Everything I Do...I Do It For You, I Mean Me.

**Hey kids, it's time to vote for the 2010 Black Weblog Awards. Go vote Blackie Collins as The Blog To Watch (too bad they don't have a category for your favorite bitch of all time). It's easy! Just go to this link and nominate B by putting in http://thatbitchstolemyline.com in the proper categories, especially Blog to Watch. Don't let these b*tches steal our award!!**

There are some things women do that men will never quite comprehend. Some puzzles that are about as hard to understand as brail on a freeway billboard. The holy grails of women. The codes we live by. Instilled in us before we're even born, just little spirits floating around in the place unborn babies hang out. Whoever's in charge, we'll say God, gathers us all altogether before we shoot down to earth and tells us all the things girls need to know/do. Boys have their own little conference, I'm sure, but they have no idea what happens in ours. So once we're all on earth, they just don't get it, but once again B to the rescue. I'm gonna keep it short and sweet on this lovely hump day. So without further adieu, the things women do for themselves but sort of do for boys, but swear they do it for themselves:

Wax. Probably thee single most detested, yet most desired practices for a woman. Somehow along the way, someone decided that women weren't allowed to have hair anywhere beyond their arms, if that. So instead, we started shaving, plucking, and snatching the hairs off our bodies. Especially our bikini lines. Painful? Not so much if you're lucky. No, painful isn't the right word. Uncomfortable is better. Awkward at best. Whenever, I'm getting snatched, I giggle at the absurdity of this funny, middle-aged lady with my leg up over her head, staring into my hoo-ha, as she waxes my vadge, so I essentially look like a ten year old child. All because at some point, I realized that having hair down there just sucked for myself and all involved. I often wonder, if the social construct changed, would women go back to the hippy era and stop waxing? I've seen what it looks like when a chick doesn't weed wack. My vote is no.

Diet. Nobody likes a fatty, but women slave over flat stomachs and toned arms and legs because we care about our health and self-esteem...not. We like boys and boys like girls with dope bodies. The end.

Cook, clean, and all things domestic. No woman likes to clean. Except those weird type A, OCD one's like Monica on Friends and I don't think they like it either. They just can't help it. Women cook and twitpic their food, so that some guy will say, "Wow, she can throw down. I gotta wife her." Somehow, when we were younger, sitting on our grandmother's porches, we were taught that a woman had to cook and keep a clean house in order to get a man, so we followed suit. We swear we do it for ourselves, and some of us are delusional enough to believe that, but let's be honest. It's a bit for the boys too...well, mostly.

Freakum Dressed. When girls get all gussied up to head out on the town or just go to the market as we're prone to do in NYC, we're doing it for the fans. Now on this issue, fans can be comprised of both men and women. Women get dressed generally for men, specifically for women. Women recognize labels, colors, patterns, trends, sizes, all of it. Men do not. They say, "Damn, she looks fine. She is wearing that sundress." Women say, "Wow, I love that Zac Posen floral print dress with the sweetheart neckline. It makes her look so skinny, too! I have to get it. It'll totally look better on me." Another perfect example? Leggings. We love them, they're comfortable, they work with everything, but guess what? Leggings are a man's dream come true. So we wear them even more.

Give head. I've never heard of an act that so many women swear/pretend they don't like. If that's actually true, which is crazy (and I've covered this topic endlessly), there's a ton of women out there speaking into the mic specifically because her dude likes it. In fact, if you won't, you're either single or getting cheated on.

I'm gonna end there, but by all means, add your own. I know there are many more. What do you do for yourself, but honestly because of all the hims in the world? And moreover, why do we do it? Why do we even care?

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Complete 411

I'll admit it. There are times, I get really distracted at work by the Internet. It sucks me in with the various blogs I read, the wide open land of social media, not to mention online shopping, oh god, the online shopping. I close my work windows and open new ones only to look up an hour later without realizing how time has passed, or how much work I haven't done. It's amazing, I still have a job.

