What a Happy Anna-vuh-sary!

Man, I’m so giddy I can’t even spell the word!

This Friday, Marshall and I celebrated 5 years of wedded bliss. It’s been fantastic for me, but I don’t know how great it’s been for him. I am a certified basket case after all. *Chortle!*

When I woke up on May 14th, I was just… excited. I still can’t put my finger on why. Our previous anniversaries have always been very sweet, but maybe this one was different because I subconsciously realize that Marshall and I are part of a rare group of married couples who did not get divorced before our 5th year. Despite all our combined foibles, we’ve stuck together.

I think back 7 years ago, and I recall that I almost didn’t marry my husband. I was rapturously in love with another man, who I thought at the time was the embodiment of my every dream come true. He turned out to be a walking nightmare instead. That nightmare is the man we know as Old Douche Bag, who left me broken and pregnant, saying he didn’t want a baby…and especially not a baby girl…and particularly not a dark-skinned baby girl. It was Marshall, my best friend and ex-boyfriend at the time who swooped in to gather my broken pieces. He came to every doctor’s visit , made sure I ate well and gave me a shoulder to lean and cry on. When we saw my daughter Nadjah for the first time during an ultrsound, I asked him what he wanted her to call him.

“Daddy of course.”

He looked at me like it was the most ridiculous question he’d ever heard. He had always been my gallant man before, but that day he became my hero…and I don’t fancy myself as a chick who needs saving. The differences between what I thought I wanted or needed and what I actually had in a man became altogether very clear over the course of the next few years. I thank God that  He pushed me out of  Evil’s way and literally saved me from a ruinous life and ushered me into Marshall’s arms.

My husband is magnificent. He’s one of those men who works hard for everything he has, is self taught in his profession, takes nothing for granted and loves the Lord.  It’s been 14 years since we started dating and he still opens doors for me. I’ve seen few men who love his children the way he does. I mean literally fall in love with them from the time he sees the blue strip/+ sign/ digital ‘pregnant’ after I’ve peed on a little white stick. My heart is warmed with pride when my girls squeal “Daaaaddy!” and the boy kicks me in the face and crawls doggedly to get to his dad for a hug after he’s had a long day at work. It’s as though they know he’s loved them for this long as well.

So yeah, this anniversary was special. We had dinner, watched a movie and had breakfast the next morning. The kids were gone for the weekend, and I caught up on a month’s worth of laundry and he worked on a client website.  It sounds pretty mundane, but for me, it was a serene and exceptional time. Perhaps it’s because we’re so comfortable in other’s presence that we don’t have to try so hard…you know what I mean?

I heard the other day that five is the number for ‘grace’ which in Christian theology is a state of sanctification by God; the state of one who is under such divine influence. ‘Grace’ defines something/someone who has a disposition to kindness or compassion. Grace denotes elegance and refinement. It’s the unmerited favor of God.

Yeah…this weekend, I was definitely feeling like a woman whose marriage is under the influence of grace. What a happy, happy anniversary!

A South African Love Affair

Ahhh, South Africa. S.A.

South Africa means different things to many people depending on what era they were born in. For some, it’s the Rainbow Nation. For others, it’s the newest destination for the World Cup. As a more macabre individual, “South Africa” conjures up images of apartheid, rape, murder and injustice for me. If anyone is unfamiliar with this country’s history, let me give you a brief synopsis of how the country was formed:

Let’s say you’re at home in your very cushy house that your family has lived in for hundreds of years. A bedraggled homeless guy stops by and asks for a glass of water. Being a good Samaritan, you offer him not only water, but food as well. The homeless guy leaves, and comes back every few months to abuse your hospitality, demanding  more food, water and clothing. YOUR clothing. One day, when your back is turned, he asks you to pray with him. He wants to bring you the “good news”. When you open your eyes, he’s got your ancestral home and you’re the homeless guy now…only you’ve got a Bible to console you. That’s how the Dutch Boers colonized the nation. They were a bad guest that just never left.

