*Beloved Bastard (guest blog)

*This blog has been written by a guest blogger. Like me, she's also an African-American in her late twenties. She was married earlier this year and now lives in Arkansas.

That's right, bastard. All my life I've been a bastard. I'm not being rude or disrespectful, as a matter of fact, I think I am a very nice person. I mean bastard in the way that Merriam-Webster defines it, an illegitimate child. Not only am I illegitimate, I had no idea who my father way, not a name, nothing...until earlier this month.

Life is crazy. I am currently addicted to MySpace. I teased my husband unmercifully when he opened an account, but it didn't take long for me to follow in his footsteps. MySpace is great! You can reconnect with old friends and keep in contact with new ones. But MySpace does have a bad side: pedophiles, spam, and unwanted advances. At first I thought MySpace was immune to spam but everyday I'm bombarded with friend requests and messages from people who want me to refinance a house I don't have, buy diet pills, get free ringtones, etc.

So I wasn't the least bit intrigued when I checked my account and saw I had a shitload of friend requests and new messages from people I didn't know. But what did intrigue me was an email to my personal address from a "cousin". Usually I delete emails from people I don't know without even opening them, but for some reason I read this one. As I read the email, I realized that even though I had no idea who she was, this lady knew me. She knew all sorts of personal information about me. But what surprised me the most is that she said my "father" was so happy to finally find me and that actually it was my "brother" that found me on MySpace. On MySpace!

When I talked to my father, it was a surreal experience. Logically, I knew I had a father; but emotionally, I never did. I've never longed for a father nor felt a void in my life. If not the for not-so-chance meeting through MySpace, I would have never sought him out. I wasn't bitter or nothing, just uninterested.

Three weeks later, I have talked to everyone on my father's side. From the immediate family, I have three additional sisters and one brother, two aunts, seven cousins, a stepmother, and a stepsister. Crazy isn't it! The most shocking part of it all is that they have been looking for me since I was six years old! They have memories, pictures, and stories of me from birth to six years - I have none of those. I know I have a horrible memory, but this is ridiculous!

My mom and I have never discussed my father, not once! So when I told her about these strangers claiming to be my family, she nonchalantly said, "Yeah, that's probably your dad. Are you gonna call him?" To this day, that is all we have ever said about my father. Talking to him is refreshing, he is genuinely nice; but it is also overwhelming. He is so happy to have finally found me. The adults in the family have all written Montel, Maury, Donahue, Jenny Jones, etc. looking for me! It's great to be so loved.

Next thing up, mini family reunion in Vegas next month! Viva Las Vegas!

Same Guy

It didn't take much work on her part to convince me to rejoin www.match.com. 1. I've been single for over a year. 2. They're running a 75% off special. And you know how I love a bargain.

I was severely disappointed after updating my profile and running my first search. My specifications yielded only 2 pages of potential matches. Maybe I'm too picky?! Maybe they're really very few men 5' 10"or taller, with no kids, never been married, earned a bachelor's degree or higher, and don't smoke on Match right now. Ugh! What a waste of time. But looking on the bright side, I get to call her up and have her log on too so we can make fun of all the spelling and grammar errors we find.

So I did just that. Her tastes are different than mine and I just knew her search would produce more than a mere 2 pages. She was so excited to tell me about a guy that she's gone as far as having a phone conversation with.

"He's a police officer." "Oh really? A detective sent me a message." "He's cool; we just talked about work and stuff." "Uh, wait. Is he white?" "No, Puerto Rican." "Yes, that's what I meant. Um, I think that same guy sent me a message!"

We then began giggling like 7th graders as we confirmed that a guy w/the same profile name sent both of us a message. I turned him down right away because of his skin color (hush, I'm entitled to my own personal preference). But what if I hadn't? And what if she and I didn't decide to discuss our Match experiences? Then we would be having the female version of Usher and Kell's latest song; "We've been messing with the same guy!"