Well, a couple days ago, I was reading a blog that mentioned a few sex positions that I wasn't familiar with in name, so I hit google. And lovely google sent me to this little gem. This site is amazing, it's like paradise! The pictures are in 3D! And animated! And it isn't porn, it's like a how to guide. It's just so much information. Everything from positions to advice and a full encyclopedia on any and everything. I don't even know where to start! There's even a section called Butterfly-which just sounds nice doesn't it? I don't know who decided men think about sex more than women, because either there's something wrong with me, or something wrong with the statistic. I'm banking on the latter.

Always the student, ready to learn how to please myself and, um, him too, I guess, I scoured the site and came across this vast source of information. But I also came across some BS. Positions that are either impossible or so awkward, you'd rather just not attempt them at all. Here are the most noteworthy.

***Might wanna pull out the iPhone for this one...ie might not be a good site for work (unless you have your own office or just don't care).***

The Snakecharmer. This position is insane. With the man in a full headstand while the woman performs a hefty dose of fellatio, this position is only for the majorly advanced. Or a Yogi. If anyone has done this position without landing in the hospital, please email me immediately.

Throat Swab. I think everyone has done this position in varying ways, but this particular one made me laugh because it literally says under the picture: Since the performing partner needs air to stay alive, pause frequently to give them time for breath. You think? Don't let him get excited or you're dead.

Head Rush. This position made me stop and scrutinize like I was looking for signs of a nose job on a Kardashian. Who's holding most of the weight? It doesn't look like anyone, like she's just floating there, held up by pure ecstasy. I'm not buying how easy the little mannequins are twerking this one out. And the pressure! One wrong move and she could break her neck, not to mention his johnson is smushed up against her neck or back. If it's hard, that might hurt him a little.

YMCA. Break out yet another Shirshasana pose-a headstand-and spread that eagle. What if things feel really great and I slam my legs together in reflex. Talk about boxing your ears, homie. But the real burning question: how can the female maneuver her mouth or head when she's standing on it!?

Monkey Bar. At least you get a great workout, guys.

Standing Sixty-Nine. The description says this position shouldn't be attempted without a lot of strength and a lot of patience. I don't have time for this. Are you kidding? I would only try this if my man spent his other 22 hours of life in the gym doing constant repetitions of 3,000 pound bench presses.

I'm quite out there, but some of these were starting to get a bit overkill. Here are the ones I love and am glad to have the proper name for now. Watch out!

Butterfly

Bridge

Leg Glider-without looking like I'm doing side bends on an exercise DVD

Pirate's Bounty

Amazon Reverse

Lap Dance

Prison Guard

Mastery Kneeling

Slow Dance

And my all time favorite: The Jockey Inverted He can ride me like it's the Kentucky Derby and I'm happy as a horse!

Which of these have you tried? What did you think of the site? Am I crazy?

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

I Guess You'll Do

**Hey kids, it's time to vote for the 2010 Black Weblog Awards. Go vote Blackie Collins as The Blog To Watch (too bad they don't have a category for your favorite bitch of all time). It's easy! Just go to this link and nominate B by putting in http://thatbitchstolemyline.com in the proper categories, especially Blog to Watch. Don't let these b*tches steal our award!!**

When you were little, you and your best friend, Billy played in the backyard. You played tag, red light/green light, and whatever other game you could make up as the sun went down and lightning bugs came out. Life happened and before you knew it, you and Billy were in high school together, vowing to go off to the same college, or at the very least, within driving difference. A few years pass and you and Billy are in the ever-loved mid-twenties. Perhaps you've moved to the big city together, dating is a disaster, but your friendship is still as present as a porch light left on in the summertime. One night, over an empty bottle of wine, you and Billy lament the wild world of relationships, you worry that love will never come your way. So you and Billy decide if neither of you have found love by 30, which seems like eons away from 23, you'll marry each other.

The good old marriage pact.