I’ve never had the fortune of traveling to South Africa, but my husband did 2 years before we got married. In the 2 weeks that he was there for a mission trip, he fell in love with this country, townships, Afrikaans, social injustices and all. He loved the people. He loved the land. He could completely understand why those Europeans never left 300+ years ago.

A mutual friend of ours runs a school in one of the townships.She’s back in Atlanta this week to visit her family. She and Marshall chatted briefly after church this past Sunday.

“Why don’t you just pack up the family and move down there?” she asked him.

“Believe me, Nicole…I would,” he replied wistfully.

Later on that night, he told me about Nicole’s challenge to move. As we lay in bed twirling each others chest hairs, I asked him why not? Why not pack up and move to South Africa?

“Are you serious?” he asked. “What about Ghana?”

“Ghana will always be there,” I said. “Besides, my dad can come and visit us anywhere on the continent. He doesn’t need a visa like your silly American government refuses him.”

My husband’s breath quickened. He began to recount all the things he had seen and done in the country seven years ago. As he talked about the crags and panoramic mountain scenes, his voice got an octave deeper and he had a far away, misty look in his eye. It was as though he was talking about some hot ex-girlfriend that time and circumstance had separated him from much too soon. His amour for this country has me willing to give her another look. Perhaps she is not the evil whore I’ve presumed her to be.

It’s been refreshing to see him so excited about something these last few days. Who knows? If the winds blow right and with good fortune, I may be blogging from our new home in Port Elizabeth in 2011.

A Play Date for my Man

I think it was Chris Rock that was talking about married couples and their relationships with other married couples. Generally, the wives set their husbands in front of a TV together and say “Hey honey, he likes baseball too! Y’all get to know each other.” As newly weds, Marshall and I found this segment hilarious. Married women don’t really do that to their men, I thought.

Oh…but they do. Fast-forward 5 years into wedded bliss, and I find myself this weekend at a girlfriend’s house chatting with 2 other women. The topic: Fishing.

“Girl, Johnny loves fishing, you hear what I say?”  This was my new friend Cheloyn.

“Nuh uh! Marshall loves fishing too!”

“Girl, we need to get them together so they can go fishing at some of these holes.”

“Yeah, and say about 3 words to each other.”

We cackled and clapped in delight. Cheloyn called her husband to tell him the news, and I made immediate plans to go to Bass Pro Shops to get my hubby some new fishin’ gear. My man had a DATE, and I didn’t want him out there on those banks with raggedy lures, reels and bait. I thought about getting him a new hat and T-shirt as well.

When I excitedly told Marshall about his new fishing buddy, he looked at me with disbelief and then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said. “The whole thing is just pathetic. Why do you women do that?”

“Pathetic?” I bristled. “I was going to Bass Pro Shops to get you all new stuff!”

He laughed harder.

Seeing that I was not amused, he tried to clean up his choice of words and proclaimed my actions as “cute”, not “pathetic”. He slapped my playfully on my butt and I retaliated by slapping him mercilessly in his balls. Call ME pathetic…

So I guess C Rock was right. When it comes to third party relationships, we women do treat our men like kids. But can you blame us?

Dating Commercials are for SUCKERS

The other night I was watching TV and the standard foray of advertisements came on between segments of the show.

You know how it goes:

Laundry detergent featuring happy brunettes cheerily folding clothes; An athletic blond doing backhand springs while peddling vaginal applicators; Old men doing jittery jigs, singing the praises of male enhancement courtesy of a little blue pill; and the run of the mill online dating services.

It is the last category that had me sitting up in my seat.

“Liars!!” I screamed at the television.

These online dating services are selling the masses a lie. What do they show you? Happy couples on deck of some obscure boat, lovingly grasping each other, or my personal favorite, some pretty young thing dressed to the nines in her swanky art studio creating a sculpture with her equally good looking beau. All of them are supposedly “in love” matched by 126,980 qualities that ensure compatibility. How convenient is it that you both share  common interest and ideals? You’ll never bicker about anything! That’s not love. That’s easy. Let me tell you what real love is.

