Category Archives: Marriage

A few people called me “mad” for having a problem taking money from my husband, and I understand way. But even more interestingly, one commenter said that he and his wife have a similar dynamic in their home, and that he wondered what my husband’s perspective might be on the matter. After all, even when I quote my husband, it’s still from “the lens of my view” as the reader put it. I thought that was a brilliant! Marshall should do a post then! So after much arm and face twisting, I got him to do one…

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I love my wife.  Unfortunately, because the word “love” is often used in other phrases such as I love my car or I love my Mac, often times when expressed it rarely has much meaning other than one actually managed to get it out of his mouth.

So, as a result, I have spent the last 17 years trying to demonstrate “Love” to Malaka.  And don’t get me wrong.   I haven’t been the best at it.  I’ve said things that I should not have said.  I’ve done things I should not have done.   But in the end, my hope is that she knows to her core that her husband loves her.

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My marriage philosophy is quite simple:  If the husband is the head of the house, it also means he is the greatest servant in the house.  Why?  Because it’s far more honorable to do good than to simply look great and the surest way to become great is to do good.  This principle first starts with demonstrating it to my wife, then to my family, and ultimately to the world.

If I simply do good to look great to the world and NOT to my wife then I am a fraud; because the expression of who I am is demonstrated first to my wife.  If at heart I am a servant, then my wife gets the initial benefit of that servant-hood.  If at heart I am a Jerk, a-la Douche Bag, then my wife gets the initial benefit of me being a Jerk.

You’re not a man because of your age or your gender; you’re a man when demonstrate you can consistently think about someone other than yourself.  For example:

Can you give a woman what she needs emotionally from you rather than your need to have sex?

Can you keep yourself from consuming porn for the benefit of giving your wife your complete and unadulterated sexual desire?

Can you inconvenience yourself by often washing the clothes, bathing the kids, cleaning the kitchen, picking up after the kids, making the bed, and/or moping the floor to demonstrate to your wife that you value her and her time?

Can you give your wife money with no strings attached?

If you can answer no to these and many other questions I have, then you have some growing up to do Bro.

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My thoughts on money: Money makes the world go around, but in the end it really doesn’t.

Money is tool.  A tool doesn’t posses you, you posses the tool.  Sounds so simple but it’s true.  Have you ever heard the phrase, “…money answers all things”?  Have you ever wondered what that means?   I like this answer, “Money answers to every demand, hears every wish, grants whatever one logs for, and helps to all.”

Sometimes I feel like the biggest reason why money (in Western society) is the #1 reason why people get divorced is because, money is not a tool for success, but a tool for power.  After all why do you think men are typically the one’s who want control all the money in the house?

I have asked my wife to take control of our bills and bank account and she has often refused.  And to her credit she has refused because she is admittedly not very good with numbers, hence why I have to help her with her non profit’s taxes year after year.  And that is fair.  But my heart is let her know that I do not want to lord it over her just because I “win the bread” all day (and night).

In the final analysis, is money really THAT important?  Yes, money keeps a roof over our heads, feeds and clothes our children, but is it so important to cause us to fight?  To disrespect another human being because of how they spent it?  Or is it a two-person tool that requires everybody to lend a hand to make it work?

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If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

If you haven’t already figured out, this post is in response to a comment on her recent post, “I have trouble taking money from my husband” where MartinT wanted to hear from my perspective.

Malaka accurately stated in her post that she has always had a problem taking money from anyone, let alone me.  And I understand why.  Most of it came from how she has been raised and in general the fact that she has a healthy fear of using “our” money.

I can respect that.

However, what I do not like is that she has to spend the majority of her day taking care of our demanding toddlers, not taking any time during the day for herself and then spending another 4 hours waiting on ungrateful customers in a service job that pays her a few pence per hour.  (Yes, that was a run-on sentence.)

What I do not like is that she then lumbers home at 10 – 10:30 PM after many hours on her feet at work often times sore, tired, and mentally exhausted.  I know my wife.  I know that if she doesn’t have a proper sleep, the Grant family’s whole day is screwed.  If my wife wakes up tired in the morning, she won’t have a good day, the kids will run her in circles and she will have a crap day.

So yes, giving her money when she needs it is an investment that will benefit all of us. Oddly, my ROI in giving her money is not only self-serving, but also considerate.  I mean, who benefits from her getting more sleep, her having a better day, hearing her laugh more often, or us having great sex because of all of the above?

The short answer is, everyone.

My husband is a wonderful man and an excellent spouse. I’ve extolled his virtues on M.O.M. on so many occasions that I’ve had to stop for fear of being accused of idol worship or braggadocio. After all, with 50-60% of all Christian marriages ending in divorce, wouldn’t it appear conceited for me to talk about how wonderful my husband is? What cockiness!

I’ve openly discussed the issues that Marshall and I have had over the years, but I can honestly (and gratefully) say that those issues have never included the following:

1. His not having a job
2. His not helping with the children
3. His failure to communicate

Like any relationship, Marshall’s and mine has had its own unique set of challenges over time. At the moment, our challenge is that I have a hard time accepting money from my husband. This is more my dysfunction than his, but it still affects him indirectly.

Last night I got off of work at BS&W and midnight. Did I want to be at a shoe store that late into the night? Absolutely not. But I needed the money to pay for a project I’m working on, so I had to put in the hours. When I got home at 12:30 am, Marshall was still up waiting for me so he could at least see me. I said some brief words in greeting, got into the shower, crawled into bed, and fell into a coma. The next morning, Marshall asked me why I was working so hard. I explained my reasons.

“Well do you want me to just give you the money so you don’t have to work so hard?” he offered.

