Deepdiva

There used to be a time I wanted a thug. Yes, that Timbaland wearin’, jersey-sportin’, jean-saggin’, swagger-havin’ stud that would just scoop me up and give it to me rough and sweet. (I drew the line at gold teeth. Yuck!) The perfect example: Felicia “Snoop” Pearson from The Wire. I used to have a small crush her - until I heard her talk. It was all over.

I’ve dated a couple of these women, ones who grew up rough around the edges but could hold a sistah down.

One such stud, “Redd,” was my first thug-stud. Really, she was my first everything: first lover, first real adult relationship. I shouldn’t say Redd was a bad boy, just that her growing up was far from a white-picket fence existence, and it hardened her attitude to the world. Redd was always in survival-mode from being ejected from her home as a teen for being gay, so she had that street-smart swagger that made her seem dangerous almost. When one of my friends first told me about her (as a set-up), I asked what Redd looked like.

Her words I would never forget: “Well, she looks like the kind of woman no one would mess with.”

And she did. With her muscled arms and stocky body, Redd gave off that “don’t fuck with me” vibe. That was until you got to know her, because then she would do anything for you. Especially me. With me, she could let her guard down and open up about the things she had been through. Redd was my my protector, I felt safe. Where I was more book smart, Redd was head smart, and it made for a great combination - at least until it ended. (That’s another stoaltogether for another day).

The second and last bad boy was a stud I’d label “Nate Dogg.” Nate was a woman I met online, when I was going through a dating dry spell. Exchanging short emails, we got a good vibe going on the phone, talking about life and our past relationships. Although we hit it off, we were opposites in our backgrounds. Nate was a smoker, with hardly much education, and later I discovered, a convicted felon. A dark-skinned homegirl with blonde (yes, blonde) close-cropped hair, she wasn’t what I thought once we met, appearance-wise. But nonetheless we hung out frequently, not doing too much other than chillin’ at her apartment. She worked from paycheck to paycheck and her resources were tight since she had recently relocated to my town.

While there were a few spaghetti dinners here, and a few nightcaps there, we never really defined what we were doing. We weren’t exclusive, as I could tell by the inconspicuous phone calls she got. And, truth be told, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted a relationship with her. The felon thing freaked me out at first (although once she explained, it didn’t seemso bad; a white-collar crime). But the way she looked in her wifebeater and low-riding jeans with just a peak at what was underneath her boxers had me all flustered.

It was no-strings fun. Then after a while, it kind of fizzled out. The calls and text messages slowed down. She had told me she was planning to move again, and I just figured she followed through on her move. It was confirmed when she texted me one day.

“Deepdiva, this Nate. I’ moving to Georgia today. Ive transferred my job.”

We lost touch after this point. Then a month or so later, Nate called me, and explained the real reason she left. Apparently, Nate had been cultivating a relationship with another woman while seeing me. She moved in with this new chick and her houseful of kids. However, Nate’s bad boy persona had met her match when things went horribly wrong after a month - the girl pulled out a butcher knife on Nate during an argument, chasing and threatening to kill her. She was then forced to relocate again (her third city in six months), and now that that drama was out of her life, she was blowing up my phone. Nate wanted me to visit her. I declined.

By then, I had gotten those bad boys out of my system, and was looking forward to a new relationship with my soft-stud Lebron. I didn’t have time to go backward. I haven’t looked back since.

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Not that it comes as any surprise to me, but Wanda Sykes has recently come out. She says because of the recent passing of Proposition 8, she had to speak out by proclaiming herself as a lesbian.

“Now, I gotta get in their face,” she said. “I’m proud to be a woman. I’m proud to be a black woman, and I’m proud to be gay.”

She was at a gay rights rally in Las Vegas on Saturday, where she told the crowd, “You know, I don’t really talk about my sexual orientation. I didn’t feel like I had to. I was just living my life, not necessarily in the closet, but I was living my life. Everybody that knows me personally they know I’m gay. But that’s the way people should be able to live their lives.”

I am proud of Wanda. My gaydar was way high on this one, coupled with the fact you never saw her in dating men. I’m also glad that she opened herself up to her fans. Maybe that will inspire other black gay celebrities to come out. Hmm…Queen Latifah, anyone.

