glass hallway in my high school and on the way through one day, my group of friends passed the guy and some of the boys from the football team. The under the breath comments began and I couldn't help my spitfire mouth. I shouted, "I may not know much, but I know when someone is tiiiinnnnyyyy." The laughter ensued and Rick, attempting some feeble comeback, was clapped on the back by his friend and told to just keep it moving, he couldn't win this battle. I remember feeling so triumphant-what an asshole!

Fast forward to real life and I still can't help enjoying the last laugh, even if he doesn't realize I got it. Now don't think of me as a bitter bitch, there are plenty of good guys who walked away unscathed. You'll never hear me say anything negative about my ex of a billion years. Out of respect I won't do that. But if you disrespected me, I think we can already assume that line no longer exists and while I'm not an all the way turnt up mean girl, you definitely aren't getting away scott free. Where they do that at? I would go into detail, but its highly possible that one of them will read this and while I am many things, stupid is not one of them. I'm not ratting myself out, but just know that I'm definitely enjoying my little chuckle over here.

Definitely.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Little Bits: Bands that Bind (?)

Why don't they want have to wear them? Women get engagement rings, big (if they're lucky), shiny (again if they're lucky) ones that all but jump off their fingers. The damn thing screams to the world: "I'm taken! I'm betrothed. I'm off limits!" More importantly, women wear them with great pride. They giggle and cheer and call mom when they get one for heaven's sake.

But men? Well, for starters they have no such engagement ring and when the ceremony rolls around, they get a nice little band, while she gets another shiny object to add to the sparkle and off limitness on her left hand. And she continues to wear hers, unless she gets prego and has to take it off until she loses the baby weight. There are so few men who rock their wedding bands! Its not like the band keeps your pants zipped, incase you didn't know, it doesn't. I think my dad wore his, despite having mistresses on the side. At least he was stabbing my mom in the front instead of the back. I mean that's balls for you. "I'm wearing my ring proudly, even have pictures of my kids in my wallet, while I screw you." It's stupid actually, taking your ring off doesn't make you any less married nor does it suddenly make what you're doing on the side any more okay. It just makes you an even bigger liar...not to mention a cheater, which I assume you knew already...

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Making Our Beds: Oldie, But Goodie

She'd be in town for two days. He knew he had to see her-knew it about as much as he knew he was getting married on Sunday. Knew how incredibly wrong it would be, they could never quite keep their hands off each other...damn, he didn't need to see her. But he was going to, in some way shape or form, he was going to.

She knew she'd probably see him. It was rare that she didn't when stopping through the city, but this time she was barely interested, at least that's what she told herself. She'd heard he was seeing somone, so was she, which had never stopped them in the past. She would stop it this time around. She remembered previous vows.

He was heading to a small jazz show at one of his favorite venues. A boy of his played the trumpet and he was supporting, but also, a lover of the genre, excited at a night up his alley; sans wedding plans, sans fiance, sans anything. Just chill time, the ultimate down time. Not even his boys to answer to really.

A friend had hooked her up with tickets to an intimate jazz show that night. She'd most likely review them when they headed to her city next, so seeing two sets made sense. She also loved jazz for other reasons and decided she'd stop through before heading out into the night with friends. It was warm, she opted for the cute black mini.

The concert hall was packed, the band was getting a great following. He was proud of his boy. Roomates back in college, he had suffered through hours of trumpet rehearsals, but the dude had followed his dream, go head. He thought about his days slaving away in finance. The dream killer. She'd always told him to go for it. Write a book, write a poem, write something! You have such a way with words. He pseudo did-a book of essays-all on how female jazz musicians brought him up, reared him even, when his mother had died of cancer when he was eleven. It sat in his desk, wound in a leather bounded journal, unpublished, hell untouched by eyes other than his own. Dreamkiller indeed. He found a seat and settled in.

Her friend was running uber late, she said she'd find seats, didn't want to miss the opening set. She wiggled through the crowd, happy for the great turn out, she sort of knew the trumpet player from college. She found her seat and sat down. A quick survey of the crowd, she pulled out her trusty iPhone and opened a new document for notes.

