Category Archives: sarcastic musings

My Hate/Hate Relationship With the Term “Lady”

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This blog post has been brewing ever since the time I was four years old and couldn’t stop donning a black sweater with stitched pickup trucks. I think my grandfather didn’t realize he wandered in to the little boys section of the department store or maybe he just couldn’t see that those were trucks on the sweater. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, this clothing item became a prized possession on my teeny tiny kindergarten body. And thus began my struggle with gender norms. Or something like that.

I took a women’s studies course during my freshman year of college and anyone who has taken a women’s studies course knows feminism and all that just freaks people out. I spent a greater part of the semester feeling terrible for the one guy in our class who always came late and ate Subway while simultaneously wondering why the hell bell hooks didn’t capitalize her name. So, I’d rather not write some thesis with feminism as the backdrop. I’d rather just speak freely. Let’s begin.

There are two recent distinct instances where I was called a “lady.” One was about a month ago when I was sitting in the hair salon with a gaggle of giggling girls. Hot Chicago Man was standing in the doorway and the girls weren’t too discreet about commenting on the silhouette of his package. I laughed awkwardly because everything I do is awkward. On my way out, HCM commented that I was “Such a lady. Wow, such a lady.” Ok, dude. I guess.

The second instance was not too long ago while I nursed a beer with a male friend of mine. Because I am not one to quickly imbibe any form of alcohol thanks to an acute awareness of my light weightedness, I guess this read as code for being a “lady.” “Wow, you drink like a lady. That’s good,” he commented.

Both instances stand out because 1) I don’t exactly think of myself as a lady and 2) I think most people realize that and would agree with me. I don’t know what being a lady is. I don’t know where it begins and where it ends. But, I do know if you were to look it up in a dictionary, a photograph of Tyece probably wouldn’t be anywhere in sight. In fact, I’ve been told (and would also agree) that I emit really masculine and ballsy energy which has a tendency to make guys want to pee in their pants and run away. So much for my blossoming dating life. Every now and again, I try to soften up and do some cliche shit like “Let a man be a man.” But, my ability to string a sentence together coupled with an affinity for dropping F bombs doesn’t exactly make me the most dainty being on the planet.

Yes, I like to wear heels. I like to wear dresses. I like to be complimented on my eyes or my smile or my legs. I am not above that shallow feminine shit. Beyond that, I don’t think I’m fitting the lady bill. If there’s anything I’m aware of, it’s that I’m a conglomeration of wit and damage and idiosyncrasies. I am an unpredictable missile. I am not easy to love. While most people neatly peel their life layers, one by one, until they are confidently standing there naked and unvarnished, I do the opposite. I wrangle them off like a four year old abandoning a wet swim suit. I shed my layers rapidly and toss them in a corner like pre sex panties. I yank them off as though they are burlap scratching my skin to the point of near insanity and all I want is for someone to see me without my clothed perfection.

I speak too freely. I think colorful lace bras are a sin against functional clothing. I can probably cook 3-4 decent meals and I probably only cook them 3-4 times a month. I have a difficult time pouring liquids without spilling them; gravity is not exactly a friend of mine. I’m a hard layer of experiences and doubts, successes and failures, peaks and valleys. But you crack that layer, and I am soft. And vulnerable. And permeable. But, a lady? A lady I am not.

Maybe it’s like one of my friends said: “You just are.” Maybe I don’t need to be a lady or not be a lady. Maybe I just am.

Xoxo,

Tyece

Today’s Middle Finger Goes to Trying to Date in D.C. When It’s 40 Degrees Outside.

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I just told my good male friend that I was going to write a blog post about how I can’t date because it’s cold outside. He told me that was the dumbest idea ever.

So, here it goes.

On Saturday night, I waited around a crowded restaurant with a friend of mine as we caught up and exchanged stories of DC douchebags. I thought dating back on my East Coast home turf would be easier but I have now confronted the stark reality that I’ll probably deal with the same fuckery I’ve dealt with in two other states. In fact, this time my dating woes are only exacerbated by the fact that I am fighting off the low-hanging fruit of previous hookups.