For some reason, friends feel the need to give up on finding love at the burning old age of thirty, and marry their female or male best friend just to procreate and not die alone. I remember making this pact with my male best friend, CJ, years ago. CJ had no problem with girls, he was just picky and grew bored easily. I had my share of boyfriends, but due in large part to my obsession with bad boys, I was convinced all guys were furry four legged creatures. We were best friends, had a healthy attraction to each other, and judged the hell out of every boyfriend or girlfriend we had respectively. Our age limit was forty. I wasn't crazy about kids (still am not), nor was CJ, but we both wanted to travel and enjoy life with a mate, so why not your best friend who happened to strike out at marital bliss the regular way: through fate.

Here are three reasons the marriage pact is bogus:

1. The deal breaker. What if you enter into this relationship, decide to go ahead and get married to your pact buddy, only to meet the man/woman of your dreams two weeks later. Don't you deserve a shot at happiness? At true love? So now what? You divorce your bff, leave him/her high and dry, break the pact, lose your friend all in the name of love? The divorce rate is about 873% so that's a high price to pay for something that might not last beyond the early gaga days, but hey, what's another divorce after you've broken the pact with your best friend anyway.

2. It's just so depressing. I can't imagine what it feels like to wake up every day next to the guy who was your back up plan should no one on earth want to marry you. That alone is horrifying, but I'll go ahead an add in the lack of sexual chemistry, the love you like a brother/sister vibe, and the impossible friend zone that you can't get him out of. I know all relationships are based on friendship, but something tells me this isn't what the author of that statement meant. Think of that time Meredith Grey slept with the gay-now-dead-doctor on Grey's Anatomy. Awkward, party of two, your table is ready.

3. There's a reason you two weren't together in the first place. I doubt getting married will cure that.

Just have some patience. God didn't make the world in 32 seconds. Rome wasn't built in a day. We had no idea what was happening on Lost until the final season. Maybe if you stop counting down the days to your age limit birthday, you'd actually live a happier life and attract a person or two. You aren't Cinderella, you won't turn into an old, undesirable hag at midnight, so just relax. Despite popular belief, your Prince Charming might still be out there, and you won't need a marital death sentence to forge that union.

I'm sure you have an opinion...or maybe you have a marriage pact that you plan on honoring. Hit it in the comments section, kids.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The Hawkeye

I very rarely fight with my older sister. She's my big sis after all, and while I used to love driving her insane when we were younger, those days are gone, replaced with best friendship and a kind of bond that can only grow between sisters.

But when we do fight? You best believe, we give it our all.

When I was a sophomore in college, I met a guy, Jason, one random weekend while I was back home. He was very cute, very funny, and very mine. But there was a catch: I had a boyfriend. A high school beau, who I'd been with for years and with whom I'd made a very dramatic "nothing can break us up" pact when we left for higher learning. But since that pact, well more importantly, since I'd seen what other boys were running the earth outside my little suburb, I had been itching for someone new. This is where Jason came into the story. All 6'1 of him. He had caramel colored skin, fresh corn rows (it was 2001) to match his fresh Timbs, and just enough arrogance to drive me batty. I was only in town for a couple weeks, so we went on as many dates as possible. Disclaimer: I am an asshole for cheating on my then boyfriend. But it was all very innocent. We never did anything more than the classic necking. We talked for hours, he was the starting cornerback for the University of Iowa, heading into his senior year, a sociology major to boot. He was perfect! I couldn't let a little snag like a boyfriend keep me from my perfect happily ever after!

Well apparently that wasn't the hitch in my getalong after all. Fast forward a few months, I'm back at school, as is he. We talk all the time, keep in major touch, and figure out when I'm going to fly to Iowa to watch the Hawkeyes kick some ass. But eventually, the distance became a bit too much...as did my boyfriend (sigh, I was young and dumb, okay?!), so Jason and I cut ties. He'd call me every once in a while to check on me, I'd keep an eye on his team's season. It was actually my first amicable breakup, the kind where you genuinely want to be friends.