I balked at the very notion of him giving me money for a personal project. Like many marriages like ours, I stay home to look after the kids and he goes to work. His income pays for EVERYTHING. It wasn’t always like this, of course. I had a job once, and a good paying one too. I’ve lived my life paying my own way for everything. I couldn’t accept money from my husband.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “This is something I have to do on my own.”

“But it’s not a lot of money,” he countered. “And I just got a check from a project I’ve been working on…”

I repeated that I wanted to do this on my own and went back to doing dishes or eating chocolate – I can’t remember which.

I don’t know if this is a problem that other married women struggle with, but my single friends have assured me that I’m stark, raving MAD.

“Ah. Isn’t this what husbands are for?” said one (a Ghanaian).

“Girl, us single gals are TRYING to find a guy to pay for stuff,” said another (a White girl from the South).

Recognizing that my perceived insanity was not cultural (after all, an African AND an American had just told me I was being foolish) I decided to talk to my husband about it. Maybe there was something wrong with me?

He knows that I have an abnormal relationship with money, because I didn’t grow up with much. I was more often than not on the receiving end of a gift, and it’s made it hard for me to accept generosity from others. I hate feeling like a charity case…and when I spend my husband’s money, I feel like it’s just that: charity.

“Babe,” I began, “I want to talk about why I can’t take money from you…or why I have a hard time at least.”

“Okay; but I already know why that is,” he said sagely.

“Eh? Why is it then?”

I barely knew myself. How could he possibly know?

“Because you’re a first born and self-sustainer,” he said simply. “I’m the same way. I couldn’t live on anyone’s handouts.”

Self-sustainer. I wrote that down on our whiteboard. That was a new term to me.

“Okay, cool. Then you understand,” I said. “Well, I feel bad that I can’t take your money. I think it would make me less of a woman.”

“How is that? Every time you use your debit card you ‘take my money’.”

He laughed in that way that makes me feel like an idiot. I immediately bristled.

“Ah! When I use the debit card, I’m using it to feed the kids or buy something for the house. I’m talking about going shopping for myself, or in this case, needing $x00 to fund my project.”

“That’s because you’re selfish,” he replied.

“What?”

How could I be selfish? Wasn’t I being the very opposite of ‘selfish’?

“Yes, selfish,” he continued. “You need to write down ‘value’ on the board too. You don’t think that I value you you enough to try to make your life better, or work for the children and all the stuff we do have.”

I found it hard to argue with that, so I used the best defense I could conjure: The one time that he said something that made me feel less than valued. It had to do with the car he’d just bought in October.

“Remember when you told me YOU had worked very hard to afford that car? I felt like you were saying that because I didn’t have a job that generates as much money as yours does that I was not as valuable.”

“Well, Malaka, I did work hard to pay for the car…but that’s not what I said to you. Don’t misquote me.”

“I’m just saying that’s how I felt.”

I quickly realized that I was failing to make my point. He was showing me the absurdity of my sentiments. All the same, I still harbored them. I told him as much.

“Look, here’s the thing. What I really feel bad about is that I should be able to spend your money because I’m valuable to you, but I just can’t.”

He paused and nodded. He understood. He said that made him feel good.

“Why?”

“Because I know that you won’t try to jack me and have checks bouncing all over the place.”

I snickered. I hate bank overdrafts.

“Malaka, it’s not like you haven’t taken money from me in the past, when we were dating.”

“But I always paid you back,” I countered.

He said he didn’t remember being repaid. I assured him I did. I’ve never been one of those girls who could take money from her boyfriend because my parents taught us not to be that chick. You never want to be in debt to some guy, especially for something you could afford yourself. I have never been able to abide the idea of a man taking credit for my accomplishments!

By the end of the conversation, Marshall encouraged me to look at the money I was offering as an investment, and not a gift. He said if I REALLY had to, I could look at it as a loan.

“If you really feel like you need to repay a loan to your husband,” he smirked.

“Shut up.”

I thought about it. I could take the money as an investment…but then something occurred to me.

“If it’s an investment, you’ll be looking for a return on that investment, won’t you?” I asked.

“Babe,” he said, cutting me off, “a return on investment doesn’t have to be monetary. My ROI could be you getting more sleep, not having to work more hours, you having a better day, us having better sex (because you’re not so tired), or you just having a smile on your face more often than you do.”

I had one friend tell me that I need to get off my “feminist soap box” and take my husband’s money. I’ve earned every cent in stretch marks and a scarred uterus.

“Calculate the cost of that,” she said.

I hear what everyone is saying. I really do. The world is crooning “You should let me love you/let me be the one to give everything you want and need” – but all I can hear is Kanye hollering “She ain’t nothing but a gold digger/She’s a trifling friend indeed!”

Surely other women struggle with this, right?

Right?? Talk about it here…or tell me I’m mad. ↓

At some point in her relationship, every woman will face a critical decision. Some of us have been presented with this test and failed abysmally. Others can’t imagine the torture that this trial will bring. In many cases, it will set or change the tone of your relationship.

“Hey baby…can you get me a sandwich?”

Somewhere, a feminist fairy just ripped off her wings and use them as daggers in order to inflict multiple self-inflected stab wounds, shocked by the very utterance of those words. “Do I look like the type of woman who would make you a sandwich??”

It seems like an innocent enough request, but that question carries with it a lot of baggage. It signifies a time of oppression in a woman’s mind.  Images of pot-bellied men sitting in a dingy den with their male buddies, stinking of beer and sweat, bellowing requests for food come to mind. In the 1950’s and before, a woman would begrudgingly – but unquestionably – bring her mate a sandwich. That’s just what “good” women and wives did; they served their men. But then we had the women’s liberation movement and through much hard work and toil, the female gender won the right to point to the fridge in defiance and tell her man to get his own damned sandwich!