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This morning, I’m doing my weekend routine of sitting in my favorite bookstore, Borders, reading magazines, drinking iced coffee and enjoying the beauty of being around readers like me who just enjoy a good book. Call me a nerd, but it’s comforting. I love ambiance of a bookstore and reading has been a passion of mine since I was an 8-year-old spending her entire allowance on paperbacks at $2 (yeah, remember when they were that cheap?). I remember reading such classics as The Baby-Sitters Club, Just as Long as We’re Together (Judy Blume is the bomb!), and Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. Now, the paperbacks are $15 and even more for hardbacks. Books aren’t cheap but totally worth the enjoyment they give me.

People-watching is one of the things I also enjoy. It’s interesting to see the different walks of life, from students armed with laptops and iPods to retirees lounging reading the newspaper without a care in the world. It’s even better when I spot a girl like me, a rare occasion. Spotting them with my gaydar, it’s so sexy to see an intelligent sistah getting her studying on. A few years back, there was a girl I noticed reading Curve and chatting it up on her Yahoo messenger. Single at the time, I found her to be attractive and even more so that she seemed to be playing on my team. But alas, I never approached her. I can be shy when it comes to those situations, and usually, I need an encouraging sign to approach a woman in public. You never know about those kinds of encounters.

But I digress. So today, I have picked out the following magazines to read: Essence (with Will & Jada Smith on the cover), Sister 2 Sister (simply to get my black gossip on), US Weekly (to get my mainstream gossip-on), and The Advocate (to read for gay issues). Every one offers something different, and knowledge is definitely power. I begin with The Advocate, which has a column about a woman’s struggle with money living in the high-ass city of San Francisco, an article about the recent approval of gay marriage in Connecticut (yeah! :-)), and an interview with E. Patrick Johnson, who wrote the book Sweet Tea about gay men living in the South. I need to pick that one up. I love reading about our stories, from self-acceptance to coming out to being in love. I guess that’s why I’ve been absolutely drawn to the women on my blogroll. We all have being a lesbian in common, but each have our own stories and journeys that make us different. I love it, and can’t get enough.

The gossip mags, Sister 2 Sister and Us Weekly, offer the same ole thing, but Essence is one of my favorites. The article about Will and Jada is just beautiful, wherein they interview each other about love, marriage and children. The way they interact is just real and refreshing. Listen to this quote from Will to Jada:

“Well, the truth about life is that we’re all alone. But when somebody loves you, right, that experience is shared. Love is the only real connective tissue that allows you to not live and die by yourself. It gives you purpose beyond you. You don’t necessarily have to get married have that, but I’ve always wanted to be married. I knew you were that person for me because you’re loyal, to a fault…”

That’s deep. And considering the fallout from the defeat of gay marriage in California and Florida, it seems to be right on time, and leads me to think of something I read recently about gay marriage. Elton John, that flamboyantly gay icon, said he thinks gays had it wrong when it came to California’s Proposition 8. He believes it was a mistake to go strictly for gay marriage, suggesting that maybe they should have asked for civil unions instead - a move that would have been easier for the mainstream to swallow. I do understand where he’s coming from, considering England approved civil partnerships four years ago and gays have the same rights and benefits as married couples. Maybe it would have been easier for straights to accept us having civil unions, but who says they should be the only one to have the privilege of marriage. They aren’t respecting the institution of marriage any better, so why can’t I have the right to marry my lover?

Actually, California surprised me by opposing gay marriage. Considering how metropolitan the urban areas are, like Los Angeles and San Francisco are, I didn’t see that one coming. Florida, yeah. We’re so conservative as a whole that it was just expected to say Yes to Amendment 2. Considering the protest I saw in front of the Capitol building, and how muddled the language was on the issue, I didn’t have much hope for it to pass. The protests this weekend should show the public just how disappointed we are, and we’re not going away.