I'm sure it wouldn't gone that far. But this goes to show you just how small of a world we're living in, internet and all it's infinity included.

I Heart Michael Vick

The football player, that is. Not the guy who's 'bout to plead guilty to dogfighting charges.

I arrived in Atlanta a year before he was drafted with the #1 pick. I saw pro football here go from a simple recap on the Sunday night news report to an all-out celebration, steeped with nothing but excitement. We all know that his career didn't fully take off until '03, but from that draft day on the city was in love. I heart Michael Vick, as did many around me.

For the past 4 years, the only way you were getting a seat in the Dome was if you knew somebody who knew somebody or if you knew somebody willing to pay waaaaaaaay more than face value for a resell ticket. Not wanting to be left out, I excitedly added my name to the 10,000+ other ones on the waiting list for season tics. My number was finally called this past June, shortly before my birthday. As a gift to myself, I catapulted my Sunday plans from a six-pack and the couch to some drafts and an upper level seat in the Dome, baby!

Then the barking began.

I, like Mike, thought the latest allegations against him would just blow over. Hello! He is Michael Vick! Arguably the most exciting player in The League! Flickin' off the crowd @ a home game...nothing. Trying to smuggle something onto a plane at the Miami airport...nothing. He is Michael Vick, you know. So I had no trouble spending that kind of money on the opportunity to see this on and off the field scrambler live and in action!

No need to rehash the top sports story of the summer. Even non sports fans know the climax of this one. While we're all still awaiting the ending, it's pretty clear that he will forever be seen in a completely different light.

When you grow up in a town where every newborn baby boy is given a plastic orange and black football shortly after birth, the sport is bound to stay with you for life. I love the game. I appreciate how a player like him can elevate the game to a level a city has been craving for several years.

But what I don't appreciate is a man that does the things Mike is accused of doing. You'll never catch me with a PETA membership card, but I do have love for our four-legged, furry friends. But more importantly, I have love for the law. And in this country dogfighting is illegal and if an average Joe isn't above the law, he shouldn't be either.

I would love to see him play in the NFL again; preferably here where he started it all. But some things have got to change with him and others coming into the same status. Dogfighting, along with 'making it rain' in a Vegas strip club (that darn Pac-Man Jones!), are just two examples of activities that shouldn't be done by anyone, let alone a pro baller - new to money, new to fame, new to scrutiny on a national, heck international, level. Just as many professions, including my own, provide mentors to newbies, pro sports leagues should too. Many of these players come from backgrounds where the difference between right and wrong is not emphasized, yet that difference in their actions, again on or off the field, is paramount as soon as that contract is signed.

Yes, the blame for his situation lies squarely on Vick's shoulders. He is a grown man! But for the sake of the game and the millions of fans that love it, the NFL should immediately hand these boys two playbooks - one for the game and one for life.

Diesel

I just committed the dumbest act of my adult life.

On the morning of Saturday, August 12, 2007, I had to drive from Atlanta to Macon for a sorority workshop. In the meantime my aunt and uncle were on their way from Augusta to Atlanta to run errands and drop Hai back off. They wanted to meet me at 1pm, but I couldn't leave the workshop 'til 12:15. That gave me 45 minutes to make a normally 70 minute drive. Tough, but do-able.

So after the workshop I realized that, surprise surprise, I desperately needed gas. Rushing, I pulled into the nearest station, swiped my card, and grabbed a nozzle. I went to shove the nozzle in the tank and the darn thing didn't fit! Red flag #1! "This thing must be broken!", I thought as I then decided to keep pumping. You should have seen me holding the nozzle up to the hole! As I watched the amount tick up towards $20 I noticed the other three available nozzles at that pump were skinnier. Red flag #2! "Just my luck that of all the nozzles, I choose the broken one." After I had enough to get me back to Atlanta, I finished up and started back on my way.