A Black comedian once remarked that since slavery is over, he won’t even pick the cotton out of his prescription bottle. So too will some women never (ever) make a sandwich for her man…even if she secretly really wants to.

It’s the female nature to want to nurture another human being. It’s why we Clara Barton started the Red Cross; why Wangari Maathai started planting trees; why Harriet Tubman led droves of people to freedom. We believe in peace and harmony for all living beings. And what is more peaceful and harmonious than a well fed man? Few things, to be sure. A woman would LOVE to bring her man a sandwich if it would make him happy…she just doesn’t want to be expected to do it. She wants to be appreciated for it.

Let’s go to MOM Mode so you can see why, and witness how a brilliant man got his woman to make him the best sandwich ever.

***Lights fading in*****

Niqqi is 38, and the daughter of preacher. She has always known her self-worth and cherished the idea of marriage, but somewhere in the 20s, a man came along. A few beguiling words and false promises later, a son is born. Her child is all grown up now – a junior in high school. She’s looking to find love again; and true love this time. All the same, she vowed long ago never to be taken in by a man again. In time the sultry, natural sistuh with piercing eyes and a sharp, but witty tongue allows a potential male partner into her life. His name is Bilal. He respects her stand on not having sex before marriage, and professes to be content with the mere pleasure of her company.

“Intimacy is better than sex,” he whispers reassuringly.

With those words, he seals his place as her official paramour and they see each other exclusively. Ever testing his resolve, Niqqi offers him companionship, but nothing beyond that. Men are wont to flee when they have taken all that they want. Soon, weeks turn into months and Super Bowl Sunday is upon them. Beyonce is performing for the duration of the half time show and Niqqi leaves the living room to get herself something to drink. She turns to ask Bilal if he would like something as well –just to be courteous – but notices he’s staring at something – hard.

“You staring at the TV kinda hard, ain’t ya?” she snaps.

She knows Beyonce is gyrating and winding at that moment. In the background she can hear the songstress growling “dutty win’” repeatedly.

“Naw, baby,” Bilal says confidently. “I’m staring at you.”

“What?”

“Girl yes,” he laughs. “Don’t you know you finer than Beyonce?”

“Oh shut up!” she says, laughing at the absurdity of the statement. After all, NO ONE is finer than Beyonce.

Bilal see’s the doubt in her eyes. He gets up and joins her in the kitchen.

“No. For real. Look at her hair,” he says, trailing his fingers through her brown twists. “That ain’t her hair. That’s all weave! You have beautiful, luscious hair…and it’s yours.”

Niqqi giggles and focuses her attention on her glass of juice.

“And your body is amazing,” Bilal continues, taking a step back to appreciate her form. “And it’s not all cut up and taped together like hers is.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at her legs,” he says dismissively. “Her legs don’t even look like that. She got about 4 or 5 pairs of stockings on to make ‘em look like that!”

Niqqi bursts into full on laughter at this point. She didn’t look as good as Beyonce, surely, but she was feeling more beautiful by the minute. Bilal gingerly, but respectfully touches her belly.

“And you’ve had a baby,” he says, his voice liquid and warm. “Everyone knows Beyonce has never given birth. Girl, you’ve had a BABY and your body is still finer than Beyonce’s!”

Bilal takes Niqqi by the tips of her fingers and spins her around. She feels so…alive. He was right. She was finer than Beyonce. Before she knew it, the words fell right out of her mouth.

“Baby…can I get you anything? Would you like a sandwich?” she asks excitedly.

“Yes. I’d love one.”

****Lights fading out****

When my co-worker told me this story – the story of the day she discovered she was hotter than the “Most Beautiful Woman in the World” – it shook something in my belief system. Could it be that I could be converted into a willing sandwich maker too?

I don’t know. I’m scared to find out…

Ladies: do you enjoy “serving” your man? And men do you expect your woman to serve you? Do you appreciate it when she does, or do you think it’s a duty? You might want to respond anonymously. I don’t want any spousal abuse reported here…hehehe!!

For years, whenever my husband and our family went on a trip, I sat obediently in the passenger’s seat and did my best to keep him company by chattering on about this and that or whatever came to mind. His brow was always in a perpetual furrow as he took the wheel, and I assumed (wrongly) that his grim expression was attributed to the weight he felt concerning the monumental task ahead. He was going to be responsible for shuttling his family 600-800 miles way – depending on our destination – and he needed to have all his wits about him.

It turns out that he just hated driving.

“I wish I had known that babe!” I scolded lightly. “I thought you liked driving. I love driving! I would have taken over the wheel ages ago.”

“What made you think that?” he asked. He was genuinely puzzled.

“Well…you know. Man behind the wheel; in control of his own destiny and all that. Boys and their cars…that sort of thing.”

He snickered, and from that day on we had a new accord. I would drive us to and fro on all our long distance trips if he would tend to the kids in the back seat. I loathed passing them chips, sandwiches, toys and whatever else their insatiable little minds could conjure up within the space of eight to ten hours while we were all locked in a vehicle. And then the constant diaper changes! Every 2 hours at some rest stop or gas station…

Thank God those days are nearly over.

Now that we have our travelling duties firmly established, I am free to do whatever I want whilst driving – which mainly consists of ignoring the kids. What’s ironic is that Marshall is at liberty to do the same. He is very quick to pull out his portable DVD player and watch all 3 installments of The Lord of The Rings while I battle icy roads and obey speed limits. What gall. The kids never seem to have as many requests now that I’M behind the wheel.

This trip coming from Ohio for Christmas was a little different. My husband did not bring any gadgets to entertain himself with, and I didn’t have much to talk about. We drove in stony silence until I decided to plug in my earphones and listen to some music on Pandora. Suddenly, a familiar song came on.

