Last Night a DJ Saved My Life or Super Lesbian to the Rescue!

"Kenny Loggins is fucking dope!!!! Seriously"
That is a text I got at 1:42 Saturday afternoon from my best friend Brandi. She was driving the long 8 hours back from South Carolina clearly deep into song 3,124 of her 6000 songs on her ipod. Kenny Loggins? Really? Well to each his own.

I texted her back to see what time she would be home and to text me when she got in. I wanted to be sure she got home safe. She texts back asking if we were going to go out when she returned. Now let me just say that brandi shelton be playin with a chick's emotions. She knows good darn well she is not going to feel like going out after driving back from her folks house. But I haven't been out dancing in so long I jumped at the opportunity and crossed my fingers that she wouldn't back out when she got home. So I jumped on the internet to the hub of my entertainment information, facebook of course. I found out that DJ Jahsonic was going to be at Eighteenth Street Lounge. I first saw Jahsonic at Marvins on the Monday of Bassey Ikpi's birthday celebration Part Deux: The Eatonville and Marvins Edition. He played a mix of soul, R & B, classic hip-hop, and rare grooves. I woulda sweat my perm out if I had a perm! So I knew ESL was the place to be if he was going to be spinning there. And since brandi was currently pumpin the Kenny Loggins, I figured she would appreciate the variety.

I figured out what I was going to wear. I got these new jeans this weekend and with all the turkey and mac and cheese I ate this week, my ass looked PHENOMENAL in them. And I say that with the most humility I can muster.

So the night was so much fun! We got in and because of the crowd or management or both, Jahsonic was playing some housey, no lyric music. But we got in for half price (gotta appreciate that dredloc'd family hook-up), so we were going to have fun regardless. We head straight to the bar and decided it was going to be a Jack and Gingerale kind of night.

So much fun happens with my man Jack! So after a couple of cocktails we find a place to sit and take in the sights. Right at that same time Jahsonic starts playing the hell out of some music boy! Prince, Eurythmics, Run DMC. Everybody was jammin'. Brandi and I start dancing and singing. And because I must have "I date white boys" written on my forehead, random drunk ass white boy comes up and starts talking to me. As of this writing I have no idea what he was talking about. I know he said that he was Irish and thats why he was drunk. He kept saying how I was gorgeous, and that he didn't know how to dance. Yeah word to Plies. Just a P.S.A. public drunkenness is not cute.

Just as I had taken as much hugs and slurred words as I could from this dude, I take the opportunity to give Jahsonic the side eye to remind him about my song. He gave me a head nod and a hand shake and kept playin what he was playin. I should have known, the deejays I know hate it when you request songs. Side note: Jahsonic has the softest hands ever. What kind of moisturizer you use, son? I get back to my spot and I see brandi looking all pissed that I left her with the drunk dude. His posse is leaving so he tries his hand a little touchy feel feel before he goes. Um, no dude. not having it. Here's a hug for you and a hug from brandi, now get to steppin.

We keep dancing and decide to go to the other side of the room, just in case drunkey mcdrunkerson comes back. We get to our new spot and brandi tousels the hair of this dread as she walks by. Well, needless to say thats who she was dancing with for the rest of the evening. Me, I danced with the sweater vested, tie wearing Trini who was a good 3 or4 inches shorter than I was. Its not a problem. I'm pretty tall for a girl. So I'm used to being the same height or a smidge taller than dudes. But catch this. He uses the most fabulous short man pick up line ever on me. After we were dancing for a while he says in my ear, "I see you're not too tall to have a short conversation." Wow. No words. I don't know why I thought that was awesome, but it was. Like Brandi says, I'm a soft touch. We danced all night until the lights came on. I don't think thats happened since college.

Anyway night over, we race back to the garage where we were parked to retrieve the car. It was 2:56 and the garage closed at 3am. We get in the car and head back to Maryland. We get a couple of blocks and brandi says, OMG I think we're running out of gas. I look at her gas guage and it says she still has a quarter of a tank left. I said, "you can't be running out of gas. the guage says you still have some." Then I feel what she's talking about. The car isn't moving as she is pressing on the gas. It won't get beyond 2nd gear. We pull over to the side of the road. Ever the voice of reason, I say,"I think we can make it. Can't we make it to a gas station?" Okay not the best advice but to my defense I was 3 1/2 Jack n' Gingerales in.