Also on my Borders reading pile is Hiding in Hip-Hop by Terrance Dean. It’s an interesting look at the gay world of entertainment from the eyes of an insider. He gives you the skinny on how gay men deal with being on the down-low to achieve further success in Hollywood. There isn’t much name dropping, unless you count pseudonyms he gives actors, singers and rappers to shield their identities. Some of them I’ve been able to figure out, like Ne-Yo (surprise, surprise), but others are like a riddle. I’m excited trying to figure it out. Terrance portrays his life in an honest fashion, from growing feeling abandoned to trying to make heads or tails of his sexuality. You should check it out.

Well, back to my reading. Essence awaits…

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I must preface this post by saying I like Beyonce. I’m very impressed with her, uhh, assets. She is a beautiful woman and can sing her ass off (no pun here).

But let me tell you something. As stimulating as it is to she her shake her, uhh, assets, I’m tired of seeing her shake ‘em in a video. Single Ladies, her newest, is her in a bathing suit, popping and dropping and shaking what Tina Knowles gave her. I love the song; it’s catchy and gives trifling men fair warning about taking women for granted. While it does a lesbian’s heart good to see this, it’s tiresome that she can’t make a video without her trademark ass-twirling.

Have you seen this? What do you think?

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Domesticity has become us. Us meaning me and my lover of two years, Lebron. After a year of living together, the mystery is gone. Perhaps this has happened to you; maybe the sweet nothings have taken a back seat to the day-to-day duties of running your household.

It’s not that you don’t love each other. Lebron and I still have fun as a couple, still laugh at the silliest things, still love being around each other. Our favorite pastime is laying in bed together, talking about our dreams and our childhoods, in that easy way we always had since first becoming friends almost six years ago. Or at dinnertime, when we catch up on our day and watch our favorite shows (which if it’s Saturday usually means college football).

But here’s the thing: We’re comfortable. I know that can seem like the kiss of death, one or two steps away from the dreaded lesbian death bed (thank God we’re not at that stage). That sounds bad, I know. Without children, it’s just the two of us, and the same things we did in the beginning of our blissful honeymoon stage, we ain’t doing now.

For instance:

• In the beginning…I wore sexy matching underwear, something cute and involving a thong or boy shorts, showing off all my curves like my baby likes.
• Now…I’m typically decked out in a basic black bra (for work) and Hanes panties (at least it’s hi-cut), with the matching sets and teddies saved for special occasions.
• In the beginning…I got bi-weekly pedicures and was never seen too often without French-tipped nails.
• Now…I’m lucky if I go once a month. Hey, it gets expensive.
• In the beginning…we called each other five times a day, speaking all lovey dovey and saying we couldn’t wait to see each other.
• Now…one phone call in the afternoon, with Lebron whispering such sexy phrases as, “What’s for dinner?” and “We need some toilet tissue.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love our life. It’s times when Lebron looks so sexy cooking dinner, I have to contain myself. And we still give each other knowing looks that speak more volumes that the love notes she used to email me. I guess after a while, all couples hit the old married stage, the one where you love each other, couldn’t imagine life without one another, but get used to each other’s daily habits.

Like Lebron’s routine of leaving the door open after a No. 2 session. Or my habit of leaving my clothes lying around the house. Or hers of eating and leaving crumbs everywhere (even on our beige-colored couch.) Or mine of leaving the toilet roll empty after using the last of the tissue paper.

It’s just one of those things that come over time. As much as I complain, it’s good between us. I feel a coziness I haven’t felt with anyone as I do her. I can let my guard down, and she can, too. That’s not to say we don’t have our moments. It’s times I want to choke a bitch from the annoying things she does, but when it’s good, it’s beautiful.

Except for that damn No. 2. Now that’s some damn shit.

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“After 7 o’clock, don’t call me. I don’t want to talk to nobody. I’m watching the election.”
-My father, who didn’t want to be bothered with any foolishness while watching the poll results. He was joking (I think)

My mother: “Oh, he won?”
My father: “Yeah, he won. It’s over.”
-My parents, talking to both of them on the phone right after the returns showed Obama had won the election and John McCain had already conceded. Apparently, my mother fell asleep before Obama’s victory had been announced on the news.