He saw her, she had no idea, but he'd seen her from the moment she walked in, maybe even felt it before his eyes found her. Was it possible she looked better every time he saw her? It had to be. She did. Her skin looked radiant, her legs looked toned and tanned, her curls hung loosely down her pack. He wanted a handful of her locks, wanted to yank them, caress them, get lost in them and never resurface-the set was starting. The set was starting and he was getting married on Sunday.

The music was solid, great actually. She'd gotten lost in the melody, loved the drummer and the vocalist who'd stepped in for a few songs. Her friend was still caught up, was sorry, would meet after for drinks. It was fine, she preferred seeing shows alone, no distractions. The soloist introduced the next song, said it was an old favorite of hers, an unknown arrangement, but still a goodie. The opening chords started and the air got caught in her throat. She felt her eyes water slightly. She remembered the first time she heard the song. He'd explained how everyone loved the more popular version, but how his mother gave this one a heavy rotation, how he remembered his mother asking him to play it when she could no longer handle the delicate record herself. It played through the concert hall identical to when it played in his apartment. She remembered how he'd hugged her tightly, didn't bother pretending he wasn't crying into her hair. She closed her eyes and listened. Moments later, her phone vibrated from her lap. She went to silence it, but saw who the message was from. DEFINITELY BETTER THAN THE OTHER VERSION. She looked around, could feel eyes bearing into her and there he was, a few rows behind and to the left of her, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Her phone vibrated again. SEAT TAKEN? She shook her head, he came down, hugged her, lingered in her hair, and told her she was radiant. He still had a way with words, blessing, curse. Why couldn't he just say, "You look nice." She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to abort this mission, knowing they were on a one way flight to a place they'd been but shouldn't revisit. It hadn't worked before, why would it this time?

He leaned in, nuzzled her neck, didn't care who saw. Didn't care at all, in fact. She was here, he was content, he was safe. "Let's get out of here," he whispered. She rose without being asked twice and they headed for the exit. "Wait, one second," she said as he watched her head off to the restroom. He thought once, thought twice, almost thought three times and headed in after her, locking the door behind him.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Making Our Beds: "I can see how you'd get us mixed up"

Author's Note***Making Our Beds is a series dedicated to the garbage moves men make, from their own treasure chests of mistakes, told to me by them. These are their words, handled with care by yours truly. Enjoy your step inside their minds. It's a teenage wasteland in there. -B

It was homecoming, so I jetted down to my alma mater's city on Thursday, just to be ready for the full weekend. My return travel wouldn't happen until late Monday night. Red eye. I was guaranteed to get. it. in before that midnight flight came around. I gave myself ample time. Met up with my boys the night I landed ready for whatever was coming. First stop was drinks at a local lounge we all used to frequent. We weren't there long before I ran into Patrice. Patrice was always fine in college, and it seemed time was on her side, she was definitely better with age. I was pretty sure I wanted to get in touch, positive, but there was a snag in the whole game. I had brought my current girlfriend with me to homecoming...a big no-no unless you are thoroughly attached. We'd been together over a year, I'd say that was attached, but it was more about timing than destiny if that makes sense. Patrice was fine and that was more pressing than the timing of my current girlfriend being in my life. I'm an ass for that, I know. Anyway, Patrice looked like something I could dig into, so I asked my boy, who was close with her, for a hook up. He played his part and at the next spot, where she happened to turn up as well, I spit to her all night. She was gonna get me in trouble and I was all down for it. Who doesn't like the good kind of trouble? We exchanged numbers, I promised to call. The night wore on, everyone got pretty wasted and before I knew it, I saw her heading to the restroom. I followed close behind, my girl was off talking to some friends. I was being bold and stupid, the Walker Black was walking for me, talking for me, making the decisions as I followed her into the single bathroom. Double occupancy. She let me in without issue and we went in on each other. Slobbery kisses, hands roaming each others bodies, my hand finding her wet warmth. I didn't want to even think about stopping, but I knew I couldn't hit in a bathroom stall. Patrice was better than cold tile and the smell of disinfectant. I told her I was coming with her after the party, she nodded her ascent and we went back out into the club.