Brandi decides not to risk it and instead moves into a parking spot on the side of K street. Okay here is the moment that all single girls dread. You're stuck on the side of the road, who do you call? I was for sure not going to call my Dad or my brother. Because even though I knew they would come, I sure as hell didn't want to get the lecture on the way home. So I called the only male person I know that would probably come and get us without to much of an attitude. And I say male, because I still am under the impression that there is certain things that are just male duties. Like taking out the trash, killing bugs, putting together furniture, and tonight: rescuing damsels in distress. So I call him, and: no answer. I text him: no answer. Brandi closes my phone in disgust and makes her phone call. Not a dude, but the next best thing. Someone you think of when you think of someone handy, take charge, and down for whatever at after 3am: a lesbian.

Yes, she has a name. No I'm not going to tell you. And she is much more than a lesbian she is brandi's home girl and clearly reliable. So after a phone call to wake her up and to let her know our situation, she is on the way to pick us up. And she arrives shortly later like an angel in a knit cap, blastin' Tupac's Thug Life in the car. She drives us home and kicks our drunk asses out when we get to the house. Yaaay, rescued! The next morning my would be knight in shining armour called to make sure we were ok. He had missed our call and slept through the text. I was glad he called to check on us. But happier that we were able to handle it ourselves.

The moral of the story: ladies, you don't need a man to bail you out of situations, all you need is a handy lesbian with access to a car.

Or Triple A, whatevs

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner! Thanksgiving 2009

I'm writing this knowing this will only be funny to my sister, brother, and other family members who were actually there to witness the hilarity.

So I roll up to the house sans children. My first Thanksgiving without the children. But one thing about family, they have a way of wrapping you up in their love and make everything alright.Anyways, I noticed my grandfather and his wife's car in the driveway. Great! I know there will be wine. His wife brought her son with her. Both puerto rican, they go back in forth in spanish. And she gives my grandfather the side eye every time he pours a glass of wine. She told him, "I can see the wine in your cheeks!" What the hell does that mean?

My mother has a very good relationship with my grandfather. He's not her real father, but the only one she knows. They have an awful abusive history, but as I said families have a way of letting time make everything all right. Its like they share this terrible secret, and they have to be nice to each other because you have to trust the keeper of the secrets. Bleh, this isn't funny at all.

On to the next. Okay, time to eat! My sister and her kids arrived with her parts of the meal. There was a flurry of work and movement before it was time to eat. I arrived with my fork and my apetite. And I of course sat on my ass the entire time. My neice and I conspired to get the turkey legs. My brother and my other neice always "call" the legs. So I let it be known that no more will the fair skinned Grays monopolize the turkey legs. I always try to make everything racial. Its funny because my neice is biracial (black and white), my mother is biracial (black and mexican) and my brother mysteriously light skinned for no particular reason. And of course my grandmother is puerto rican. So its the friggin U.N. up in this piece, but like my brother says, "we're all niggas". heeheee! He actually said that.

So the topic of conversation was about my sister who had invited her old high school friend over for dessert. Okay, a little back story. My sister dated this dude in high school, they reconnected through facebook. He started calling her regularly and came to visit. Holly realized that he wasn't as stable as she had hoped. He is pre-occupied with race (told holly about his black nanny who he was trying to get in touch with). He is socially awkward and often scripts future conversation. And we're pretty sure he's already planning his and holly's wedding.

Eventually, Holly left to go pick up said wack job. While she was gone Andre and I (step grandmother's son) kept talking about what was going to happen when he got here. We talked about scenarios where he accidentally might use the n word and then we would have to give him the beat down and toss him out. then Derek realized that we couldn't say the word either, cuz thats just awkward in front of white folks. And to let you know Derek is addicted to the N word. This is fitna be hilarious.