  • Your wife slogs into the house, all crippled up, bent up, stooped up and shriveled up from working 12 hour days in retail and you still think she’s hot. That’s love.
  • Your girl’s once taught belly, refined from years of running of running track, is reduced to a quivering kangaroo sack, a result of bearing your snot-nosed offspring. At night you make love to her like she’s a goddess and you tell her so. That’s love.
  • Your very clumsy mate breaks the last tea cup in your grandmother’s antique set. You look at him quizzically and offer him a big hug. Inside you’re mad as hell, but your grandmother is dead and you guys never have tea anyway. He’s more valuable in the grand scheme of things. That’s freakin’ love folks!

I have any number of friends that have tried these online dating services or paid to have a “match making” service fix them up. In the end, they always walk away disappointed. Why? Because these people are selling snake oil. Love is not a magic silver bullet. It’s an instant decision that is cultivated over time.

Muttering : *Stinkin’ online dating services making me sit here and blog about them. Bleh!*

Married sex ROCKS!

Caution! I beg you oooh. If you’re not 18 or older, please close your eyes and open another browser. This post is not for small boys and girls.

I was on the phone with Tem, my childhood best friend yesterday, and as usual our “So what’s going on?” conversation turned to current events, personal triumphs, men and sex. It’s generally in that order. I had neglected to tell her that I was pregnant, and her response was that of shock: not because I was pregnant, but because of the obvious (and apparent) frequency with which my husband and I have sex. We’ve had 3 kids in 4 years.

“Y’all is the most humpin-est married couple I know!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I guess we are.”

“I thought married people didn’t have sex,” she pondered out loud.

That’s what I’d heard too, and of course, that’s what you read in all the magazines. I mean don’t get me wrong; we’ve gone through our dry spells. After dealing with a day of work, cleaning and caring for kids, who really wants to do more work between the sheets? But then that’s where the difference between married sex and single sex comes in. And as someone who has had both, I’ve seen the differences.

As I boldly and very loudly told my friend, married sex is more deliberate.  She and I both agree that as single women, a man’s sperm is like kryptonite, and there is nothing more urgent than wiping that sh*t off with a hot rag when you’re done. However now that I’m married, when my husband is about to nut, I wrap my legs tighter around his waist. A-skeet-skeet-skeeeet!! If I’ve had to conjure up reserved energy to get into the act, dagonnit  I’m going to enjoy every last drip-droppy messy moment. And that’s the other difference:

Married sex, unlike single sex, is extremely messy.

When you’re single, you have to go through the whole charade of taking a shower, and brushing your teeth, and making sure your weave doesn’t come out of place, or not to get to sweaty so as not to offend the  other person…blah, blah, blah. When you’re married (and especially if you have kids), you tell your spouse he/she better come get it while it’s hot! And of they’re wise, they’ll recognize the signs and do just that, shower and cabbage in your teeth be damned. There’s something extremely comforting about waking up next to someone who has seen you at your absolute worst and loves you enough to still want to wake up with you the next morning, even if you have the biggest eye boogers on the planet.

Single sex is sooo pretentious. There is nothing worse than pillow talk when you’re single, particularly if you’re not in a committed monogamous relationship. The routine question “what are you thinking about right now?” is something I would personally dread as a single woman. I never asked it, and I always hoped never to be asked. And if the guy I was fornicating with fell asleep immediately after doing to the do, I couldn’t help but feel a little used. Pillow talk with my husband is awesome.  We’ve been married for x years, so I already know what he’s thinking. After a hot 15 minutes of passion (because that’s all I have time for), our pillow chat will go something like this:

“Hey! Did you see that they culled a bunch of kangaroo in Australia?”

“Nah. Why’d they do that?”