As the night came to a close, I started looking around for Patrice. I'd lost sight of her earlier in the night, wasn't sure where she'd gotten to. My girl had taken much of my attention. She was drunk and being annoyingly obnoxious. Suddenly I saw Patrice leaving , but I couldn't let her get gone before I knew where she was going to. I asked a friend to watch my girl and ran out behind her. When I reached her, she whirled around and hissed, "Have you lost your mind? You're trying to get at me and your girlfriend is here?" I looked at her blankly, unsure if I'd heard her right or if I was as drunk as I felt. "She is your girlfriend, right?" I nodded. "Exactly," she retorted and hopped into her homegirl's car. I watched the car pull down the street and get stuck behind a line of cars at the light. It didn't take long for me to make what would surely be considered a mistake and dig in my pocket for my keys, run off to my own car and hop in. Yes, I left my girl at the club. I already said I was an ass, need I repeat it? OK, fine, I'm an ass. But, man, I can't tell you what went through my head when Patrice was around. She had this pull on me. I rode off behind them, following all the way back to her friend's apartment. I jumped out and made a beeline for her. She told her friends to go inside, she'd be there in a minute. I didn't bother speaking much. Just told her how much I wanted her, how I'd dump my girl if Patrice would give me a chance. I kissed her like my life depended on it, she responded, we headed inside, into her friend's bedroom. We rolled around on the bed for a while and just as I was kissing her sweet spot, she jerked up. It was like she was suddenly sober. "No, you gotta go," she said pushing me back. I made the prerequisite feeble last attempt that all guys make, cause sometimes y'all say you gotta go and then let a dude get in, but she wasn't having it. I left.

The next night, is Saturday night, and it's crucial. I know she's leaving Sunday afternoon. I have to get her tonight. The night goes on as usual, everyone's linking up, partying hard, drinking as if they don't have a care or a job on Monday. I spot her early in the night, she's been ignoring me, but I caught her looking a few times and I know she feels similar, I'm positive. I didn't imagine last night. I hit her with a text saying I was serious, I'd leave my girl for her. Then I watch her read the message and I see a grin that lasts not even half a second before she puts on a stone face and puts her phone back in her bag. But I'm in, I know it. Later, she's going to the coat check, I think she's leaving, so I make my move. I walk up to the cubby where the coat closet is and I slide my hand into hers. She looks down and sees what I'm slipping into her hand: the key to my hotel room. "The W, room 1911," I say quickly. I hustle away and head back over to my friends and my girl as if nothing has transpired.

But then, I turn around at the sound of my name and there's Patrice, standing not two feet away, holding my key in her hand for all to see. "I think you meant to give this to your girl," she says. "Looks like you gave it to me by accident. I can see how you'd get us mixed up." Patrice is the color of black coffee with just a splash of cream.

My girl is solidly the color of the cream.

The Code

We've all seen it. Either in a movie or in our own lives (sorry). A woman walks in and her man is doing the horizontal mambo with some chick. There's even a horrible local commercial here in NYC for a company called Ashley Furniture where a very attractive couple is going at it in a bed. The scene is very hot and steamy and we're led to believe that they're married...then we find out they aren't married to each other when a Precious-esqe woman thunders in the room and discovers them in bed together. She immediately goes after the woman, while the husband tries to stop her. Now, it's one of the worst commercials ever made, but it also displays my point. Women always blame the other woman first.

Here's why: Just like there is a man code, there is a woman one too. Yes, we chicks have a little unwritten handbook with certain rules and regulations that must be adhered to. If you go off the page, you're on your own and put out of the gender altogether.

When I was in high school, I fell in some major puppy love with my best friend who happened to be homecoming king, captain of the football team, and was adored by everyone near and far. He dated a friend of mine, a fellow cheerleader (my stunt partner!) and they were the Brangelina of my high school. Well, sometime, during Junior year, he started to realize just how wonderful I was (duh) and we kinda sorta started seeing each other. Ok, we flat out were. Only problem? He was still someone else's boyfriend. Well, when all the crap hit the fan, I was blamed for breaking up the star couple of high school. But it was high school, where relationships barely count and after a week, it blew over, they got back together and I was still voted onto homecoming court. At the time, I found it crazy that no one seemed to be mad at him! It took two to tango (not horizontally, thank you very much), yet, everyone acted like I was out there doing a solo strip tease to just reel him in and break them up. Like it was totally malicious or something. It wasn't. I was all of sixteen for crying out loud! I'd loved that boy since I was in grade school and I felt like it was my turn. Selfish, yes, malicious, no.