So Holly and strange boy arrived. I say strange boy really loosely cuz dude is 40 years old and looks damn near 50. Let me paint the picture. Picture a partially balding Dr. Evil in a 3 piece suit. Derek and I kept doing the scene where Dr. Evil tries to do the macarena (duka duka duka duka oh oh oh). He says as soon as he arrives, "Wow, here I am in the Gray household after 20 some years!" Like he's been waiting to be back in all 20 years. He says the same phrase like 30 times. "here I am back in the gray household after 20 years!" He sits himself next to Hannah and begins to tell her how she should consider going to college in Georgia because he lives there and he could be her benefactor of sorts.

Hello I believe I"m in the twilight zone!

Then he says, "you know I knew all of Martin Luther Kings speech by heart! But Holly didn't want me because of that. She wanted me because I was so cute and charming." At that point I fall out on the floor. Then he also proceeds to tell my niece that she is so exotic looking. And then to complete the awkward white guilt statements, he says, "my family and I have always color blind, saying a racial slur would be the only thing we would get in trouble for." At that point my brother comes over and whispers, "nigga, nigga, nigga" in my ear.

So here we are in the Obama era. Several races represented together in one family. And one awkward white boy, who makes the topic of conversation how different we all are and how he's totally okay with that. And it gives me the feeling that if someone would ever accuse him of racism, he would point to the fact that he was in a negro home for thanksgiving and how he was completely accepted as one of the family.
Man, I love Thanksgiving.

Oh and just a few other tidbits:
I spiked the holiday punch with vodka
Grandmother's son used to have a gold tooth which mysteriously disappeared, and my mom wondered if "he mighta sol' it"
Derek and I did the two step, poorly
My aunt pat did nothing funny whatsoever (darn) and came with a new set of teeth (fabulous)

A Rose By Any Other Name

I dropped my married name off of my facebook last week. A small thing. But kind of a big deal for me. It was precipitated by me spending a good part of my morning with my former in-laws as we were having them take the yearly grandchild christmas photos. My mother-in-law does this every year. I appreciate her because most of the formal pictures of my kids, she has arranged. But it was awkward because just prior we had some back in forth that was kind of negative. The photo session went fine though. A little awkward but fine.

After the photo session I went to my parent's house which is the norm on Sundays. I felt so at home there. I laugh so much there. When I am there I am indeed a Gray. As I was leaving, I felt so overwhelmed by the joy that my family has when we're together juxtaposed to how awkward I had felt earlier, I decided then to change my name back. It was clear that I was no longer a Codrington.

One of the reasons I had kept my married name was the children. I didn't want them to think I was divorcing them along with their dad. Also, I felt self conscious being by myself with these two boys, I was afraid of the judgement I might face if people thought that I had children out of wedlock. Like I wanted to wear a shirt that said "I am divorced, not a single mom". But the reality of it is, I am a single mom. I am divorced and I am raising these boys alone. Part of me wants to change the boys last name too. But I know that is just selfish Michele talking. They are as much a part of him as they are of me.

So this is me. Celebrating little victories.

So hmm, what else is going on. Not much. I have two half written stories to finish. I haven't been in a very quiet space to finish them. Perhaps during the Thanksgiving break. I am enjoying where I'm at right now. Got in a comfortable groove of working, playing, caring, and creating. Try to do a bit of each thing every day.

I have been speaking alot to Fred. And by speaking I mean facebook chatting. Since he is far that is probably the only kind of communication we will do. At least for now. I don't know about him. But I am interested in finding out about who he is. He hides alot of himself. Its just a feeling that I get. I dunno. Maybe thats how people are meant to behave in the beginning. I kind of have gone the opposite route. I put myself so far out there, just so I can be proud of myself that I'm not self conscious about it. Its a way for me to win a bit. Because not so long ago I was embarrassed by every move I made.