“A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama to congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love. In a contest as long and difficult as this campaign has been, his success alone commands my respect for his ability and perseverance. But that he managed to do so by inspiring the hopes of so many millions of Americans who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving.”
-Senator John McCain in his concession speech

“I guess the election makes people hungry.”
-An employee said to a long line of people in the cafeteria at work. She got no response.

“Why y’all so quiet? I’m the one who should be upset.”
-A Caucasian co-worker who was a big McCain supporter. As the black folks in my office began to congregate first thing, we turned silent when he passed, as a sign of respect. This was his response.

“Come January, I’m gonna electric slide down Pennsylvania Avenue.”
-A Black co-worker who of course voted for Obama

“I’m so happy for you all. Y’all needed this. This is something y’all been needing for a long time.”
-A Caucasian employee to a black employee, overheard in the hallway after having lunch with three of my co-workers. We were about to get rowdy, until we found out she was talking about a new supervisor who had just been hired.

“I’m happy. I believe marriage should be between a man and woman, not a man and a man. It’s not right.”
-My co-worker, who was happy Amendment 2 was voted in, which upholds the law that marriage should be defined as only between man and woman in Florida. She believes in gays having domestic partnerships but not have the right to get married.

“I can’t believe we lost.”
-One Caucasian worker to the next, overheard in the parking lot.

 ”It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.”
-President-elect Barack Obama during his acceptance speech.

Sam Cooke - “A Change is Gonna Come”

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As I was on my way home from my nephew’s soccer game, I began to grow tired. It doesn’t take much now days, since I’m a constant anemic. Sometimes it’s all I can do to stay awake soon after I come home from work. The low-iron levels in my blood get to me sometimes, but as a “diva,” I still try to take on way more than I can handle sometimes.

Between family, my honey Lebron, and websites I manage, I feel pulled in so many directions and attempt to handle so much that it wears on me. Just yesterday, I left work early to have bi-monthly blood work done. Apparently, my iron levels are getting better, but it’s still not where my doctor wants it to be. It doesn’t help that the medicine he recommends has some ill side effects.

After my date with blood lab, I ran to pick up my nephew from school. Then I went to find something to wear for my night out with my girlfriends. That was relaxing, spending time with my homegirls, women I’ve known since my college days.

We ate at Carrabbas, where I indulged in Chicken Parmesean and white Sangrias. Lovely. We laughed and caught up on everything in our lives, including jobs and relationships, bonding over the fact both partners are a lot of work, but worth it. It was chill just to relax and take my mind off the week.

The night ended with one of my girls running to the bathroom with the quickness. I guess her Pasta Carrabba just didn’t agree with her stomach. All I know is her legs couldn’t carry her fast enough up the stairs, and she was clamoring for the air freshener after blowing up the bathroom. All in all, a good night.

This morning I woke up around 7 a.m. with a pounding headache. With plenty of things on my to-do list, this was the last thing I needed. I still got out around 9, taking my nephew to his last soccer game (mom and dad were tied up), got some high-maintenance stuff taken care of, and hit the store for a much-needed router for my laptop. I should have been grocery shopping, but after the eyebrow waxing/painful plucking I was done.

What a day, what a day.

And tomorrow I get to do laundry How fun! Luckily Lebron is taking me on a date, probably a movie and dinner, which is usually the most we do in our lazy college town.

I’m still tired, though. Laying in my bed with my laptop, I realize that I can’t do everything, and can’t be everything to everybody. I have to take time for myself. I can’t afford to have my body shut down on me.

That would be so undivafied.

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Although politics has never been my cup of tea, I already know whom I’m voting for. It’s been no secret. I love Obama and what he stands for politically: change and more change. I couldn’t stand to go through another eight years (or even four years for that matter) with a bull-headed idiot running the country. It’s been tough enough watching Bush turn this country into a country with worse debt than a five-year unemployed dude with child support issues up the ass and creditors calling him after 8 p.m.

If I seem a little riled up, it’s because we have a lot riding on this election. The fate of the free world lies with who will win more electoral votes. Personally, I would love to see the first black man in office (and no, Clinton doesn’t count), running things and helping us to get out of this dismal situation. I know he can’t solve all our country’s problems, but at least it’ll be a start.