After exactly 1/2 mile, my car totally shut down. It had just enough uuumph left for me to steer it to I-75's shoulder. What the ****?! I got out, walked around the outside of the car, and didn't see anything. I hopped back inside, no 'Check Engine' light. "Hmmmm," as I guzzled the last of my bottled water. Then it hit me...check the receipt from the gas station.

The dumbest act of my adult life was unintentionally putting diesel fuel in my gasoline tank!

It went from bad to worse after that. 104 degrees, 2 feet away from a busy interstate, 45 minute wait for a tow truck. Then, my cell phone broke - probably from a combination of the heat and my sweat since I was using it the whole time. I gotta end this story now because retelling it is sending me back into a deep depression. But after a 90 minute tow truck ride back to Atlanta that day, 5 more days in the repair shop, and a $700 bill - my nightmare is over.

Once I was able to think clearly again, I desperately began searching for the lesson that cost me almost a month's mortgage payment. There were certainly mini-lessons coming to light. 'Look before you leap.' 'Be prepared.' 'Thoroughly investigate red flags.' But none of these lessons are worth the price of a trip to Jamaica!

So I'm going to chalk this one up to a lesson on slowing down! So what if my aunt and uncle would've had to wait an extra 30 minutes for me! (They wound up waiting an extra 3 hours!) Life already moves too fast. Now I know there's big time consequences at stake for speeding it up even more.

34D

My girl Oprah told me that 80% of us are wearing the wrong bra size. I believe her and know that I am part of that statistic. I've been wearing a 34B since I was 20 years old, but can tell by the spillage that it's just not right. I know lots of useless info, such as how to measure your boobs for the correct sized bra. But I don't have a loose tape measure laying around the house.

Last week, a co-worker announced to a group of us that one of the most exciting things she did this summer was going for a bra fitting. That served as my inspiration. So today I grabbed Haillie and we were off for a day of new bras.

Usually I hate when store associates come up to me, especially the second I step through the door. But today I was grateful for Dawn; for she would soon become BFF with my boobs. I love the uniforms at Soma. Black pants and a kimono type of top, so they can pop out one of their own camisole-covered boobs to show you that the bra is indeed seamless. Love it! So Dawn prances over and I tell her my blurb about what O says and how I'm one of them and how I need some new bras. With a smile, she whips out her trusty tape measure and measures me right then and there. Then, her - "What kind of bra do you like?" Then, me - "Um, the kind that separates, not squishes, and goes kind of low, and that's it."

Three minutes later she has six bras ready for war. We proceed to a dressing room and she shows me the proper way to put on a bra. Listen up ladies - First put both arms through the straps. Next, lean over and let your breasts fall into the cups. Then comes the tricky part, while still leaning over, reach around and use the middle hooks to fasten it. Next, stand up erect (tee hee!) and check for three things. 1. The straps - They should be snug enough to just get one finger underneath. 2. The back - It should go straight across. 3. The spillage - There shouldn't be anything spilling out of the cups. I call that the third (or fourth) boob, not cute. Please note that #1 is the only one that can be adjusted; that's Dawn's first job when she re-enters the room. Yes, that's right. I didn't know this but a bra fitting is not like a jeans fitting, where the associate asks "Everything alright?" and gives you another size from the other side of the door. Nope, Dawn gives me about four minutes to put each bra on the proper way and comes on in. I very quickly get used to her analyzing each fit. 34C - Wow look at me, errr...look at my boobs! The bra feels good, but I have spillage in a major and unattractive way (Not that anybody but me is seeing my bra these days, but that's beside the point.). The spillage is not good, I tell her and maybe we should go for a fuller, but still sexy, cup.

Then that girl crushes my spirits. She tells me that the reason I have spillage on one side and not the other is that...my left boob is smaller than my right. Oh, I want to cry buckets. I've always said that my left was lazy, kind of like a lazy eye. It doesn't wander around, but it gets aroused way after the right. The right quickly responds to stimuli like cold, wet, and a yummy guy. But the left just kind of sits there like "I'm so not interested." So now not only is it lazy, but it's also smaller than its twin. This may be just the thing that forces me to therapy.