Sometimes I get envious of folks who get to go off to different places. My responsibilities keep me pretty much stationary. But the one thing that this little life of mine has taught me, is that every day that I get up and move and grow is an adventure. I am responsible for two other lives besides my own. I almost was evicted, I was unemployed, I was employed again, I was married, I was divorced, I've moved on my own, I started playing the violin again, I write, I cook, I create. And on really wild days I laugh and I laugh and I date and I kiss. I drink mimosas, I play scrabble, I grab boys' natty hair, I have sex, and I bought a bed. This coming weekend I'm going to get new needles and yarn to start a new knitting project, and I've ordered some art supplies because I've decided I'm going to try my hand at collage and painting.

Quite an adventure I am on. Yes, I am happy with this life I am building for myself. And I'm excited to see what tomorrow will bring.

Michele Lee Gray: Mommy, writer, educator, sister, lover, friend, somebody's child, adventurer . . .

The Bohemian Revolution: Money, Sex, and Secrets, The New Face of the 21st century Artist

"Degenerates are not always criminals, anarchists, and pronounced lunatics; They are often authors and artists."
-Max Nordan, Degeneration



"I don't do any work, on the pretext of writing a poem; and I write a poem to have an excuse for not doing anything." (Knepler, 33) A bohemian's "job" was the perfection of his literature or art. If a bohemian wished to gain higher status it was ideally through the pursuit of his passion. Houssaye himself observed, "Our lives seemed to pass in the serious service of art, and the light-hearted service of love. Beyond heart and intellect we refused to go." (Knepler, 32)

I bought a bed today. I’ve been sleeping on the floor since March. When I left the house in D.C., I had no one to help me move the big stuff. So I left the bed.



My mother, being the concerned mother she is, gave me an aerobed. It is a regular sized bed that is filled with air. However, the bed never stayed very firm and I often found myself swimming in plastic in the middle of the night, needing to push the magic button that pumps more air in. So the air bed was more trouble than it was worth. My mother not wanting a daughter of hers just to sleep on the floor gave me a feather mattress that she put on top of her bed. So I used it as a pallet. It seemed to bother other people more than me that I didn’t have a bed.



My self-proclaimed bohemian lifestyle has now come to an end. My self imposed poverty over the summer, my days spent at my café of choice (busboys) writing and drinking. The time to just do nothing but pursue my art was priceless to me. However, the reality was that I was paying a very heavy price. No money eventually means no food, no gas for the car, no place to stay. The stress that my bohemian lifestyle caused was a very high price indeed.

But today I bought a bed.


I have a very good job. It pays very well. I make a good amount of money for someone of my age and education. Although I’m not very good at managing it. So I’m not an impoverished bohemian writer. But I think we need to rethink what the connotation of artist is. I believe the bohemian ideal dictates that we make choices based upon how the choice affects the art. If you are always worried about how you will pay for a meal or if you will have a place to lay your head and make choices out of those fears, the art suffers. We should never make choices out of fear.
So I am not huddled on the floor writing this blog as if my life depended on it. I am sitting up with my laptop that my job provided on my new mattress. After this I will probably write a poem about the newest loves in my life.





So I still am attracted by the bohemian lifestyle. I often wish I hit the lottery so I can again go to the busboys and write my days away. I also wish that I could pursue matters of the heart and flesh with the reckless abandon of a true bohemian. But NO ONE does that anymore.



I spent all day Saturday with my artist du jour. We drank our weight in mimosas, talked and laughed and played sex games on my pallet on the floor. I didn’t care about tomorrow with him. I cared about that moment in time. Us together, enjoying each other. But I noticed for him, this day was something of a secret. Not sure why, who he thought he may offend. I noticed of all the pictures he took that day, not one of them were of me. He definitely is not as free of a bohemian as he would have us all to believe. But surely that is not my problem. I had a great time and now I’m blogging about it. I don’t often share all of what transpires with me to the world. Most things that are really important to me I keep to myself, but that is my choice. I want to keep it just for me. It’s not for everyone else. But there is a difference between being private and being secretive. Sometimes I miss the public declarations . . . that is what I miss most about being in an exclusive relationship. (hahaha, only some of you will get that joke) I miss being spoken of, I miss being missed.