Maria has been victim to this as well after she started dating a guy from college who had been paired with a friend of hers. The problem was that the pairing was a tumultuous one. One that lasted for several years and when Maria started dating him, said friend was livid. As she should've been. Maria and I have had this argument several times: the one where I tell her she was wrong for doing that. Wrong because she was friends with the girl, knew their story, knew how they'd broken up, knew their details. Maria always stresses that they weren't really friends, which isn't true and is extremely convenient for Maria when she's trying to assuage the guilt. My major argument is that you just don't go there with other women. The code that I spoke of earlier, is why. The code that women are supposed to band together in some sort of unspoken truce. We hate on each other's outfits, yes. We talk about each other behind our backs, sure. But we don't steal each other boyfriends, and we don't date ex's of friends. It's just how it goes. There are too many men out there, and even more single women roving the streets lonely and destitute. Well, not really on that last part, but you just don't go there with other females. Women, being the emotion-filled creatures they are, get so affected when other women betray them because we are women! We all get it! It's a double betrayal, a punch in the gut, a slap in the face. Men, could care less, so when their boy gets at a girl they dated, they may be irritated, but barely bat an eye.

Examples can be found far and wide. Monica Lewinsky, Angelina Jolie, Alicia Keys and the oodles of other women who've all been chumped in the media for stealing or attempting to steal someone's husband or boyfriend.

And don't think I'm saying there's no fault with the men. There is fault there, but who cares about them. They're stupid and they don't know the code, hell, they're known for making ridiculous un-calculated decisions, or thinking with the wrong head. Women are smarter, we are calculated and only have one head to think about. We should know better and we should look out for each other.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Blame Game: A Woman Scorned

I'm pissed. No I'm really pissed off. Not nearly as pissed as YaVaughnie Wilkins, though, apparently. In the last week, the world has been shown just how far a woman will go when she is heartbroken, hurt, and angry. Three very very bad emotions to have simultaneously, for when put together, people often do foolish, silly, and dumb things. Actions that have not been fully thought out. Love turns to obsession and we usually wind up making fools of ourselves.

A woman scorned is a funny thing. We set out to retaliate, to get our due by making the object of our once affection pay and pay a lot. Is it smart? At the time, it seems like it. It seems like the very best and most important, immediate way of fixing our pain is to cause you as much as possible. There's a scene in Sex and The City where Samantha, scorned by Richard, passes out neon colored flyers, plasters the city in slander about her ex lover. The look on Samantha's face as she stands on a busy Manhattan street, flyers amidst, is of sheer pleasure. As if embarrassing Richard was the best thing since Lorraina Bobbett. And just like that, she was over him.

But back to reality, which is that once the billboards have gone up and come down, once the hoopla dies off and the shots are fired and dealt with, you are left empty and still alone. Hurting someone who loved you and you once loved is not the way to make the union come back to life. But perhaps that's not what YaVaughnie wanted. Who knows but YaVaughnie. It seems as such with the message on the billboard being, "You'll always be my soulmate." That coupled with the website dedicated to their love doesn't just scream "PLEASE COME BACK TO ME! I LOVE YOU!" but also that Wilkins may have fallen off the wagon a bit.