‘Cause I Love You, circa 1970-something

I’ve heard this song about a handful of times. My first memory of it was as a child. I can’t tell you who was playing it or where I was when I heard it. I just remember thinking it was really slow and boring. I wished the man on the radio would stop talking and finish singing his stupid song so something better would come on. Michael Jackson perhaps.

But on that Thursday afternoon, as dusk was beginning to fall and the sky grew steadily darker, the scales were taken off my eyes and I saw (or heard, rather) for the first time something wondrous and exceedingly rare…a man so deep in the throes of desperate love that he has only one choice but to beg for the return of the affections of his loved one lest he DIE.

Ebei!

I listened to the words intently for the first time in my 35 years of life.

Girl, you know I love you
No matter what you do
And I hope you understand me
Every word I say is true
‘Cause I love you

Awww. That’s really sweet.

Baby, I’m thinking of you
Tryin’ to be more of a man for you
And I don’t have much riches
But we gonna see it through
‘Cause I love you

Oh chaley. I’ve never heard a man say he wanted to be more of a man for MY benefit. Usually they want to do better to show off for their homies or prove something to themselves. This is new.

Some men need lots of women
For their passions to feel
But I want only you, girl
If it’s in, if it’s in, if it’s in God’s will
‘Cause I, ‘cause I love you

Hmmm. It’s true oohhh! These men these days, they just like chasing women by heart! But you say what? I want only you if it’s in GOD’S will?? Hei!!!

By the time Lenny Williams (the singer) began wailing and oh…oh…oh’ing up until the moment when he cried out in sweet relief after you (and by that I think he meant “me”) helped me, I was undone. I felt a deep, visceral, barely controllable urge to pull the car over, remove my now very uncomfortable panties and rocket propel them into my husband’s face. I was certain if he possessed the pipes, this would also be his enduring profession of love.

I really love this song. It speaks to a time when men actually liked women, you know what I mean? Men today are so concerned about either not offending women or purposely offending women that I don’t think they’ve taken the time to learn to like women. We just need some balance! I mean, by the time we admit that the most complimentary song on the radio concerning femininity is called She’s a Sexy B**** (which I heard at work for the first time, if you can fathom that) –

*Sigh* I have nothing further to add to that. T-Pain admitted that he struggles to find the words to “describe this girl without being disrespectful.”

I wonder if the pendulum between male and female relationships will ever again swing close enough in the direction of the essence of this song in time for my girls as they reach the age of maturity? Doubt it.

A rush of wind and leaves followed the women into the backdoor. Emily solemnly laid her bible on the coffee table and rested her head in the palm of her hand. Samantha rubbed her shoulders and cooed soothingly at her. Abiola looked around for something to do. As absurd as the whole affair was, she recognized that her friend was truly hurting, and that now might not have been the time to make light of her pain.

“How about I make a Starbucks run and get us some coffee?” Abiola offered.

“I have coffee here,” Emily said brightly.

“No offence, sweetie, but I can’t see myself drinking coffee made in your kitchen.”

“What? Why?” Emily asked. She was genuinely surprised.

“Well…because of the mice,” Abiola retorted.

“They don’t crawl onto the countertops where food is prepared, silly,” Emily chided. “They each have their own dishes to eat from.”

Abiola would not be defeated.

“Still, I think we need to change the mood of our circumstances. Why don’t we celebrate Minnie’s life, instead of mourning her passing?”

She made a dash for the closet.

“I’ll be back with pumpkin spice lattes for everyone!”

Thirty minutes later, the three friends were sipping their sweet, sticky beverages with their feet curled under them. Their conversation soon turned to life, and inevitably, men.

Of the three, Samantha was the only one that was married. Abiola understood why. She was a nurturing woman with good job. White men liked that. Abiola made too much money and intimidated Black men with her mouth and her success. And Emily, well, she was clearly just crazy. Still, that didn’t mean she didn’t deserve a chance at love.

“Why don’t you give Bill another chance?” Abiola interrogated. “He seems so nice. And he’s clearly very intelligent. You guys worked in the same department for years.”

Emily wrinkled her nose.

“I would, but there’s just no spark there,” she said pointedly. “You can’t have a relationship without spark.”

Samantha was about to speak but Abiola cut her off.

“I’m not suggesting that you have a sexual relationship with him,” she continued. “I’m just saying that you need to have some sort of a relationship with a man outside of work…so that you know how to relate to men!”

Samantha nodded in agreement. Emily looked at the two of them and conceded that they had a point.

“I guess you’re right. I don’t want to be an old maid surrounded by her mice.”

“Aha! Now you see what I’m saying?!,” Abiola sputtered excitedly. “You are pushing 40 and the only man you know how to talk to has a tail and poops in a cage.”

She eyed Otto suspiciously. Emily had placed him and his clan in a glass enclosure for their nap; but that bunch had shown that they were resourceful and could escape at any time.

“So what are you going to do about Bill?” Samantha grinned.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess we can try to be a little more than friends,” Emily said absently. “He just doesn’t do it for me. He’s not hot…you know? He’s just average.”

Abiola chugged on her drink to force her from pointing out Emily’s obvious flaws, foremost of which was that she gave rats free range of her house, and secondly that she herself was no runway model. Her teeth were stained brown from an overindulgence in coffee and cigarettes, and her legs were riddled with varicose veins. She was hardly considered “sexy” at all.

Abiola took stock of her life. Prior to this moment, she had a number of complaints about the way things had gone. She had a son growing up in Nigeria and a part-time boyfriend whom she was not sure she wanted to commit to. As bleak as her circumstances may have seemed before, she was content to deal with them now. Emily seemed so clueless.

********

 So MOM Squad: What do you think is wrong with Emily’s approach to relationships? (Apart from the fact that she has the entire cast from the Secret of NIMH living in her dining room.) As one of my best friends Nana Henewa used to say “Let’s analyze the situation.”