I’ll then explain the culling and reasoning behind it. After finishing, he’ll counter with:

“Did you know if you can’t stick your erect penis in the cardboard tube of a toilet paper roll, it means you need an extra large condom? That’s what it said in Men’s Health. Honest.”

“Nuh uh!” I’ll then present a toilet paper roll to him to prove it. Obviously impressed, I’ll marvel: “Well I’ll be dog gone. It’s true!”

After quizzically inspecting the width of the toilet roll, I’d exclaim (with some dismay) “You’re sticking something that wide in me?”  My husband will then chuckle with manly bravado and say “Yup!”

He and I will then cuddle together, all 450 lbs of our combined weight, and I’ll wistfully say “I love you babe. I can’t wait to hump you when we’re 80, toothless, hump backed and all.” One of us will then fart (usually me ,because I’m pregnant), re-shuffle the sheets and in 10-20 minutes ask the other if they wanna do it again.

Like I said, married sex rocks. There is no comparison to wholly giving yourself to someone who has wholly given themselves to you. Marriage is a commitment, no a contract, and when a marriage is healthy, it is an amazing thing. It’s taken me almost 5 years to get my brain around that. Married sex is intimate, sacred, hilarious, outrageous…whatever you want it to be. It is because your spouse is now “bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh.

I dare a single person to top that.

Fun Weddings vrs Sucky Weddings

I’ve never cared much for weddings. I don’t cry when couples exchange their vows, or when the bride comes down the aisle, or at any of the typical moments when it’s appropriate to show sappy emotion. I’ve only been to 5 weddings in my entire life (including my own), and 3 of those have sucked big time. My wedding, unfortunately, was included in that sucky 3.

So when we were invited to a wedding yesterday (2-14…how original!), I was hardly in the mood to go. But the groom was a good friend of my husband’s and his mom was well respected, so I felt obliged to make an appearance.

Let me just be plain: I HATE going to Christian weddings. I’ve been saved 11+ years now, so I don’t know if this brand of folks are Evangelical, Charismatic, Orthodox or what, but the 3 sucky weddings I attended (included my own) were all members of my church. The folks who got married used to attend our church as well, so I had a good idea of what to expect: dignity, comportment and boredom. Boy was I wrong!

The wedding took place outside, on an usually cold February day. There was snow on the ground and Father Winter blew gusty winds to ensure every guest had a chill in their bones. The wedding  party marched down the aisle as though it was a beautiful Spring day. I admired their pluck. After the exchanging of very sweet vows that the couple had written themselves, we were instructed to enter the building post haste, because we were on a tight schedule. I’ve never seen Black people move that fast!

“This poor couple,” I thought, as we were served puff pastries. “They can only afford h’ors deurves for their guests.” I ate as many as I could in anticipation that we’d have to vacate the premises within the hour. I looked around and saw grabby Black folk thinking and doing the same. Wrong again! We were summoned by a chime to indicate that it was time to go upstairs. Upstairs for what? For a brilliant reception, that’s what! The bride had chosen a luminous shade of blue to accent the standard white chair covers, and the center pieces could only be described as romantic. Everyone knows people only go to weddings for the reception, and the bride set the tone when it was announced that this as a celebration, and that she was going to be very upset if she didn’t see people on the dance floor! Now that’s what I’m talking about! The dj was nothing short of a master, skillfully blending the best of old school with new. I would have loved to join the young ones on the floor, but I had pregnancy gas and was certain I could clear the floor if I let a silent one loose. So I was happy to dance in my chair…far in the corner of the hall.

I watched the bride and groom dance joyfully, their family and friends joining in. Their wedding was a success because they had made it their own. I wondered if they’d had to face any of the compromises and criticisms I had to during my own wedding plans. Hmmmmm….

*Insert sparkly dream dust here*

My wedding sucked because NOTHING went according to my desires/plans. My brides maids got to wear saris, and it’s a wonder I even got away with that. Ever since coming to America, I’d always dreamed of being serenaded to “She’s your Queen to be” while coming down the aisle. Marshall dashed those hopes when he said he would never let that happen.