One thing that irks me about Obama’s campaign success is when black folks say, “I hope he doesn’t get shot.” Yes, he has had opposition, mostly in the form of rednecks who would rather eat shit than see a black man occupy the oval office. But we need to stop being so negative. This man, the son of a white mother and African father, a Harvard law school graduate and Illinois senator, could become the first black president. It’s hard to put into words what this mean.

My father, who lived and survived through the civil rights era, has waited for this day to come. He grew up in a time when there were separate water fountains at the local courthouse and cringed to hear a white man call him boy. He tells me experiences of being considered inferior, when he knew it was simply for the color of his skin. I still get chills remembering his recollection of the night Martin Luther King died, and being under fire by white authority figures. They asked him to tell where the blacks had congregated that night; my father refused. On that night, at that moment, it could have been a different story altogether, one that could have lead to my father being attacked or, God forbid killed, but he said he wasn’t afraid. No person, black or white, would ever make him afraid.

That’s the kind of hardship he endured, so we could have the liberty to vote. That’s why it’s important.

And that’s why Obama’s my choice, because he believes in change. He understands nothing’s going to improve without it. He’s just the man to see this thing through.

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Today is Lebron’s birthday.

She turns another year older, and our relationship grows another year as well, with our anniversary only two days away.

It was two years ago today that I surprised her with balloons and a card, even though we weren’t “officially” together yet. She had just moved back to my hometown, and we were seeing where things were going at that point. We had a long history, one where we always cared for one another, but just couldn’t work out the logistics of a relationship.

When she was ready for something more, I wasn’t. When I finally figured she was who I wanted, she had moved on.

But with her arrival, we were finally on the same page - and realized that with each other was where we wanted to be.

Today, we still continue to have the same feelings we had back then, but now it’s more of a comfortable relationship…dare I say complacent. We’re still in love, still are best friends, still can’t be without one another.

However her birthday makes me realize how long and how much we’ve really been to each other - through loving, arguments, struggling, crying, cursing, kissing, smiling, pining, sexing, annoying, hugging and everything else that comes with a long-term relationship. There are times when I can’t get enough of her, and times when I’ve almost left her.

Love is like that. Two years is a very long time.

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See that mannequin on the left, all hunched over and worn out? That’s me, how I felt after a day of shopping with my 15-year-old niece, “Neecee.”

On this Labor Day, my mother, Neecee and I hit the mall for a little Back-to-School retail exercise. We took her to shops that were age appropriate, filled with teenage girls with moms and young-looking college women. What I realized as I browsed from store to store, was that everything Neecee picked up was either too tight, too short or too expensive. That’s what they make for girls her age.

And granted Neecee’s not a big girl by any means. She probably wears a solid size 5, however with the way the clothes fit, she needed a 9 to have enough room to grow into. The new trend now, I suppose, is “skinny.” Skinny jeans, skinny tops…blah blah blah. And with my niece being as endowed as her beautiful older aunt, she doesn’t need any skinny top that clings to her in all the wrong places.

Like she wanted a high-wasted pencil skirt; it was what she was dying for. We finally found one in the store Forever 21, which should be called forever 5 cause that’s the only size they fit. And they have this weird size system, where a size 27 would be a size 7 and a size 29 would be a 10 (or some variation thereof). It was hard to get a straight answer from any of the clerks, who kind of looked at me like why is this big girl even in this store.

Anyway, Neecee finds a “29″ and proceeds to head in the longest dressing room line I’ve seen. You’d think they were handing out food stamps the way they were clamored together. When Neecee finally gets a room and tries it on, it’s a little tight. Not in a bad way, like if she breathed a button would pop you in the eye kind of way, but like if she washed it one too many times, she wouldn’t get in it - ever again.

And of course, one of the lovely ladies (plus one gay dude; there’s always one, ain’t it?) of Forever 21 told me there was no size 30 (and proceeded to give me the mean eye like why did I even ask). We did end up getting it, though, because it was so darn cute.

I guess this is what young girls have to contend with nowdays. Nothing ever fits with room to spare, and the clothing lasts far shorter than what it used. But Neecee came away with some good stuff, with the money she was alotted, and she will be cute for her first week of classes.

Which is all she really cared about anyway.

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