Conventional wisdom tells us that humanity has to date within your rating/range; the only exceptions being the possession of an extraordinary skill and/or loads of money. This is the ONLY reason ugly guys date and marry hot chicks. You can’t be rated a 5 looking to score a committed relationship with a 15. It just doesn’t work that way.

Emily, like most women in Western culture, is looking for a “spark” before seriously considering a committed relationship. They are looking for butterflies and that pit in your stomach when you think of your significant other. What a lot of people don’t seem to want to accept is that ‘spark’ fades and can sometimes be re-kindled in another individual (as Gen. Petraeus has so stunningly revealed to the entire world). What you want in a relationship is constancy and honesty. Of course physical attraction is important, but if that’s the only thing keeping you interested in your current or potential mate, then trouble is sure to be on the horizon.

What advice would you have for Emily? Once you’ve stopped laughing, leave a comment to help this poor lass out. She needs it.

*Warning! This blog post is all Christian-y and stuff*

I had a discussion with a friend of mine who is getting her degree in divinity somewhere up North. During the course of that brief discussion, there were a number of profound conclusions we came to (or at least that were profound to the two of us) leading her to make the following utterance:

“Malaka, the next blog I read from you better be on this topic. If it’s not, I’m coming to Atlanta to beat you.”

Well, since I’ve never had a member of the clergy neither physically threaten me nor do I plan to have a man/woman of the frock do so anytime SOON, I’ve decided to be obedient.

Oh don’t judge her! Even Jesus lashed a few people in the temple for desecrating the Father’s house. I’m sure there is a class in her monastery: Lashing sinners 101…or something of that sort.

Anyway, this particular friend of mine is in the process of nursing a broken heart and has been doing so for well over a year. She blogs about the pain she’s been through with such veracity that I literally walk away from her posts feeling hollow and heartsick myself. She declares that there is no real reason for the break up. They both love each other very much, but distance is keeping them apart. He lives in a neighboring state.

Now, to someone like me, this is absolutely ludicrous. The answer seems very simple, in my book. He and/or I would bloody well have to scrape our pennies together and commit to seeing each other twice a month at least, PARTICULARLY if we lived in neighboring states. It’s a small price to pay for love, is it not?

Apparently, it’s not that simple. There are other factors keeping them apart. I’ve come to the conclusion that there is more to the story than I’m being told, because distance alone doesn’t seem to be a good enough reason to keep two previously knitted hearts apart and in pain.

None of that is the point of the post that I’ve been ordered to write, however. How God feels about it, is.

“If God ever sees fit for me to birth children, I will tell them never to give their heart and soul to anyone outside of marriage,” my friend declared. “Especially my daughters.”

(By the way, I’ve decided to call my friend “Pastor Kiki.” “My friend” sounds so impersonal.)

I nodded on the other end of the phone.

“Dude, I totally agree! It took me years to get over my first love. It was definitely one of the hardest experiences of my life.”

The feelings of loss and utter ruin I felt as a teenager after he-whose-name-shall-not-be-uttered-in-this-blog threatened to bubble up within me at that moment, 18 years later. I smashed them back into the jagged hole in my heart I’d created for them as a 16 year old girl.

Pastor Kiki launched into a high pitched monologue, as she is wont to do when she gets excited. (Lord, I hope she loses that tic when she starts preaching at the pulpit.)

“I think part of the problem with the Church is how we’ve spun sex before marriage and sin in the modern age,” she mused.

I knew where she was going and had to jump in.

“You’re right,” I interjected. “I think the conversation has been so condemning and one directional. The church does a bad job of talking about how our sin affects God. I think it’s done a particularly bad job when it comes to love and sex before marriage. I think that when you’re broken hearted it breaks God’s heart too.”

She squealed on the other end of the phone and it was at that point she promised to thrash me if I did not write a blog on this subject.

God Almighty (in my humble opinion) is possibly the most misunderstood being in the universe. Despite numerous sonnets, volumes and texts devoted to His personhood, most of mankind still does not know Him (or Her…or shoot, Them). Most of us put God in the box of our experience. When we need our foes smitten and scattered, we pull Him out and declare that God will punish our foes accordingly! When we need our rent paid or college tuition covered, we quote scriptures about streets of gold and houses with mansions in Heaven. You get the picture.

However, I wonder why we don’t ever hear more about God as Abba – our Father? Oh yes, Christians spout off about being ‘a child of the King’, but that statement is usually provoked by some perceived slight and is tantamount to religious posturing and pouting, not a conviction based on a solid relationship with God. If we think of God as our Father, the author and creator of all life, a person with real feelings and thoughts, then perhaps our attitudes towards sin would be a lot different.

When we think of sin, we usually think of the big three, i.e. rape, murder and robbery; but I once heard sin described as anything that separates you from the will of God. With such a broad description, a lot of things outside of our narrow scope of what a sin is becomes included. Suddenly, accepting a particular job offer may become a sin or eating a meal may be sinful. After all, working for an agency that willingly defrauds people of money could be considered sinful, and eating buckets of pork will certainly end your life prematurely. There are reasons why God gave commandments/laws about which foods were considered clean and unclean in the Old Testament. In the Black church particularly, we like to talk about how we are redeemed from the Law through the blood of Christ, and engage in all manner of unhealthy eating habits. But when you consider how much havoc pork has wreaked on our community and acknowledge the fact that shrimp are nothing but cockroaches of the sea, you can see why God considers ingesting these a sin. Cockroach cocktail is not His best for us.