Dawn tells me that in my situation (which is common, thank you very much) she likes to cater to the larger breast. So she leaves and returns with a (drum roll, please) 34D! Oh my! I know for a fact that I'm not going to fill up a D cup, but how many chances in life do you get to try one on. After she left I squeal and lean over. I'm in shock as I stand up and thought I may fall over, but my boobs certainly weren't going to fall out! Not only does it fit perfectly, but it looks great! Sexy even! I turn around, do jumping jacks and a head stand (okay, j/k) just to make sure it was staying in place. It was official, my true bra size is a 34D!!!

After giving her approval, Dawn brings me six more. I finally decide on a memory foam one and their best-selling seamless, t-shirt one. She even throws in a free panty (lacy hipsters, yum!), a laundry bag (complete with a mini-lesson on laundering), and a spiel on storage.

This is a win-win situation; I find comfort in knowing my true bra size and my boobs will find comfort in falling into my new bras! As for the size difference, no one's complained yet and I doubt no one ever will!

Go get fitted, ladies!

Hot Mess

If that's not a man on a mission, I don't know what is. His bicycle, in surprisingly good condition, was leaning up against the large, metal container as one of his feet rested on the ground and the other remained on the pedal. His stance allowed him to ride off on a moment's notice. Despite being surrounded by 98 degrees, despite being in the middle of a busy parking lot, I stopped. And stared. And wondered about his situation. Mess is bad anytime, but hot mess...What in your life forced you to rummage around in a restaurant's dumpster on an August day in Hotlanta? Where did you go wrong and what can I do to not go there? I'm not here to judge you, bicycle man. But I will sacrifice getting back to my air-conditioned car faster for the chance to watch your intense mission. And silently send the universe a request for change on your behalf.

My Mask

I'm going through life with a mask on. It fits flush to my flesh; there're no gaps, my peripheral vision is just fine. My body and my soul are Siamese twins; two separate entities forced together as one. I am my soul, my body is simply my vessel.

When you look at me, squint and look intensely for my soul. Look past my unmanicured nails and make-up free face. Look past my mask and find me.

First Words

The hook-up. No, not as in "I want to hook up with that hottie from the gym" (like I would ever say that). I mean, as in "I want to hook you up with this guy from my grad school class." That's what a co-worker called to tell me earlier this summer. Yes, that hook-up. It's probably the 'How to Meet a Guy' tactic that I've used the least, but I couldn't get any more single if I tried, and I have nothing to lose.

Her classmate and I had a brief, as in like 15 seconds, phone conversation about a month ago. But today we had our first real talk. Does anyone else out there dread the first words you have with a potential mate? Well, not really dread them, but recognize that they can be awkward, kind of uncomfy? Especially when those first words are exchanged over a phone line. You're unable to be reassured by the occasional head nod and/or smile (or even lack thereof). You're doing your best to balance the conversation - a little about me, a little about him. What questions are best to ask? To avoid? Oooooooooh, maybe I shouldn't have told him that I used to frequent a certain strip club in Windsor during my undergrad years.

After 11+ years in the dating game, I've had this first conversation over and over and over and over. Yet it never gets any easier. This conversation is filled with hope, surrounded by curiosity, and even peppered with skepticism. Yet, it's necessary in order to move on with your newest guy. Now that we've exchanged our first words, we're now free to embark upon our first everything else.

*Update: 08/12/07*
He never called again; guess he was put off by my strip club story! Oh well, life will go on. :)

**Update: 08/28/07**
He sent me a text today. Random! Stay tuned...

***Update: 10/13/07***
We met for dinner! But I think he has a g/f. Damn!

****Update: 08/11/10****
He's engaged; just not to me.