I didn’t realize people in DC are, more or less, assholes. I can only confidently say this now that I have lived in the south where people are human cupcakes, all saccharine and fluffy. People in the south are warm and cozy and downright friendly just for the sake of being downright friendly. DC people aren’t necessarily outright mean, just more, eh…aloof. Most people are conservative and snide and ready to see your skivvies drop the minute they impress you with their intellect and pseudo Ivy league degree. Because clearly, that’s enough to get me all hot and bothered. And, then there are the girls. Now, I’m not trying to date the girls. But, I can hardly keep up with them. Their hair is straightened to perfection and they flip it all while balancing on 4 inch heels. I tell you, my pixie cut and flat boots can’t keep up. We simply can’t keep up.

And, then there’s the real problem. IT’S FREEZING. Someone should have told the troposphere that 40 degree weather is not conducive to going out and trying to find the man of your dreams. I saw some girls the other night in tiny dresses without any hoisery or outerwear and I just thought, girl, you crazy. I don’t want to put on skimpy little dresses. I don’t want to smile at people while the wind is whipping my cheeks. All I want to do is put some fuzzy socks on my pedicure-less feet and curl up with a Real Housewives marathon.

Unfortunately, I also missed the time of the year affectionately referred to as bunning season. That’s when everyone scouts out their prospective mate to cuddle up with during these frigid winter months. I think I was packing boxes to move at that time. Oh, damn.

I already mourned the demise of my dating life this weekend when I went to Target four times, including two times on Sunday. I knew it was bad when during these visits I 1) bought a Taylor Swift CD and 2) got way too excited about a dollar off coupon I had for Advil Migraine. All I need now is a pair of Birkenstocks to officially morph in to TLSWA-The Least Sexy Woman Alive. 

In the meantime, give me the hot cocoa. It’s freezing, I am not dating, and it is going to be a long winter.

Xoxo,

Tyece

If You’ve Ever Felt Like Your Life Is a Hot Mess, This Post is For You

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My life has many guilty pleasures, one of which is xoJane (not to be confused with Mary Jane. Ok, Just wanted to make sure we cleared that up.) xoJane is a blog site dedicated to real women with raw stories and some really insane headlines, including but not limited to, “Why I’m Proudly a Drunk Mother” and “I Am an Asian Woman and I Think Asian Boyfriends are Superior.” These women are deep and dope and totally screwed up which is probably why I can’t stop reading their lexical gunshots. My second favorite writer on the site is Mandy; if you want to know my favorite, go read a little memoir by the name of Bitch is the New Black. So, last night, in the middle of another not-yet-quarterlife-crisis-I-am-moving-in-four-weeks-what-the-hell-am-I-doing-with-my-life meltdown, I sought some blog solace in xoJane–always a risk. Luckily Mandy had just posted something about trying to decide what to do with her life which almost prompted me to write this post right then and there but then I realized late night Golden Girls was calling my name. 

Confession: I feel like my life is, at times, completely out of control. I’ll be strolling along, everything will be fine, and then I’ll realize I should’ve gotten an oil change a gazillion and a half miles ago. Or I haven’t cooked a legitimate meal in six days. Or I’m wasting my gym membership if I only go once a week. Or I need to go to the dentist. And then there are the bigger things like, no, really, what am I doing with my life? Am I going to be 50 years old with a crackpot cat and only a blog to show for my existence? Because people keep telling me that I’m on some path to something but all I see are a bunch of scattered pebbles that are not in any sort of linear format whatsoever. Hey, WTF.