Towards the end of the year, I was talking to my sister on the phone. Before the land of little handheld PDAs, you couldn't check your email from the car, and my sister needed an address stashed in her email. She gave me her password and I checked it for her. Case closed. A few hours after our conversation ended, I was chatting with another mutual friend of ours, Robbie. Robbie and I were talking about boys, of course, when she said to me, "So, have you and your sister talked yet?" I said yes, thinking somehow Robbie knew about the email/address situation. Taking my ascent, Robbie then probed further, asking how I was so okay with my sister dating Jason, wasn't I awfully calm?"

Wait, what? My sister was dating Jason? My sister even knew Jason?

Well, it turned out she knew him quite well. This damn world is so small that a friend of my sister introduced her to his cousin, a senior football player at Iowa. Jason was home for some reason or another, and apparently my sister and him took to each other instantly. Surprise, surprise. And I didn't find this out from a worried-for-spilling-the-beans-Robbie. I learned it from going back into my sister's email and finding out all the gory details.

Oh, I was anything but calm. I steamed, I burned, I ripped her a new one and swore I'd never speak to her again if she didn't cease and assist. And do you know what this girl responded with? "You read my emails!?" she screamed. That was beside the stupid point! She betrayed me! As far as I was concerned, she deserved to have her emails read. She lied! I had to find the truth somehow. We yelled at each other a while longer and eventually one of us hung up on the other. I'd like to think it was me. That was it. I was done. She was dead to me! It was all very dramatic.

It is the one and only time I've gone without talking to my sister for longer than a week. It dragged through the summer, into the fall, Thanksgiving. I'd shove by her in the house, send messages through our little sister at the dinner table- "Can you tell her to pass me the peas?" I didn't buy her presents for Christmas and when my mother finally had enough, she pulled us in the den and told us this was ridiculous. We were sisters and couldn't let a dumb boy come between us. But that's exactly what we planned to do, so my mother made us scream it out in that den. We weren't allowed to leave until we were best friends again or dead from killing each other, whichever came first.

She's still my best friend and I think Jason got some girl pregnant in Iowa. Figures.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

For The Real Win

Reality television is here to stay it seems and one of the break out series was Basketball Wives. A show based on the lives of current/ex wives, girlfriends, and a baby's mom of professional basketball players became an instant hit as the girls talked behind each others backs, shopped, and tried their best to pretend their husbands weren't playing HORSE with some other chick during away games.

Most of the kickbacks these women received were synonyms for the title groupie and in the season finale, the girls cried around a private dinner party, explaining how people couldn't identify with them, how painful their kind of suffering was, and how all-around terrible their champagne dreamed lives were. They may be crying now, but these women, for the most part, were very calculated in their decision to land NBA players. It's a lifestyle that is anything but undercover. Everyone knows that basketball players are just as notorious for their infidelity as they are for their jump shot and every girl involved with one, whether by nature or nurture, knows what she's signing up for. To whom many dollar signs are given, much is required.

The other night, I was watching the finals at a bar with some friends. At some point, Basketball Wives came up, naturally, and then the general topic of groupies followed. It seems that, for the most part, all the girls chase the same first or second string dudes. But what about the guy sitting at the end of the bench? The one suited up, but who won't see any court time unless several people get stomped under Big Baby's left pinky toe. I'm just using my noggin here, but if I were going to go after basketball players, I'd go after those guys. The lowest of lowly paid NBA player, can still make between $300,000 and $500,000, which is still more than you probably have and being that the money is probably why you're running after him in the first place, I'd assume the paycheck is the bottom line. Those guys probably get the slingbacks, the chicks that can't get to Lebron or even some middle of the road player on a team who can't even figure out where they're from, like the Nets. So imagine his glee when you roll up on him first. He won't be able to contain his excitement at finally being a starter. A couple holes in a condom later, and you're in there like Royce Reed.