“You can have your brother sing it at the reception though.”

But the “dj” (whom I had NOT hired to play for our wedding) would not hand him over the mic.

A friend of mine came all the way in from NY to play hip-life for the reception. As I waited patiently for a switch from the boring traditional jazz this guy had been playing all afternoon, I saw Eugene walk over with his laptop to indicate he was ready. Mr Old Head dj shook his head and informed him he was the maestro for the event. Eugene sat down, and so did the rest of us. My very boisterous aunt from Detroit loudly proclaimed that she had some liquor and Tahitian grooves in the car and that she was ready to get this party started! My best friend who’d come in from London said “Why don’t we move of these tables and chairs so that we could dance!” I sat sullenly, trying to look happy, but all I could think of was the series of “nos” I’d suffered through during the planning of this sham.

No, I could not have a water fight after my reception

No, I could not have a bar-b-que instead of a standard reception with white linens and white chairs.

No, I could not have any contemporary music played at the reception, because my husband was a deacon.

No, we will not have a first dance.

No, there will be no father-daughter, mother-son dance either.

No, you cannot play “Ribbon in the Sky” because Stevie Wonder is not saved.

No, you cannot have Chinese acrobats perform at the reception because we cannot afford or find them.




By the time it was 2:30, I was ready to leave my own wedding because even I was bored! I felt sad for my guests who had traveled from London, Ghana, Ohio, DC and Michigan to participate in butt-glued-to-your seat event. The only folks who seemed happy with the whole dignified event were my husband, his mom, and the church leaders whom I felt were there to make sure nothing got out of hand. I could have said my vows and gone home afterward. I wasn’t needed there.


If it sounds like I’m bitter, I AM. Five years later, and all I can recall from my wedding is the disappointment and the need to flee when it was all over. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but my wedding day was not the “happiest” day of my life. My marriage has been great, but the wedding sucked.

The kind of gifts you can’t get under a tree

Christmas 2009 was turning out to be the crappiest of my life. I was (and still am) a year plus into my unemployment, money was extremely tight, and I felt like my husband was making a mockery of me because I was not bringing any money if apart from my federal and part time job checks. Over the fall, I had the opportunity to interview and work with a company in Columbus, Ohio. The pay was good, I would be near family and I would get back to making a contribution to my family, outside of doing laundry and taking the kids to the zoo. My husband and pastor worked very quickly to keep me from pursuing that prospect, warning that it would lead to a divorce and a chance for the Devil to destroy another marriage. Two weeks before Christmas I looked at our holiday budget and fumed when I recalled that meeting. A week later, when my husband told me that I could not buy gloves and hats for the girls for our trip to Springfield where it was snowing, I was livid. All I could think about was how useless I felt as a housewife and what a wasted chance I had missed because I had been cowed into submission through fear tactics and a need to do “the right thing.” If he wanted me to stay at home instead of going where the work was, then he needed to work harder to bring in more money and take these stupid constraints off me! To add insult to injury, our pastor had promised (and failed) to follow up with me to give me an “action plan”. “We want you to be happy as well,” she had said. The 3 calls I’d made to her to acquire that “action plan” had yielded nothing.

As I stewed over these thoughts during my drive home from taking my daughter to see her rat bastard biological father, I decided that I resented my husband and pastor for stymieing our financial health. I walked in the door and was met by the sight of my husband sweeping the floor and tidying up for our drive to Ohio to celebrate Christmas. I was unmoved.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“I resent you!” I seethed. “I resent you and I resent Pastor Hunt!”

He stopped sweeping.

“You’re going to have to explain yourself,” he said, visibly irritated.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out. I meant to keep that to myself.”

“Yes, but you said it, and now you need to tell me what you mean!”