But in this case we’re talking about sex and love before marriage. In an ideal Judeo-Christian world, every person would wait to get married before falling hopelessly in love and remain forever bound to that person ‘til they were parted by death. It just doesn’t happen in today’s society. Just like with our food choices, we’ve found ways to manage sin…or activities that are beneath what God deems his best for us. We’ve coined cute phrases like “born again virgin” to inoculate ourselves from nefarious deeds of the past and indulge in silly dalliances such a purity balls in hopes that this will thwart the raging hormones of our teenaged youth.

You know what would be nice? How about introducing our young men and women to Christ? How about we get Him off the cross and set Him on a throne so He can have a chat, real informal like? Here’s what I would imagine a conversation with my Father would sound like.

“Hey daughter.”

“Hey Dad!”

“Look, you’re getting to an age where you’re about to go through some changes. Your body is blossoming. Young men (and probably some old ones too) are going to start looking and lusting after you. Some might try to convince you that they really, really love you and that you want them as much as they want you. They’re just talking about sex. I’d rather you not do that.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because sex is an expression of love – but it’s just one expression of love. In fact, it’s the lowest expression of love. Giving your life for the one you love is the highest. All the same, sex is still very powerful. It opens you up to another dimension that you might not be ready for. It forever binds you to the person or people you engage with. It starts with your thoughts, which is why you have to keep your thoughts pure. Your amorous thoughts should only be for someone you’ve made a commitment to, and who’s made a commitment to you.”

“Oh…ok. If you say so…”

“I know it sounds dumb, what with your fast paced world with Twitter and Facebook and friends that you can ‘unfriend’ and end relationships with the touch of a button, but your emotions and your soul are at stake. I love you, and I want the very best for you.”

“Well, I love you too, Father!”

God smiles.

“Great. Then do me a favor, will you? Don’t get your heart broken, because it will certainly break mine. When you hurt, I hurt too.”

God isn’t some enormous White man in a flowing toga and a beard waiting to rain down thunder and tsunamis on mankind. He wants to love us and show His kindness to us. It hurts Him when harm, any sort of harm, befalls us. Remember when Cain killed Abel? He said his “blood cried out from the earth” to Him. Just think about that.

So do the Lord a favor, please?  Guard your heart with all diligence.

How did I do, Pastor Kiki?

“Dude. Chick Fil-a. What do you think?”
“Awww, man! You were the first person I thought of when this whole thing went down. I know how you like to get down on some Chick Fil-a!”
“Dude; you know it! I’m down for Chick Fil-a 24/7/365 and 366 on a leap year!”
“It’s all bull sh*t. They need to stop politicizin’ and religiousizin’ my chicken and gimme my damned sandwich.”

With that final statement my brother my brother looked at the screen on his phone and said he had to get back to work. Our Skype conversation ended as abruptly as it began. Succinct as it was – and probably completely nonsensical to you – it made more sense than all the punditry and commentary I’ve seen and heard in the media to date. Here’s why: When I walk into a Chick Fil-a and ask for a number one with a Coke and no ice and four 4-count kids meals at the counter, I have never had the following conversation:

“Hey, nigger? Are you a nigger?”

“Why, yes ma’am. Yes I am.”

“Well, niggers need to stand in this line over here,” the cashier informs me. “Also, we only serve niggers ‘nigger chicken’. You know, feet, beaks n’ such.”

“Err…okay. But I’d really much just have a regular number one…” I begin to protest before the cashier cuts me off.

“Don’t take too much offense, hun,” the cashier states somberly. “We only feed the gays ‘gay chicken’. You know, queer ones that only mate with the same kind. ‘Course, ain’t too many of them. I mean, how’s a girl chick gonna impregnate another girl chick?”

The buck-toothed cashier slides me my tray with a laugh, tickled by the idea of two hens trying to mate with one another.

“Thank you,” I mumble, taking my tray to the front of the restaurant.

“No, no!” the cashier gasps. “You’re a nigger. You have to sit in the back, with all the rest of the niggers and socially unacceptable types. There you go. Straight back. Yep. Right there on that rotting crate is good.”

***

That. DOESN’T. Happen. Let me tell you something about Chick Fil-a (CFA). I started eating CFA 12 years ago when I moved to Atlanta in 2000. Chick Fil-a got me through some tough times.  If ever I want great service and professionalism in the fast food industry, I go to Chick Fil-a. If I want quality food and REAL meat, I go to Chick Fil-a. If I want a relaxing atmosphere while I grab a quick bite to eat, where do I go: you already know it. They have never discriminated at the counter and have never asked me about my race, background or sexual orientation.

When I got pregnant out of wedlock and didn’t have a thing to eat in my refrigerator, I ate Chick Fil-a virtually every day. The portions were large enough to divvy over the course of the day into 2 meals if I needed to.  Wendy’s made me ill, McDonald’s meat is disgusting from feed lot to fryer, and Burger Kig is well…ugh… Flame Burnt almost every time.

A funny thing happened while I was the CFA counter and drive-thru week after week. Though the company is founded on Christian principles, no one behind the counter ever took a look at my swelling belly and ringless finger and offered me rebuke. No one ever called me a “whore” or a “trollop” or attempted to pin a scarlet letter “A” to my chest for bearing a child outside of the bonds of holy matrimony. Every time I have visited a Chick Fil-a, countless in the last 12 years, I have always been greeted with a smile and been told it was a pleasure to have been served today. More often than a manager will see me struggling with my tray and 4 pairs of hands and will offer to take my tray and drinks to my table for me. I love Chick Fil-a. My kids’ love for Chick Fil-a has developed since they were in utero. And that’s just the way it is.

