Contrived Love. Valentine's Day is for Suckers

The filter through which I chose, evaluate and process my relationship is a bit skewed.  Knowing that helps me understand why certain types of guys appeal to me without understanding what I actually want from those men when I have the full focus of their attentions.  Male attention is a tricky and slippery slope for me.  I developed a little early, that doesn't mean I always had these luscious golden ta ta's, because I was flat as a board till my daughters came,  though I had lots of curves, and great legs from eleven years of ballet (and still have crap rhythm and the grace of drunk stripper).  But from about eleven on, whenever I was in the company of any man, the focus on my figure was a problem for me.  I could see them sneaking looks or outright staring.  I remember once walking across the street in a bikini that had literally caused a three car accident in Va. Beach, VA when I was 16.  Or walking across K Street, not far from GW University with my friend Marc as a cab driver stared at me too long causing him to pull the man out of his car, through the window and fight him in the street as his taxi kept going down the road, not that we were in anyway dating or romantic, he just felt the man had disrespected him, because he could not know the nature of our relationship when he chose to stare at me.  Those days and that body are dead to me now.... but cemented many of my feelings about men in general and their attentions in particular.

Boys and men seemed to notice me a lot when I was young and I hated it. Aside from just being an introvert, I was a tomboy of the highest order.  A full out competitive little, bully, who ran the boys in my neighborhood and my family, like the bossy, busy body, everyone knew me to be.  So getting all of this unwanted attention, created an uncomfortable dilemma.  My father was one of five boys.  His brothers, were and those that remain alive, are still crazy men, who partied hard, and ran with a loyal ride or die type of crew that only seems to thrive in poor, ethnic, urban neighborhoods.  I had always heard my father and mother argue about why my da spent so much time with his friends and brothers.  Usually a quiet, stoic, introvert himself, my father once, stopped right in his tracks, his brown leather jacket still held akimbo, while he looked at my mom's frustrated face, and said simply, I go when they call because any of them would take a bat to the head of anyone who would do me or mine harm.  That would come back to haunt me later in life.

But at eleven years old, my focus was mainly on playing in the creek behind our home, with the boys, catching frogs, turtles and building dams, leading raids, storming fortes, and reading any book I could get my hands on.  I was such a freak of nature, and my entire life seemed destined to be and remain compartmentalized.  The boys I played with, loved the fact that we could hang out and get dirty, watch Bruce Lee, The God Father movies, play pool, ping pong, flag football or whatever yet they never knew, I loved poetry or classical french literature, or that I was developing a yen for Sartre and Camus.  I loved Barbara Streisand more than the popular music my girlfriends wanted to listen to, and would rather listen to Vivaldi than Air Supply. 

My main goal was trying to please the new and impossibly difficult man in my life, Father Francis Pizzarelli, though he was a Brother at the time.  This was no easy feat because my home life was for crap, with my dad allowing the men he was managing in an African Jazz Band to live in our home, the arguments between him and my mom that ensued as she would come home from working two jobs to find men and women in various states of dress and undress, drug paraphernalia, and no food for her and her child were interesting.  I was also trying to rush to complete homework during daylight hours and trying to stay warm in a home without heat, lights or warm water because our bills had not been paid.  Too embarrassed to bring my school friends home, it was always ridiculous that my neighborhood friends thought my dad was a god. 

I was in a constant state of anxiousness that caused devastating insomnia, which contributed to my stress and it all seemed to come to a head by the time I was in seventh grade.   Trying to please Fr. Pizzarelli, and not make it to school late  for the 125th day in a row,  praying the boys would not notice how my ass was filling out my Catholic School uniform and hoping my boobs would never grow.  It was a struggle, and one I fully lost when I got back from Christmas break.  By then this mixed girl had a fully growed black girl butt, and EVERYONE could see it, even the boys I thought I had deep in check were acting crazy, trying to walk me home and carry my books, buy me pretzels at recess, ehhh yuch, it still makes me cringe.  To say, they were dealt with was an understatement. 

One weekend, my mom took me with her to the hair salon, and as I lamented my troubles over how stupid the boys were at my school and how I COULD NOT WAIT UNTIL I began attending the all girls high school the soon, a friend of my mother's agreed wholeheartedly with me.  She did so as she explained to me that she was a lesbian.  I was not familiar with the word or the concept, at the time, but as she gave me a high level explanation, I do recall, thinking she had a perfect solution to a problem that had been worrying me.  How am I going to live in the world, as an adult, if I have to kiss, marry, and heaven help me "do it" with a boy?  It was not that I thought they were gross, though many of the ones I knew were... rather they were just like me.  We spoke the same language, played the same games and had the same interests.  My girlfriends never would have walked 27 blocks to see a Bruce Lee movie.  I was there equal and no way did I want to give that up to be their girlfriend, it seemed like giving up my key to the executive bathroom to become a glorified secretary.   