Our conversation went unfinished as a friend dropped by to visit. Sensing tension in the air, she did not stay long after coming to collect her Christmas gift. My husband and I didn’t say two words to each other the rest of the night. He slept downstairs on the sofa. I barely slept at all upstairs. The next morning I woke up early to drive and think. All this had happened because there had been a pause in my unemployment benefits. Was the $210 a week from the State really worth a blow up with my husband? I had been stupid and needed to apologize. I sent him a text to let him know I was going to change the oil in my car for our trip and that we could talk when I got home, if he liked. My text went unanswered. When I pulled up to the house, he came right out and warmed up his car. I began cleaning some of the trash out of mine, opened the door and was confronted by his hulking frame. His eyes were cold.

“Malaka, I have to tell you I was mad as hell by what you said last night. With all the stuff I do around here, plus going to work to pay off your credit card bills and car loan…for you to tell me you resent me, I felt very disrespected. If you feel like I’m such a tyrant and am so oppressive, then you go do what you want. If you feel like your destiny is in Ohio, then leave. I’m tried of trying to convince you to stay with me. As for me, I’m going to work.”


“Can I say something,” I asked.

He shrugged as I began to explain my position. I apologized. I told him I was wrong. I told him I knew he did everything around the house and that I did appreciate it…and then I told him if he wanted me to leave that I would. I would leave today.

I flung my trash into the can and stormed upstairs, angrily pulling down suitcases and pulling them into my room. I turned around and saw him standing in the door.

“Can we at least talk about this some more,” he said.

“No!! No more talking! I don’t want to talk to you anymore!”

He seemed baffled.

“Wait a second. How are you going to get angry with me??” he asked incredulously.

“I’m not angry! I just want to leave!”

I slammed clothes into suitcases with no rhyme or reason. I had so much stuff, I didn’t know what to take first. My mind was racing. Marshall tried to talk to me, but I was having none of it. If he wanted me gone, I wanted to leave too! I brushed past him to get to into the closet, gathering sweaters and shoes with tears staining my face.

“Anything I don’t take you can just throw away after I’m gone.”

“Malaka, I don’t want you to go.”

“I want to go!” I screamed.

“I don’t want you too.”

I suddenly heard him sobbing and explaining that he thought that I wanted to leave him. I turned to look to see if my ears deceived me, and there on the floor was my loving 6’1” husband, holding his head and sobbing uncontrollably. He began to pray and ask God to help him and his family. He told me that he loved me ever so much, that he’d loved me for the past 12 years, despite everything I’d done to him.

“Well, I want to go, so I won’t keep doing things to you.”

“That’s not what I meant!” he said. “Oh God, why did I say that?”

The next 30 minutes was spent in the closet, both of us sobbing with pleas to let one pass and the other vowing to block the closet door until there was a promise to stay. The children cried for milk and for the channel to be changed downstairs. My resolve had been broken. I hadn’t wanted to leave anyway. The ordeal ended with us sitting on the floor in a slobbery heap, surrounding by strewn clothing. Two days later as we watched our kids excitedly open their Christmas gifts, I wasn’t struck at all by how few physical gifts I hadn’t received. My family was intact, Marshall and I had reaffirmed our commitment to each other, and I’d started the day with a good helping of pie. These are the types of gifts you can’t get wrapped in pretty paper placed under a tree. What started out as a crappy Christmas turned out to be one of my best in recent memory.

Look here African Ladies – Let me tell you something

Hmmm. Let me tell you something about motherhood and marriage that they don’t tell you when you are growing up. I’m about to go on a rant here, so be warned! You won’t make it to the end. I have much to say.

Don’t listen to you parents and grandparents!! They are all liars and crooks; and that includes any meddling aunties and “aunties” in your life. These people. They want you to get married and have kids so quickly, but they lie to you with their silence.Let me tell you something African ladies. Your friends and family don’t want you to have kids because it is a joy. it is because they want revenge! They want you to suffer as they have suffered.