Sure, the higher up the NBA chain, the more zeros, but being that this is all a game anyway, the grand prize being an anal prober like Kobe, why not use some sort of strategy? Instead of going after the big dogs against a sea of scantily-clad, unbeweaveable women, why not drop the ball a bit and slam dunk yourself a mid level player with big dreams of being your first string. Now, if you were really smart, you'd go after the professional bowlers or golfers. They make way more money and while all the girls are staking out the hotels of bballers, footballers, and any baseball player besides A-Rod and Derek Jeter (he's marrying Lyla Garrity!), you could strike it rich with this guy...and no, not Chris Paul.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

The First Date

**Hey kids, it's time to vote for the 2010 Black Weblog Awards. Go vote Blackie Collins as The Blog To Watch (too bad they don't have a category for your favorite bitch of all time). It's easy! Just go to this link and nominate B by putting in http://thatbitchstolemyline.com in the proper categories, especially Blog to Watch. Don't let these bitches steal our award!!**

The first date is a bit of a mind game. While, it's literally just an outing with someone you've usually just met, it somehow morphs itself into the deal of the century. The anticipation, the possible scenarios you create in your imagination of how it could nosedive quicker than Lindsay Lohan's career are what make the first date such a scary one. I've had some great first dates. In fact, I don't think I've ever been on a first date that didn't garner a second one. Now, I might've declined the offer, but that's not the point. The point is that I have dope first dates, people! And you can too! Of course, personality is important. There can't be any chemistry if you just sit there with your lips zipped. I'm going to tell you what I told my little sister when she competed in her first pageant. "You have to be the best you, the heightened you. The you that we get when you're in the best mood, lost the ten pounds you wanted to lose, having the best hair day, and just got your dream job." Not the regular you. No, there's no room for that person on a first date. It's about first impressions, about making enough of a stamp that something pops verses fizzles.

Sometimes you can't control the chemistry factor, but you can control the geographical location of the date. Part of the equation is being somewhere where the ice breaks easily. Where fun is at the top of the menu. Gone are the movies, where you can't even talk to each other-and if you do, I might punch you for talking in the theater. Gone are the boring restaurant dinners, yeah, they're nice, but come on, this is New York City. You can be more creative than that. Or maybe you can't. So here you go. In no particular order, my favorite first date locations:

A Walk to Remember. Hated the movie, love the actual idea. This city is perfect for a leisure stroll. You could walk down the Westside Highway or walk through Central Park at dusk-careful of the rats (which you could totally use to your advantage). If neither of those places work, or if they're a bit too quiet and intimate, walk through the village or Soho. There's plenty of people, noise that can be a distraction should the conversation hit a lull and tons of restaurants and dessert establishments to pop into and grab a bite. All the while, you can get to know each other, chat it up, maybe hold hands (insert girly giggle), but if the date isn't going so hot, the city is full of these lovely little yellow cars that will snatch you away, into the night without a second thought of the busted date.

Karaoke. This is one of the best ideas I ever had. Think about it. Karaoke bars are loud and obnoxious and provide plenty of entertainment. You can laugh at the horribly, depressing drunk who inevitably gets up and sings some horrible rendition of Journey's City or the hopeful singer who takes karaoke night oh so seriously and blows out Fallen by Alicia Keys. You can do a duet together, which is always fun, and if you suck, it's even better. If you're a great singer, he'll be impressed. It's a win/win. But don't get too drunk. That could ruin any date fast. Don't think wild, wanton, drunken sex either. Think him holding your hair, grossed out, while you blow chunks in the gutter outside.

Sporting Events. These little gems are the best first dates. I did a first date at a basketball game once. I'm not such a big basketball fan and my date was the second coming of Kareem Abdul Jabar, so the whole night was dedicated to him explaining why a foul was a foul and me jumping up and shouting foul at all the wrong times. Instead of thinking I was an idiot, he thought it adorable and loved feeling like I needed his help. We had drinks after the game and several dates after. Yankees games are hysterical fun and you don't have to love baseball to have a good time at the games. Hot dogs and beer, a warm night across the bridge, lots of screaming, crazy New Yorkers...sounds like a ho in a hostel; the perfect combination. And don't get me started on football. That's probably not the best first date for me, because I'm a complete nut case when it comes to my favorite sport. Yea, I'll just stay in the house for those.