 I just mentioned the term “holy matrimony”, and it is for this reason that my most cherished CFA has come under fire in recent days. Every company that was ever built in the history of the world has been built on a frame of principles. From pyramid and Ponzi schemes intended to defraud an unsuspecting populace to for-profit enterprises, there is a foundation which these companies stand. Truth, fairness, wickedness or deceit, the substance of that company will be made known in the end. Truett Cathy built his company of his faith, which happens to be Christian principles. All franchises are closed on Sundays. CFA gives money to organizations that support at-risk youth. They also sponsor groups that work toward strengthening marriages in this country, where marriage is defined as between a man and woman…or as the God of the Christian faith defines it.

Now comes this preposterous brouhaha in the wake of Dan Cathy’s (current COO) confirmation that Chick Fil-a is “guilty as charged” on the question of if they define marriage as between a man and a woman. Suddenly he’s a bigot and a homophobe. Suddenly churches and Christian organizations are preaching hate. Man please.

Allow me to explain something: If I, and most serious Christians, have to make a choice on what’s true and fact and just, we’re going to choose what the Bible and Jesus say. Not what the government says, and certainly not what a group of people on the fringe and their band of merry supporters say. That doesn’t mean we “hate” you, it means we have a difference of opinion, based on a difference set of standards. Our standard is Christ, and yours is the whims of your desires, whatever they may be today.

When you drill it all the down, the fact is that Biblephobes and Christ-haters (see how I can call names too?) have always had a problem with Chick Fil-a. They’ve never been able to abide the notion that they would shutter their doors on Sundays to honor the Lord and guarantee a day of rest for their workers. They can’t stand their business model which is based on law and success. And now they are baying for blood and expect the nation to join in because a man spoke honestly about his beliefs. So what now? Are we going to gather all the Hindus together and force them to eat beef even though it is contrary to their beliefs? I thought this was AMERICA. We have freedom of religion, not freedom from it.

Back off Chick Fil-a and end your futile attempts to have me and others of like mind condemn the company. It’s just that – a futile attempt. Dan Cathy has a right to his faith, and to express that faith, and you have a right to eat there or not. I choose to dine with Jesus, thank you very much. If you have a problem with it, ask God about it in the Great Day, and if there is no Great Day, you have nothing to worry about. Either way, I’m straight.

 What are your reasons for loving Chick Fil-a? List them here. In the interim, I’ll see you in line for National Chick Fil-a Appreciation day on August 1st!

Ever since I tried to broker a peace accord between two married friends of mine a few years ago, I have vowed to do one thing: To never get personally involved in anyone’s marriage ever again, even when solicited or invited. NEVER.

I however never said that I would never indulge in public commentary – or mockery  – in the event of another couple’s marital discord.

Yes MOM Squad, it’s time for another rant about marriage. For some reason, people just don’t seem to want to get it right…or get the basics right, at the very least. There is a reason the term “sanctity of marriage” was coined. Despite what most of our population may think, the culmination of ‘marriage’ is not whether you serve beef or fish cutlets on a sunny spring day at the Radisson, or whether one hires a DJ or a live band to entertain ones guest on said day. Marriage is a sacred vow that two people take, promising GOD, before mankind, to be faithful to each other until death parts them. It is for that reason that ‘marriage’ is not for everyone; douche bags, asshats and children being chief among these. These days most of the population has been engineered to be more suited toward civil unions, which are more contractual at their core and can be broken/dissolved with a few hundred dollars at the cash register at a municipal court near you.

Some people think that because they share children or interests, that these are good enough reasons to get married. Nothing could be further from the truth. Children grow up and move out, and interests fade or change with time. You need to find better, more concrete reasons to jump the broom and bind yourself spiritually to someone – or seek out that civil union I mentioned earlier.

And dare I say it? Yes, I dare. Even some Christians should not marry. There is many a Christian who does not understand the implications and consequences of entering a marriage without proper education. Contrary to widespread belief, there IS a manual on how to achieve the perfect marriage. There are several in fact. From the Bible to Dr. Phil, there are guiding texts…just pick your flavor. Nowhere in any of these texts will you see the following, I assure you.

Are you seated? Good. Because I am here to put my two of friends on blast for their public display of foolishness and tomfoolery.

****

Though I was friends with her first, I consider both *Chris and Christina to be friends of mine. They are a 20-something year old couple who got married about 2 or 3 years ago in a hurried (but very charming) ceremony. I still don’t know what the rush was, and I never asked. I know the bride wasn’t pregnant and he wasn’t an immigrant needing papers. The frantic timing didn’t make sense to me, but it did to them. Young love, I suppose. What I DO know is that the wedding cake was absolutely scrumptious: lemon frosting and a creamy center. Perhaps the hopeful mood I was in made the half cup of punch I was given so delightful as well.

My eyes misted over as her father officiated the ceremony and they recited their vows. They literally looked picture perfect.

In the coming months, they lived out their married life on social media, like most people in this digital age do. Pictures of him gleefully lifting and spinning her in the air would pop up very often, and she would post quotes about love, life and happiness on her wall. Suddenly, that all began to change.

Instead of lyrics concerning all things amorous, quotes about ‘the hard knock life’ took over. No longer were there profile pictures of the two of them grinning foolishly into the camera. Cartoon characters and fists raised in the air replaced those. (That’s nothing unusual, I suppose. For 2 months my profile picture was of two hard turds one of the kids had left on my shower floor. And no, I’m not ashamed to admit that.) From what I found out, work was keeping them apart, and they were reduced to passing each other in the day as one was leaving for work and the other was coming in.

I took a Facebook hiatus for about 4 months, and when I got back, I started seeing weird statuses from his end. There are many things that piss me off, and one of those things in when amateurs make attempts at waxing philosophical and have no business doing so…ever.

“Sometimes you dream a dream a dream and think it’s come true, only to discover that true dreams don’t come true.”

What the hell?

“You said you loved me – but the love you said you had was just a reflection of my love for you. It never resided in you to begin with.”

You have got to be kidding me.