Marriage. Tweeeeaaa! Nobody tells you that when you get married, that guy that kept his house/dorm room so clean suddenly becomes a SLOB when you move in together. They don’t tell you how not only does he not put the toilet seat down, he occasionally pisses on the floor for you to find and clean up. Or how he leaves his shoes in the middle of the floor for you to trip on in the night as you make your way to that bathroom and fall INTO the toilet…because he left the seat up! These women, your mothers and aunties, they are all WICKED!! They don’t inform you how a man suddenly becomes incapable of doing his own laundry once you are “blissfully wedded”, how he brushes his teeth and leaves GLOBS of toothpaste on the counter for days. He shaves his facial hair and leaves particles on the floor. As he get older in age, he becomes even more careless. He’ll take a shower and blow his nose, only to leave SNOT on the shower walls.

African ladies: You stop and ponder about your own father. How neat and genteel he is. How caring. Why does YOUR man behave so??? It’s because your mother spent 30 years whipping him into the man you see and are so fond of today!!! You think he started off like that? Kai!!

And children. Those ungrateful little b@astards. I have never taken the Lord’s name in vain until I had kids. I’ve recently begun to utter “God D@mnit!!” under my breath at their vicious little antics. They are terrors, and these women who claim to love you only want you to suffer.

Being a mother is a miserable and difficult existence. It is even more difficult and miserable if you live in the West. At least in Africa, we have the comfort of having your friends and sisters in close proximity. There is strength in numbers. But when you are outnumbered 2 or more to one in this forsaken place they call America, you have no hope. Worse yet, you can’t reason with your husband to locate the family somewhere closer to OTHER family because he is “an eagle” and he wants to strike his own destiny. So what do you do? Do you move with the and be happy and leave him behind, or do you suffer on as a good little wife should?

And let me tell you something about religion. Unfortunately, religion and social structure are not what they used to be. There’s a reason 60% of all marriages end in divorce. it’s because people don’t fear God and the shunning of the church, mosque, whatever anymore, and because women can WORK and make their own money now. Don’t let the trappings of religion fool you. The other 40% of couples that are still married are basically together because they feel guilty or obligated to wake up next to that jerk day and and day out for the rest of their lives for fear of some social reprise.

Back to kids. They are INGRATES. Think about how YOU treated your parents growing up. The only reason they want you to have kids is so that you can feel what they felt, and the only people who can do this are your kids. You buy them a doll, and 3 days later it’s naked and missing all its clothes and a few limbs. You take them on outtings and when you get home, exhausted from hours of play they ask you where “we are going again”. To take a nap of course! And then they scream to their rooms and complain that you never take them anywhere. After days spent washing, folding and ironing laundry for these little harpies, you dress them neatly for school and they tell you “I don’t want to wear that”. Another 6 minutes fighting over what shoes they can or CANNOT wear because it’s 18* outside, and they tell you that you NEVER buy them any new clothes. Subconsciously your eye shifts to the closet bursting with clothing and you wonder what the HELL they are talking about???

Eventually, all you want for them to do is to get good grades in school so that they can go to college and get a decent job so they can get the f**k out of YOUR house, but they won’t even do THAT. After spending upwards of 80K on their tertiary education, they COME BACK. Why the HELL are you back in my house?? Those of you living with your parents should pay attention here. Be nice to them, because if it was me, I’d kick your ass right out the door after I prayed with you and wished you luck.

Oh yeah! Motherhood is a blast. You spend the first 2 years wiping their noses and crappy backsides and the rest of their lives putting up with the rest of the sh*t they make up on their own.

AND that, my friends is what they don’t tell you on OPRAH and Good Day America. Lying b@astards.

It's been 13 months and I'm still pregnant

Peeing, peeing, peeing. I’ve been pregnant with the SAME child for over a year it seems, and my nights and days are spent peeing. 80% of the time spent after I lay my head on the pillow is spent lumbering to the toilet to pee, 10% wishing I didn’t have to pee, and the other 10% laying in bed in excruciating pain from holing in said pee.
That’s what it’s like to be 8.65 months pregnant.