I once spent a great few days with someone I knew I wasn’t going to see for months. I was very curious about him. In my mind eye we would be pretty okay together. I connected the dots and speculated a bit and decided, “let’s see where this will go”. We had a great few days. I still don’t know him very well, but I knew enough that made me want to definitely see him again when he got back. However, one of the last things he said to me was, “keep your business, your business” What in the hell does that mean? Clearly, if I were to tell anyone about this, it would be a serious upgrade for his reputation. I told him he only had 4 days not to be a jerkface. He almost made it.



I am an upper middle class divorced mother of two. I am an artist. I write better than most. I’ve been published just once. I make artistic decisions based on the art not on the money it may or may not provide. I love love. I pursue it like a child’s game of tag. I pursue matters of the heart. I do what feels good. I love a good cocktail. None of this is a secret. I have high self esteem. I know that secrecy from others has little to do with me. I have legs for miles and the best hip, thigh, ass proportion in the DMV. This I know.

So my point is the following

• I consider myself an artist
• Although I am attracted to the bohemian lifestyle, a sister has bills and two kids who want to eat on a regular basis
• I love dating other artists but wish they didn't have such an inflated sense of self that they felt the need to instruct their female counterparts not to post an ad in the paper describing the encounter. or keep them from screaming from the mountaintops. (you ain't nobody dude)
• I have never felt the need to take out an ad or scream from the mountain tops. But best believe when I do, there's gonna be a dude right beside me screaming too.

Like the definition above says, I engage in only activities that further the heart and the intellect. I am free with how I use my body and my time. I love feeling good. And I have decided that someone else’s hang ups is not going to shape how I view myself or carry myself in this world.

The bohemian life was carefree. As part of their rebellion against "genteel" society, bohemians felt no reason to exhibit moral or socially acceptable behavior. One participant, Houssaye, printed in his memoirs, "We were afraid of nothing and thumbed our noses at public opinion. . .The most outstanding characteristic of our Bohemian existence was our open revolt against all prejudices,

The Change of Waiters (my afternoon at busboys)

The change of the waiters. One comes and delivers the check and says that if you want anything else there will be another waiter. Oh first waiter that I didn’t get a chance to know, have a great rest of your day. You got plans this evening? Nah, me neither. Oh hello new waiter I’m sure you will be much better than first waiter. Long day ahead of you? Yeah the grind can be hard. Wait new waiter, I actually do have an order. Hello, new waiter? Okay new waiter sucks ass. Where is old waiter?

Checking internet, checking . . .okay internet still doesn’t work…so I actually may get done some writing…yeah I have nothing to write about. Okay new waiter you could at least look in this direction. I’m sure you think I don’t want anything. Since I just finished scarfing down a turkey burger that old waiter brought. I am sure my thoughts of racism are only springing up because I watched the KKK documentary on the History Channel before I left home. I mean you can’t be racist and work for busboys. I’m sure it’s like a question on their application or something. Old waiter never brought back my change. Okay old waiter, I wasn’t actually going to give you a tip since it was the host that took my order. I want to at least have the option of not tipping you. Dammit…

Okay I’m gonna get all negro on their asses. Maybe if either new waiter or old waiter could come take my drink order I would be more mellow. So here goes. Excuse me new waiter? Do you wait in this area? Can I have a vodka gimlet? And tell old waiter, he hasn’t brought my change back. Thanks.

Old waiter brings me 5 bucks. Clearly he doesn’t know what I ordered. So the moral question? Should I scoop up the extra 2 bucks that he left or be honest and just scoop up my 3 bucks. I really don’t want him to think I am tipping him for not taking my order, not bringing my food, nor not bringing back my change. So I think the moral decision would be to scoop up all 5 bucks and give it to new waiter. Although new waiter doesn’t seem very um, waity. I may have to chalk the extra two bucks up to the vodka fund.

Fred Sanford is very mysterious. Not real Fred Sanford mind you. Fred Sanford my poke buddy on facebook. Who are you Sanford? Why do you look like fred Sanford yet I think you’re the cutest thing ever? What do you do exactly? And why are you always at meetings? What are you meeting about? Jeez. I am at busboys come tell me all the answers please. I am sitting on the couch next near the front. Look forward to talking to you.