Would anyone ever understand how vehemently my new philosophy was being codified into my little pre-teen spirit?  Would my parents indulge me or think I was being melodramatic, or simply immature.  Basically my new philosophy consisted of a couple key themes.  My girlfriends were conniving, retarded morons who were starting to loose their minds, chasing, fighting and crying over boys that were not worth their spit, Calvin Klein jeans are not made for a black womans' body, Oreo cookies and Utz potato chips are a perfect pre-menstrual meal, and BEING married looked a lot less fun than GETTING married, so I was O_U_T.  That lasted until I was about 17 years old, when I decided to marry one of my little pals, Smeff  Jynne.  While we dated a bit, he went on to matrimonial bliss with another lucky little lady - and let's just say I dodged the proverbial bullet on that one...

As a teenager, it had not been difficult getting dates, boyfriends, then as an adult, lovers, fiances' and a husband.  As a result, my appreciation for those men, could have been more "appreciative".  But on some level, it has always seemed to me that one of the qualities most men have truly valued in me, besides my figure was how unlike a typical female I truly was and still am.  Mom, if you are reading this, no I am not going to announce at any point in this blog that I am a lesbian, or the name of your friend.  You can stop trying to call/text/email me, calm down and read in peace....

As I was saying, I have never been one of those "what are you thinking?" chicks, or let's talk alllll night long, women, or worse still "you like her better than me" girl.  My telephone conversations had been abrupt and efficient, my lovemaking skillful, but not exactly a cuddler, never liked roses, or candy, so valentine's day was more of Shasta Daisy, Oreo Cookie event for me.  The guys in my life seemed to make a much bigger deal than I ever want to out of it.  Once we were married, Smatt and I had very lovely gift exchanges, but all in all it was still just a bunch of blather about nothing if I'm being totally honest.  Enter DD - Divorce Day. 

This is the day, I officially (in my heart) became divorced from my ex.  It was Valentine's Day, 2008, we were in the kitchen cooking together, listening to R&B, having fun, when the phone rang.  His "girlfriend" calls, drunk, wanting to speak to "her" man on Valentine's Day.  As I handed him the telephone and walked out of the kitchen shaking my head, I was just done.  This was not the first indiscretion, and if you cannot keep your lying and cheating from a wife who NEVER looks through your crap and asks you questions, perhaps that was a bit of natural selection come to call on my marriage.  Either way, that phone call and the image of his little legs swinging from our California King bed, pretty much put the kibosh on any romantic/sexual feelings I would ever have for him.

Now after that happened, he still believed he could and would win me back.  And in all fairness, why not, I had gone back before.  What was different?  Well ask any woman what is different the LAST time she decides to forgive her man.  Who knows?  It just is very, very different.  What I cannot understand, is why after all of this time, he continues to want to make a HUGE deal out of Valentine's Day.  Some years he is sneaking back into our marital home to drop hundreds of rose petals all over the floor, up the stairs, through the hall, into my room, into the master bath, where the tub is run, and cheese, fruit and wine sit under candle light.  That elicited absolutely no romantic feelings whatsoever, all I could think of was who is cleaning up all this crap?  Did you guess?  Yep me.  remember the part about not liking roses, well after trying to sweep up hundreds of damp rose petals off hardwood, carpeted, and marble floors, I like them even less now.

Recently, he arrived with a huge printer, scanner, fax for Valentine's Day, and again, shaking my head, I did not even bother to fake it.  WTF is that? And why are you giving it to me on Valentine's day?  Did I mention I have a printer/scanner/fax?  Aside from the fact that it does not appear he knows me AT ALL, and my response to him and his attempts to celebrate this holiday make me feel like a royal bitch, which I hate,

WHY WHY WHY

Does he not get I NOW HATE VALENTINES DAY BECAUSE OF WHAT HE AND HIS GIRLFRIEND DID? OMG IS THAT SOMEHOW AN OBSCURE CONCEPT? 

So, SMATT, if you are out there, reading my stuff, trying to see what I do on the computer sooo much, please read this.  NO I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR EFFING VALENTINE!