All I want to do is SLEEP, but this man beside me WON’T STOP SNORING! For the love of all things good and pure, would he roll over or loose some weight so that I can get some sleep??!

Wait a tick. That’s not him. It’s ME! I’ve actually snorted myself into consciousness. Poor hubby. I’m sorry.

Sweet Jaysus. What is that SMELL?? Ugh. I’ve got the farts again. Is there any odor more foul than a pregnant woman’s flatulence? If I crack another one like that off again, hubby may leave me. I mean, I’d leave HIM if he stank like that. Smells like a herd of cattle died in my bowels. Ugh.

2 months ago, the women I would encounter in polite circles (church, the grocery store and the like) would say “Oh! I knew you were pregnant! You’re GLOWING!!”
Now I get concerned nods and asked questions like “Oooh girl, how are you FEELING??”
I know I look hit. I feel hit. Don’t rub it in.

Even as I sit here typing in my 15th month of pregnancy, I know I should be asleep. It’s 5 freakin’ AM! In 2 hours, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (my two toddlers) will scamper and stomp into my room demanding “nilk” and “jewse”. I will have no strength to go down to the kitchen to retrieve either of these. They will whine, and my day will begin with a headache. It’s a sure banker.

Most of the things that keep me awake at night (apart from the constant deluge from my bladder) are concerns for my family’s financial future. Are we going to be so broke that I WILL indeed have to dress my son in his sisters’ pink discards? Will this business I’m venturing into actually work? Will my children shut their yackity traps long enough during the day so that I can call some potential clients??? Dang it! I have to pee again. You know what would be awesome now that I’m 23 months pregnant? A catheter. That way I could pee and never have to leave the spot I’m sitting or laying in. There’s a freedom in there that only the very old and very sick get to experience.

So now that it’s 7 am and I’ve been asleep a total of 15 minutes, I feel a hand suggestively rub my back. You can’t be serious. After the night I’ve had?

“No, no,” I say. “It will hurt the baby.”
I hear a rebuttal.
“Yes, I know it’s been 3 months.”
More objections.
” I don’t CARE what the doctor said, I SAID it will hurt the baby!!”

Suddenly, there is a pounding of four feet down the hall. *Sigh*. Time to get up and get drinks for my mistresses. I can’t wait to have this baby so I can get a 2 day vacation at Northside Hospital.



I will no longer try to improve the well being and hygiene of my family. I give up on that part of motherhood. From now on, my obligations are only the newborn and myself.

From THIS DAY FORTH, I vow to be as NASTY as these muthas running around in this house.

I will no longer look to see if the dishwasher is empty and put dirty dishes in there. I’ll just leaves my plate, cup spoon and fork on the desks and living room. Maybe I’ll just leave my dishes on the little counter space we DO have, and add an extra cluttered look.

When I drop food on the floor, I won’t pick it up. I’ll just leave pesto, icing and herbs on the ground for hours because after all, MALAKA, will clean it up.

I’ll purposely throw my dirty clothes NEAR the laundry basket and not in it. Heck, why not really follow the crowd. I’ll just leave my dirty shorts in the middle of the bed room floor, right next to my shoes where someone can easily trip over them!!

From now on, I will NOT clean up after myself in the bathroom. I’ll leave my toothpaste stains all over the sink and mirror. If I HAD a beard, I’d also leave my facial hair all over the sink and floor. But what I CAN do is this: When I douche, I’ll just leave the empty container in the tub and wait. Wait until someone says something. But since that sh*t only bothers ME, I guess no one will object.

When I take a piss, I will aim for the floor and seat AND WALK AWAY. When I take a dump, I WILL leave skid marks on the rim.

Oh yeah, this is war!!! Y’all think you’re the only ones who can play this game??? You didn’t grow up with me. You can’t win.