Yes, I worry. And, based on the many conversations with other twenty-somethings trying to build Noah’s Arc and escape the torrential downpour of adulthood, we’re all plagued with worry. Glad I’m not the only one who doesn’t feel like Santa forgot to drop off my ready-made life wrapped with a shiny bow. We’re all constantly flooded with dribble about being adults or accepting responsibility, or, my personal favorite, following our dreams, a directive to which I always want to shout, “Hey, imbecile, have you ever heard of Sallie Mae?”

There’s this inexplicable need to microwave our lives. Pop them in, follow the instructions, and watch them come out all yummy and ready to rock in a mere instant. While that may work for a TV dinner, I’m guessing it’s a little trickier when it comes to one’s livelihood. Our lives are these jigsaw pieces thrown astray. Some of them we find. Some of them we earn. Some of them are dropped from the sky without rhyme or reason. Some are stolen from us and others are bartered for better pieces. But, I don’t think we ever figure out a plan for connecting them. Maybe a life well-lived is a completely disconnected puzzle with dazzling pieces.

Sometimes, because my life experience is equal to that of a baby kangaroo, I feel as though my pieces are scarce. I wonder if I will get more or how long it will take to earn them. I’m worried that the fortuitous ones like love may not fall from the sky like they seem to do so freely for others.

But, then I think back to Mandy’s blog post last night, and more importantly, the comments section. Someone who likes to go by the name, “the cat’s pajamas” (I told you the xoJane audience consists predominantly of what most would qualify as emo chicks), wrote something that stuck. So adhesive in fact that I hastily erased my entire whiteboard of ideas and added this single quote:

“Let go of ‘should.’ There is no should, just things you might do and things you might not do. Because you want to. Or don’t want to.”

I almost titled this post “Let Go of Should” but quite frankly, I like hits and I know what makes you literate fools read. Nonetheless, maybe that’s it. Let go of should. Let go of where you should be or what you should do or whom you should do it with. Let go of should and let the pieces fall as they may.

Maybe that’s how we go from Hot Mess to Not Mess.

Xoxo,

Tyece 

 

 

I’m Going to Write About Being Single for the 179th Time and You Can Thank the Bookstore for That

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I wasn’t going to write about being single. I just poured my heart out in 569 words about how having a boyfriend would be nice and I thought hey, I’ll take a hiatus and write about some other stuff like, oh I don’t know, how much I love the suburbs. But, then, on another one of my exhilarating Friday nights I visited the bookstore and stumbled upon this:

Ifyou can’t make out all the titles thanks to my iPhone camera not being quite so up to par, just know some of them include “Attached” “Toxic Men” and “Find a Husband After 35.” I’m sorry, um, what the eff? 

I wanted to scream. Right there in the middle of a quaint little bookstore with some lady 10 feet away from me talking about how much she loves being a kindergarten teacher, I wanted to scream WHAT IS THIS!? Instead, I snapped a photo because 1) such moments are worthless to me if I can’t blog about them later and 2) contrary to popular opinion, I’m not a raging lunatic. 

You aren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, or in this case its spine, so I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. For all I know, these books are filled with life-changing gems  that will guarantee me years of happiness and reassurance that I will never again mess up my chances with the opposite sex because of my proclivity to spit fire at unsuspecting victims. But, I doubt it. 

And, really, the significance of the books doesn’t matter. The problem is that these are even written in the first place. Why, oh gawd why, are single women made to feel like there is something wrong with them?

 I’d like to think I am the unofficial poster child for single women now that I have spent the past 11 months being completely and utterly and wonderfully single. You know those girls who say they’re single but they’re just in some unofficial random hook-up thingy that’s a sad excuse for a relationship? Yeah, not that kind of single. I mean me, myself and I on some metaphysical spiritual journey looking for meaning and peace and solace in my life. Or, just fed up with random nothingness hook-ups and finally patient enough not to settle. Either/or. Probably both. 

I get it. We can’t escape our singlehood even if we grabbed a cape and tried to fly out of this bitch. We’re reminded of it when we get on Facebook and somebody’s engagement gets 75 likes but our measly little blog post gets three. Yeah, I said it. We’re reminded of it when the cute couple in front of us holds hands in line at the grocery store and we’re thinking, “Carrying these groceries up three flights of stairs is going to be the highlight of my night, obviously.” We’re reminded of it in real life, on social media, and damnit, even in the bookstore. But, I’d like for us all to take a collective breath in, pause, and just let it out. It. Is. Ok. 

I understand that this whole existence thing is supposed to be about finding someone to share your life with and getting married and making babies and all of that. And, I love that. I even smiled at some little kids yesterday; I’m learning how to find families endearing and not a complete deterrent for visiting Ikea. But, the 25 or 30 or, probably in my case, 40 years that come before that wedded bliss are not pointless. There is something to be said for living in the here and now. Enjoying your life for what it is and not hating it for what it isn’t. Learning how to appreciate your own company. Filling your life with people and purpose and beautiful little things instead of just letting some empty void sit there and grow mold while you hope someone comes along to fill it.  

You are enough. Put it on a t-shirt. Name a blog after it. I don’t know, do something so you neva eva forget it. Maybe even write a book. Looks like those are popular these days. 

Xoxo,

Tyece

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Own a cookbook. The first step.

There are times when I am convinced I have my shit together. I pay my rent. I read CNN. I remember to send a birthday card to my college mentor. 

And then I get on Pinterest. And all of that confidence-boosting adulthood activity is shot to hell. 

Pinterest used to be in my nightly social media line-up until it fell off, probably during an angsty ”rah rah I am a single woman hear me roar; f*** these photos of wedding gowns” kind of night. Nonetheless, I typed in the familiar URL a few weeks ago in an effort to find economical ways to create a headboard for my old bed in my soon-to-be new apartment. 

Knew it. I should’ve just gone to Joann Fabric where they wouldn’t have nibbled away at my self-esteem. I didn’t even get good headboard ideas, thank you very much, Pinterest. Instead, I looked at savory pictures of healthy salads with fancy names like “Creole Tomato Salad Topped with Feta.” In turn, this made me go and grab the cumbersome copy of “The Best of Cooking Light” off of my kitchen counter where it has been collecting dust for the past six months. But, compliments of Pinterest, I was fired up and ready to cook a real meal! 

Ten minutes later, I dialed Pizza Hut. 

Here’s the thing. If you are ever far too convinced that you are finally getting a hang of this adulthood thing, go on Pinterest for a humbling reality check. As you mind-numbingly scroll through Audrey Hepburn quotes and photos of perfectly manicured coral colored nails, you’ll remember that you, my friend, have flaws, too. At least according to the world through Pinterest. 

I would like to believe Pinterest isn’t real life. It can’t be, can it? The only people who have time to make a snowman from a tomato paste can are soccer moms in the middle of Grand Rapids, Michigan. For the rest of us mere mortals, let me explain a few things. My version of cooking a legitimate meal involves salmon with a garlic/basil marinade and salad from a bag on Sunday nights. (The key word of legitimacy in that sentence is marinade.) I will never have the willpower to get up at 5am and do a thigh pyramid workout. I don’t have a blender and thus have no intention on attempting to make a colorful cocktail; grab me that bottle of Yellow Tail instead. Oh, and my favorite–those photos of “loungewear” that includes a gold bracelet, leggings, oversized sweater, and leopard print circle scarf. I’m lounging right now in a beat up peach t-shirt and leggings with a hole on the side. The latter is lounging; the former is a full blown outfit. 

In the end, maybe we’re all a little bit like Pinterest. People see the end result and it looks 100% and put together but they never see what it takes to actually get to that picture perfect photo. 

During my scrolling, however, I did discover Pinterest was good for something. I found this quote. 

“If someone breaks your heart, punch them in the face. Seriously. Punch them in the face and go get some ice cream.” 

Thank you for that wisdom, Frank Ocean. All is suddenly right with the world. 

Xoxo,Tyece