E speezy, why are you so cranky? Why do you get mad and stop talking to negresses then deny that you’re mad? You should try taking interest in somebody for real. Maybe not me, but somebody. Take a chance and stop being so weird and moody and complicated. Just relax and go with the flow and make some effort. Maybe someone will make some effort with you as well. Let me text him and see what happens. “hey you. How is ur day going?”

Nigerian, why do you continue to text me at the most random times? I am glad I cross your mind sometimes. Do you want to just get married and work out the details later. I’m sure we would have as good of a chance as folks who date for years then get hitched. Your friend has been flirting with me. I may do it to him. It will completely be accidental you understand. But by then I know it would be completely out of the question with us. So you might want to get to getting over yourself and give me a call to profess your undying love to me. I’m at the busyboys, reception is not to good here, so you might want to just come by. I’m on a couch near the door. Look forward to talking with you.

Texted Laura to come have dinner with me at Eatonville. I owe her 40 bucks. I hope she doesn’t ask for it because I’m about 40 bucks short.

OOOH Dead Giveaway by Shalamar is on! Woo hoo. It’s just a dead giveaway. Dead. Giveaway.
Uh oh. Speezy just texted. Let’s see . . .”Hey there. Day is great.” Eh. Okay he is safe for now. For now . . he didn’t say anything after that, so he is still on the verge of woman scorned revenge.

Confirmed dinner with Laura. It will be a nice night. It would be great if my main homie could come join us. I think she and Laura would hit it off. She has plans though with Mrs. Lonely Heart. I actually support those plans Mrs. could really use some bright spots right about now.
OH wait I take it all back. Speezy just texted that he is with his daughter. Okay the hit is off. I want to kiss his face.

Busboys should really stop advertising free internet. This thing hasn’t worked the last two times I was here. Let me pull a host aside to tell them to push the reset button on the internet thingie. Okay one more drink and that’s it. I must have enough for dinner later. The check I deposited hasn’t cleared yet. Probably not until Monday. I should start asking for support in cash. These checks are a drag.

Omg. I just saw a girl come in with an orange cross colours-esque overall suit. Overalls? I mean really… What are you, an out of work Electric Company actor?

Girl that looks like Ramona walked in. I miss her so much. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Okay, let me stop frontin like I don’t need to be on the internet. Off to find a connection . . . (think about it, think about it, . . .)

For All of Us

I finally saw Whitney's interview with Oprah. Saw it over my sister's house. It was a wonderful interview and I enjoyed her performance on part 2. It made me think how many strong women I have in my life. It made me think about how strong I am. Whitney goes through what many women go through. When she sang the song with the line "I am not built to break" I thought, "of course you're not. Neither am I". Then I looked at my sister and thought, "Neither is she." I thought of my mother, I thought of my best friend. None of us are built to break. We as women need to remember that. When we are the middle of it, whatever the "it" is, in that moment, we need to remember that.

I thought if someone had interviewed me after I asked my husband to leave, and someone were to ask me about how I was strong enough to do that, I think my answers would have been so similar to Whitney's. It made me think about how similar we all are, and how its a shame that some of us have to go through so much to find out how extraordinary we are.

Last night I was on the computer reading @fattybella's tweets. Something tells me things are not all good in the hood with her and Jay Electronica. She is hurt, but she will be fine. We want to love so much and so much we want to be loved in return. We sometimes forget ourselves in the love story we create in our heads.

I want Whitney to learn to love again. To be fearless when she finds someone that makes her heart flutter as much as Bobby did. That is the hardest part I think. Talking to co-workers about the interview most of the sentiments centered around how "regular" Whitney is. I think many women identified with her. But Whitney is not regular. Whitney is extraordinary. Her mistake was trying to dim her shine. So many of us are extraordinary and even though so many women go through the same thing it does not make it any less extraordinary. The strength it takes to muster to save ourselves when everything in us tells us to sacrifice ourselves for those we love is extraordinary.