Chelsea Piers. Anything that involves miniature golf, batting cages, go carts, arcades, or bowling is a great first date. There can be a fun competition as you race each other around the track, cheer each other on in the batting cages, or enjoy a little victory smooch when someone gets a strike in the bowling lanes. It's a great time. You f*ck that date up and I don't know what to tell you. I guess you could hit him the teeth with you golf club by accident. I've seen it happen. It sucks.

Drinks/Bars. Ok, if you're just dying at these choices, fine go to a bar and enjoy a drink together. Liquor will loosen the mood and let your nerves quell. As I said before, don'.t get. trashed.

If you can't tell by now, the running theme in my favorite first dates is that they're all active! Sitting in a chair at a restaurant, staring awkwardly into each others foreheads screams pressure, in my opinion, and since I'm the dating expert, you should listen. Thank you and good night.

What are you favorite first dates?! Or even the nightmare ones. Every story creates a great learning curve and the really bad ones, at the very least, will make me laugh.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins

Dreams For My Mother

There's a lot to be said for the guy that makes you blush, nervous and barf all over the place. Many believe there's no place for him in forever, but I'm not so sure. Many think you should wind up with the nice guy who says please and thank you, who will be a good father, and husband, never betray you or double cross you.

My mom met my dad when she was in her late twenties, an old maid at that time, but she had traveled the world and gone to college and graduate school by the time she met him. My dad was the pretty boy. Gorgeous skin, light eyes, curly brown hair and a smile that made women swoon. My mom couldn't stand to be too close to him for fear she'd spontaneously combust or melt, whichever came first. He was charming, loving, romantic, brought her flowers and candy. He wooed my mom and made her feel like the luckiest woman in the world. But my dad was swooning others, too. Well into my parent's marriage and after their twenty year union came to an end, my mom was convinced that the road less traveled was the one she had a first class seat on.

Mothers school their daughters on many things and while my mom taught me to believe in love, she also, without realizing it I'm sure, cast a pessimistic shade over it simultaneously. She didn't do anything or say anything directly in line with "your dad is a cheating asshole and love doesn't exist," but she always seemed to worry about my relationships. I'm a romantic, just like my dad and overly trusting, just like my mom. I know she feared I'd wind up with someone like my father, someone who would break my heart in a way that the pieces never found their way back to each other, but at the same time, she'd sometimes create issue where there was none. A boyfriend and I would have an argument and I'd call her for advice. At some point, she'd say something that would make me believe she hated whatever boyfriend I had at the time while planting seeds of doubt that would grow like Jack's beanstalk.

I'm not blaming her, though, know that, because at some point those boyfriends she hated, showed their true colors or just didn't work out. And whether my heart was mildly scathed or shattered to smithereens, each one left me ragged. I'd think it into the ground, deciding early on in life to conclude with hope and then later, as the break ups piled up, realize I'd rather have a V8. And yes, we do have to eventually let go of the past and move forward, but what's behind us lies ahead of us if we don't figure out a different traveling pattern.

I recently had a pretty long conversation with my mom and as she's gotten older, and hasn't remarried yet, she's softened. I think she forgives my dad now and she's much more gentle with her dating advice approach. Where there was once pessimism, is now a delicate balance between reality and dreams. She seems more hopeful yet again that a Prince Charming with manageable baggage and no giant red flags exists, for me at least. And I know she's well into her sixties now, but as she's running down a laundry list of why the last guy didn't deserve me anyway, I find myself running the same list in my head of why my dad didn't deserve her and how I'm still hopeful there's someone out there that'll make my mom blush again. And she'll have her place in forever just as she once dreamed.

That bitch stole my line,

xoxo

Blackie Collins