“Sometimes people are like broken glass: it’s better to sweep them away than to cut yourself trying to put them back together.”

Okay, now that’s just below the belt.

On her end of the spectrum, the world is falling apart:

“I guess I can’t do anything right!”
“Please Jesus, send me a friend!”
“The world is dark…so very dark right now.”

The final straw was when he changed his relationship status from ‘married’ to ‘single’. This made me want to find him, slap him and shake some sense into him. Just because things aren’t going your way in your house doesn’t make you ‘single’ bruh. It just DON’T.

Now let me admit to something from my own marriage experience. Have I wanted to leave my husband at one point? Absolutely. I felt like he was a hindrance to my ambitions. He insisted that we go see one of our pastors, and she flat out told me “NO”…I could not leave my husband and take 1 or 2 of the kids with me, even for a break. I looked at her like she had two heads. How dare she! But I followed her command (because it wasn’t really advice) and we worked it out. Guess how we did that? By talking…not by putting our mess out there on Facebook!

Why am I so passionate about someone else’s marriage you ask? Because I wrote those two Niggroes a check. I financially invested in the two of them. I sat in the congregation and prayed with and over them. I took my part as a witness to their marriage seriously, and I expect these two dumbasses to take their part in their marriage vows seriously as well.

You think I sound mad now? Oh, I went on an all out campaign on Facebook! You should have seen it. It was glorious.

Lookit, you two. There are only three reasons why divorce is ever an option, if you are a Christian. All this new age “he/she doesn’t make me happy” doesn’t apply. I’m pretty sure everything you do doesn’t make Christ happy, but He still shed His blood for you so your retarded behinds could enter into paradise.

If she/he isn’t:

1)    Beating on you
2)    Cheating on you
3)    Using your money to beat and cheat on you…
…then you can work it out. Seriously.

Now stop posting ridiculous statuses, quotes, Instagrams and posters on Facebook and talk to your spouse. The rest of you enjoy your day.

/rant over.

All I wanted to do was fart; but I couldn’t. We were in sophisticated company and it wouldn’t do to let one rip out there on the elevated terrace of JCT Kitchen in the heart of Midtown. The Garners had invited us out for a birthday celebration, and it was the first big social gathering I had been to in months. The last one was for Mrs. Garner’s bridal shower at Wine Shoe. Somehow, this couple was the only one who had been successful at coaxing me out of my house in semi-formal attire and heels. Ever since the third baby was born, the epitome of my social experiences has been a night at the Cheese Cake Factory, possibly preceded by a movie. I am always in bed by 11pm.

So there I stood, in my belted midnight blue dress and plum snakeskin heels, making twin attempts at small talk and containing the fire in my bowels that threatened to explode at any minute. I appreciated the ambiance of the venue. The crowd was young – no person was older than 38 – and there was a steady stream of rich folk laughter permeating the air. Nearly everyone had shown up in a couple, except for the trio of aggressive-looking single Black women who went over to greet the host with a hug, breasts first. Somehow their tatted necks, sparkly eye shadow and orange tinted coifs made sense against the backdrop of votive candles and potted lemon trees.

I don’t know about my husband, but I felt like an antiquity among this group of newly married and freshly coupled individuals. While our conversation centered around what our fourth child was up to, many of them were carrying on about their new apartments in Buckhead, or some new project they were working on at work, or a Braves game they had just come from. I was boring, and I knew it. Boring and gassy. Oh God.

Not only was my conversation vastly different from these late twenty-something folks, but so was my body language. That could have been attributed to the fact that I had stuffed my feet into unfamiliar heels, but I don’t think that was the case. I watched as most of the girls leaned into the chests and ears of their partners, as if sharing intimacies than no one else should be privy to. This only made me lean in closer.

“You wanna another beer?” asked the husband of one of my old co-workers who was there.

“Sure,” she smiled, her blue eyes twinkling.

What was so intimate about that? Nothing – but somehow he had managed to make the question unquestionably seductive, as though he were asking if she’s like to shag in the presence of all these strangers. I felt dirty and intrusive. Marshall was standing behind me and tapped me on my shoulder.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked.

It was a simple question, and very direct. There was no sex in it at all.

“Yes,” I said. “Lemonade please.”

When he returned I downed it in four gulps. Not only was I gassy, but I was also sweaty and thirsty. Finally when I could take it no more, I said my goodbyes and left with my husband in tow. An hour and a half was a respectable amount of time.

“There’s a full moon,” I explained. “I don’t want to transform into a werewolf and frighten your guests.”

The Garners laughed and we were allowed to leave.

The night was still young, so we decided to grab some desert from Café Intermezzo, which is a premier dating spot in metro Atlanta. My husband is an unabashed romantic, and revels in any opportunity to show physical affection to his wife, especially in public. However, that evening showed me that he wasn’t doing it right.

For starters, he was holding my hand. I noticed that virtually every woman was being led to their destination by her butt. Literally.

“When did guys start guiding women by their butt cheeks?” I asked Marshall.

“What?” he chuckled.

“Look over there,” I said. “That guy has his hand on her butt, propelling her forward.”

A few more couples passed and I saw a repetition of the same phenomenon.

“And look at him!” I whispered non-too-softly. “His hand is just above her butt, but just barely.”

“Do you want me to start guiding you by your butt cheeks too?” Marshall offered.

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

Marshall’s hand is enormous- a palm width of about 6 inches- and my butt is expansive. It would be an entirely inappropriate sight.

However I can’t help but wonder if I should present my posterior as a tether by which to be led by. Is being shepherded by the butt cheek the new “in” thing to do? Like sharing milkshakes from two straws in the 50’s was?

Tom Brady seems to think so.

However given my propensity for gas, it might not be the safest (or sexiest) route for anyone involved. I’m no Gisele Bundchen.