I've been asked how I could just up and end a 13 year relationship with the father of my children, my husband. I don't really understand the question, because in my mind it was him or me and I chose me. simple. simple yet extraordinary.

So here's to all of us. All of us extraordinary women who are not built to break. Here are a few of our stories

I fell in love with the funniest, most talented, beautiful man
Because he hid his faults, I never really got to know him.
I had two children for him.
He tried to dim my shine because he didn't fully understand the magnitude of his own.
I left him before I was broken. And I never looked back.
I'm so looking forward to loving again...greater is he that is in me
Michele Lee Gray Codrington was not built to be broken

My sister fell in love with a man
she married him and divorced him
He also kept secrets.
She lost her job and almost lost her home
She rebuilt her life and is now dating more than I am
Holly Gray-Brown is not built to be broken

My mother is the daughter of a heroin addict.
She never knew her father
She had to raise her brothers and sisters on her own when she was just a child herself.
She married her highschool sweetheart and had 3 beautiful and flawed children
Brenda Mae Gray was not built to be broken

My grandmother was pregnant at 15.
Abandoned by the baby's father when she was not yet showing.
She became addicted to heroin and an alcoholic
She fell in love with her savior.
6 of her 7 children were addicts.
But she survived and so did they
Geneva "Gloria" Jones Hampton was not built to be broken

Moody Boy Fan Club

It just started out by getting random texts. Once I got a phone call just when I started my new job. When I saw his name pop up on the caller id it really surprised me. What does he want? Then it was the year anniversary of his mother's death, and I remembered. I wanted to let him know that I remembered. I do think of him sometimes, but on the whole I've pushed him to the left side of my brain. But still sometimes I think of him. I wonder what he's doing, how he's doing, wondering if he sometimes thinks of me, wondering if those thoughts are pleasant.

I used to think we would make a good team, him and I. Part of me still does. But a couple of years ago, I believed it completely. It was one of those "with every fiber of my being" beliefs. I was so flumoxed when he didn't see it. It was like everything I knew was turned on its ear. Like I was dropped into a labyrinth and hadn't dropped any bread crumbs to lead me out. It confused me to the point that I stopped feeling comfortable with myself, especially around him.

It's hard to be in a situation where you know something is true, but no one else believes it. So my main mistake is trying to convince him of it. That is the worse position in which anyone can put themselves.

They say women are attracted to men like their father. My father is or was the grumpiest, moodiest man on the planet. and that is who I find myself most attracted to. In one word, "curmudgeons". A friend of mine can be really moody. He sometimes says slick shit out of his mouth to me or to other folk. I can tell when its mood related and when I see it, all I want to do is mush his face between my hands and give him a big kiss right below his eye socket. (thats one of my favorite kissing spots. There, and in the area right below the ear). I wanna be able to give him a big nuzzle and let him know that everything will be okay and to let him know that I'm not afraid of his grumpiness. I mainly just find it amusing. (as I said, next to my dad, these dudes are cream puffs).

But one thing the Nigerian has taught me is that sometimes a nuzzle and a sloppy kiss doesn't always cure what ails you. Sometimes its a "here I am ready to love you, and you're pushing me away, and that is in no way cool. I understand, but you need to get it together, if it is me that you want. And maybe I am not what you want. And thats okay too. Maybe you can get it together in order to ready for what I have to offer. Maybe you never will be ready. And it is no one's fault and no one's deficiency." I realized that I am in need of some of that unconditional love shit that I am always so willing to give out. So yes, that's what I need. And I realize (albeit late) that love is easy, its relationships that are hard, and no one should have to convince someone they are worthy to be loved. That's the part that should be easy.

So I was finally able to let go of the Nigerian. I realized that I was taking on too much responsibility for that not working. My fearlessness might've been a bit much, but his cowardice was just a plain drag. So now that we've been communicating again, I'm reminded about how much we have in common. I'm reminded about how nice it was to talk to him. And in my more hopeful moments, I think , "wouldn't it be something if now we both got our stuff together at the same time." He being him and me being me, and if by chance we find each other . . .