That said, I won't attack that woman. I won't call her silly or stupid. Yes, her actions are insane and wrong(and I mean actions going all the way back to dating a married man), but that woman is hurt and she's hurt for a very direct and exact reason. I think it's disgusting the way the media has turned her into a crazed, scorned lunatic. Not to mention the comments made on any social networking site out there. While what she's done lines up with crazy lunatic, she was pushed there by someone else and if people don't start bringing up the mistakes behind the actions of Charles Phillips himself, I'm gonna burst. Call it feminism or what you will, but it takes two to tango and Charles and YaVaughnie got to the billboard/website point together. Newsflash, Mr. Phillips, when you take vows, they still mean something to some people. Clearly not you. So here's the thing: when you decide you'd rather carry on a relationship-not a one nighter, not even a few months, but eight and a half YEARS- with someone other than the woman to whom you said, "I do," that makes you a coward and an asshole. Tell your wife you want to separate, get divorced, whatever, but causing all these people pain just so you could get some shows that you weren't thinking with you heart, or your head...or maybe just the wrong one. The truth hurts and it's hard to tell it sometimes, but I sincerely wish you'd resulted to just that.

When you're hurt, it feels like you're suffocating, like someone has stuck a knife in you and turned it clockwise and counter, but ladies, he isn't coming back and he for damn sure won't when you start wearing crazy like it's the new black. Eleanor Roosevelt said, "no one can make you feel inferior without consent." Yes, it sucks what happened, but your reaction is based solely on your own shoulders. Sure you want to retaliate, but I guarantee the best way is to pick up your proverbial shit, get it together, and move on. Nothing says fuck you to your haters like like success and happiness...without them.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

To Cheat or Not To Cheat...That is the Question

I've always dated football players. My love of the game runs deep and therefore my love of the men that play my favorite barbaric sport runs even deeper. I remember being in middle school, telling my mom I wanted to marry a football player. She sort of chuckled. The kind of chuckle you give to an immature mind that has yet to learn the ways of the world. But I carried on. Dated them all through high school and college. My ex-boyfriend played all through high school and college, had plans for the NFL. I saw my box season seats in lights, waiting for me. Then he got hurt. And as I learned the ways of most professional athletes, I realized that unless you were on the bandwagon during the wonder years, ala LeBron's girl, you didn't have a shot. Professional athletes are known for their philandering ways. Sooner or later it becomes part of the game, just like Q's dad says in Love and Basketball.

This blog isn't about the Tiger Woods' of the world though. It's about cheating in general or at least how it pertains to me. I would like to state for the record: I don't condone cheating. I think it's a selfish act done by someone who could care less about their partner's feelings. My dad was a cheater. Several mistresses later, our house was in tatters, so no, I don't get down with cheating. However, as I've grown older I've learned that some things you just can't begin to comprehend or identify with until they happen to you. You can say to your friends, "No, if he cheated on me, I'd be outta there," but the truth is, you don't know what you'd do. I'm sure my mother had no intention of allowing my dad his infidelities, but when you've built a home together, have three children, and mutual funds among other things, there she was. Eventually, she kicked him to the curb, but it took countless tries and lots of soul-searching and digging.

To my knowledge, I haven't been cheated on. I highly doubt it as I'm amazing in bed. I'm kidding-about the reason, not the fact. I have, unfortunately, stepped out on someone who shall remain anonymous, because he doesn't know or need to know. I've also been the other girl, the woman he ran to when he cheated on her. I'm not proud of either. I was being incredibly silly, not to mention selfish and immature. Yet, it happened nonetheless. During the time of both indiscretions, I was an interesting place in my life. One that had me rebelling and thinking I deserved to have what I wanted. So childish. So now, when I hear people say things like, "I'd so be outta there" or "If she ever stepped out on me, I'd go insane," I just kinda shake my head and give a good ole' Kanye shrug because I don't know what I'd do. I don't know what my partner would've done had he known. But I do know one thing: I have no intention of finding out because my plan is to never cheat on anyone every again. First of all the guilt is horrible. It tears you apart. You close your eyes and see the act and while he's laying next to you, you wonder if the vision will seep into that place where dreams are. You hope to anyone listening that you don't utter his name in your sleep. Secondly, it isn't worth it. I never cared about the guy I cheated with more than I cared about my guy, but there was definitely something missing somewhere or I wouldn't have done it in the first place. Even further, there must've been some sort of vacancy when I was the other chick because being someones second runner up isn't my style nor should it be anyone else's. Finally, I'm just not that girl. Maybe I once was. Maybe I dipped my toe in the cheating pool, but I dried off and stepped back where I belong. I pride myself in being open and honest and cheating just doesn't line up with who I am.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins