What NOT to Do This Friday Night

Happy Friday! Thank God it’s finally the weekend. Sure, most of us are probably at work, but c’mon, who really works on a Friday anyway? Your minds are already on tonight, and on Saturday night, and on praying for forgiveness Sunday morning.

I’ve heard it’s a holiday weekend, though I’m not sure what holiday. People don’t normally take the Friday before President’s Day off. Especially since we don’t get President’s Day off. Maybe the people working in the federal government do, but us average Joe’s, working eight to ten hours a day, making next to no money, we definitely don’t get the day off. Hell, I doubt even the kids get a break from school. Unless it’s a teacher work day, which means the tired, worn, and broken teachers still have to report.

Ahh, such is life.

But I’m not here to complain about how hard working Americans don’t get nearly enough vacation days in the year, or that my temp contract requires me to work 2,000 uninterrupted hours before I can get paid holiday. (For those of you slow at math, that’s 50 freaking weeks!)

Truthfully, I am here to celebrate that it’s Friday, and that I’ll have two days off to relax, regroup, and most importantly, write.

How do you plan to fill your weekend? To my single readers, should I expect nothing but pure debauchery and regret? That was always the case for me—more regret than debauchery, though.

Which brings me to what I really want to talk about . . .

STAY HOME!

My church has a Saturday night contemporary worship service for millennials and people who ain’t trying to get up on Sunday morning . . . or miss football (man, I miss football).  Anyway, last Saturday, one of the associate pastors preached a sermon on staying under the authority of God. One thing he said that truly tickled me was this:

“When you leave here tonight, don’t go home and put on your disco clothes. Put on your pajamas and get in the bed!”

Boy, the congregation had a hoot! (See, it’s ok to laugh and have fun in church). But all joking aside, if everything within the fiber of your being is telling you to stay home tonight, listen to it. We are always asking for signs, some divine intervention to show us where to go and what to do. But when they come, and the answers to our burning questions are glaringly obvious, we choose to ignore them and get ourselves into trouble.

Trust me, when God doesn’t want you to do something, He’ll make it known.

via Final Destination Wiki
via Final Destination Wiki

A few months ago, a woman at my church told us a story about a time during her not-so-Christian days. She was seeing (insert sleeping with) a man who had no intentions of being anything serious with her. One night, she drove to his place in a horrible storm. Torrential downpours, crashes of thunder, lightning streaking across the sky. When she got to his apartment complex, the parking lot was flooded, and a lightning bolt had either struck the water or had struck a wire that was spinning around in the water. Every time she tried to get out of the car, the wind blew harder, and the electrically charged water rose closer to her feet. Finally, she decided he wasn’t worth her life and went back home. Would you believe that when she got home, there wasn’t a drop of rain falling from the sky, not a clap of thunder, nor one strike of lightening? Nothing to indicate there had been a storm anywhere in the city. Nothing but peace and tranquility. She looked up and there wasn’t even a cloud; she could see the stars. Now if that ain’t a sign . . .

Needless to say, she didn’t see “ol’ dude” again after that.

I’ve had signs like that. Not as wild, but they’ve definitely come. The last one came this past Christmas. I had recently resumed talking to a guy I used to date. We had a huge falling out back in March, and it should’ve ended there. Unfortunately, I don’t always listen to my inner conscience.

On one of those lonely nights, I finally answered his texts, and we made a date to drive around the city and look at all the Christmas decorations. Of course, I had to drive because he had no car (note to self: date a man who can at least get himself and you around). I lost interest in the lights pretty quickly, and was ready to take him back to his place. In fact, I was fully prepared to drop him off at a reasonable hour—8:30—go home, put on my pajamas and get in the bed like a good little Christian girl.

I don’t know why I didn’t kick him out of my car, but we sat there in the parking lot close to an hour, and I listen to him drone on and on with his chauvinistic pride, which was really quite laughable, because what exactly did he think he had that made him better than everyone else?

You can scratch a car off that list. You can scratch money to pay for a girl’s dinner off that list. You can scratch a clean apartment off that list. You can scratch a furnished apartment off that list. You can scratch money to buy aspirin for that damn toothache he kept bitching complaining about—a toothache that prompted him to leave me alone in his house for an hour on two separate occasions to meet a friend for the medicine, only to come back with that same toothache and still no medicine—off that list.

And while material things don’t mean a thing, he was a very materialistic person, and he fronted like he had something people would be envious of, when in reality, he had nothing.

But the ultimate sign came when I looked in my side mirror and saw a penis.

aaseriously

One of his neighbors was standing next to my car, his phone in one hand, his penis in the other, peeing inches from my gas tank. Mind you, it was still about nine thirty/quarter to ten. I was parked under a street light. The road was literally right in front of us, with cars driving by! If not me, someone else was bound to see him.

It was the most repulsive and unsettling experience I’ve ever had in my life. To make it worse, when he saw that I was in the car, he and his homeboy preceded to watch me through the driver’s window and laugh, while the guy I was with did nothing. Absolutely nothing. In fact, he thought it was funny too.

I was not laughing. And I damn sure wasn’t comfortable.

But even after all that, I still went inside his house, greeted by the disgusting stench of rotten potatoes. (Do you know how long potatoes have to be sitting out for them to get that far gone? A long time! Who doesn’t know the bag of rotten potatoes sitting in the corner of their empty kitchen is the source of the foul odor filling their apartment?!) I stayed there while he left me alone (to not remedy his toothache), babysitting his stupid, jumpy puppy, watching some idiotic American Pie-type movie, starving because he didn’t have any food and his kitchen stank.

Eventually, I left. But it it was nearly midnight, and I was so frustrated with myself for allowing someone like that to completely waste my time and disrupt my inner peace that I went home and wrote a nasty Facebook status update that I later deleted.

But seriously, did I expect something different? His utter disregard for my feelings, my time, or my comfort was the exact reason we fell out last March.

Being bitten by that loneliness bug renders you temporarily an amnesiac. I should find something else productive to do. Like tell you of my horror stories as a reminder to myself.

I say all of this not to gain your sympathy (really, I’m fine. Single . . . Mingle Me Not, remember?), but to urge you that if you have a sinking feeling your Friday night will result in a similar train wreck . . .

STAY HOME!

Go see the new Lego Batman movie with the kids. Meet up with your girlfriends at the bowling alley for a night of gutter balls and chili cheese fries. Put on your pajamas and go to bed.

Do anything but call that no good man who still hasn’t made you his girlfriend, yet requires boyfriend privileges.

You’re worth so much more than that.

via Pinterest
via Pinterest

Sweet Without the Heart

Ahh, Valentine’s Day. The day of love, though nothing “loving” ever occurred on this dreadful day. I’m talking massacres, executions of priests. Valentine’s Day should really be called the day of martyrdom, because a lot of saints were killed this day. Lord only knows which “St. Valentine” the holiday is actually named after.

Nevertheless, today we celebrate love. Couples exchange long sappy paragraphs and cheesy love poems, men break the bank buying roses, chocolates (specifically truffles), and romantic dinners for their loves, boyfriends propose to their girlfriends, and the already betrothed get married, social media addicts flaunt their relationships, much to the chagrin of their miserable single friends.

Like I said, nothing “good” ever happens on Valentine’s Day.

Truthfully, it’s a holiday I can do without. Not because I’m single and bitter, though I am half of that equation (the half that’s not bitter). I would say my hatred strong dislike for Valentine’s Day started in high school. My high school had a tradition that in hindsight was quite a nice gesture. Organized by the student council, every Valentine’s Day, students could purchase a rose for a dollar to be delivered to their sweetheart during first period.

First period, Valentine’s Day, Freshman year. Student council members walk into the classroom carrying baskets of roses. They stand before the class and read off the names on the cards. One by one, each girl, and even some guys, step up to receive their gifts. Some one rose, others two or three, a few wrap their arms around dozens. . . . And I get nothing.

For four years, I had to live that experience. It’s meaningless now, but back then, during my emotional high school years, when those teenage hormones were raging, it was like a dagger through my heart. You mean to tell me no one, not one person, thought about me on Valentine’s Day? It’s not like all of my classmates were dating someone. Most of them were single like me. It was their friends who were spending a week’s worth of lunch money on roses for them.

I bought my friends roses. When I had a boyfriend, I bought him a rose. No one got me anything.

I take that back. One year, either my Junior or Senior year, I received one rose from my little brother. It was so sweet. He signed the card with one letter, K. But I recognized his handwriting in a second. It was the thought that made me smile, though. The thought was more important.

pexels-photo-196664

Still, I’ve learned not to expect anything on Valentine’s Day. That way I’m never disappointed, and if something special does happen, I’m always surprised.

Now, the only Valentine’s gifts I receive are from my Mom or my Granddaddy. Granddaddy’s gift today really made up for the blunder he had this past Saturday. He’d invited me as his guest to a Sweetheart Breakfast at his church. Now Granddaddy already has a “lady friend” so I wasn’t sure if my invitation was just an afterthought or if he truly wanted me to be there. I came anyway, on time, though on time for that church means five minutes early. His lady friend was there, as I’d expected, but Granddaddy still pulled out the chair for me and served me breakfast, a menu he no doubt wrote himself (scrambled eggs, potatoes and onions, sausage, sweet apples, and a roll—if that ain’t a classic old black man breakfast, I don’t know what is). However, the problem came during the introduction of sweethearts, when he stood up and said:

“This is my granddaughter. She’s not married, that’s why she didn’t bring nobody.”

Valentine’s Day, a vindictive holiday created to remind the single that they ain’t got nobody.

I put on the biggest fake smile I could muster and tried to laugh with everyone else clearly amused by my exposed loneliness. The clapback came hours later while I was in my room trying to erase the embarrassment from my memory.

I don’t need a man. I’m married to Jesus.”

I dare the seasoned saints at that church to tell me He doesn’t count.

By the way, I wasn’t the only single woman there. I was just the only one who got called out. I’m still trying understand his point, other than to make a joke at my expense. His church being very old with a dying congregation, all the men there were his age. Even if there was one guy from my generation, it wouldn’t matter because they all brought their sweethearts. Remember, Sweetheart Breakfast. Maybe he’d hoped to hook me up with somebody’s grandson? Eh, I’ll pass.

Granddaddy redeemed himself today, though. He bought me roses and a box of Dove milk chocolate truffle hearts, so I guess I can forgive him.

Looky there, now two people have bought me roses on Valentine’s Day. Ain’t I special!

rose-close-up-pink-flower