I love Dr. Phil, with that big country ass mustache. For real. I think he needs to match it up with the patch of hair on his head but that’s okay. I love a man who knows his shit. Like in any relationship, I’ve gotten pissed and turned him off for awhile but then, I can’t stay away. Robin better be glad I ain’t out there, in California, or wherever the show’s taped or I’d push her ass outta that seat.
You know, on those shows you see some folks who are all messed up. Shit, I can’t say I ain’t fit to be sitting on that panel my damn self. I couldn’t be on TV getting my therapy though. Something’s innately wrong with folk who get treatment that way, but I guess that’s partly why they end up there in the first place. There was one show, The New Adventures of Old Christine, where Julia Louis-Dreyfus, who plays Christine, goes for therapy and ends up getting it on with her therapist. That would be an ideal set-up for me if I had therapy (Why not?). But that wasn’t before this one episode where he was fixing her tire, bent down and turned her off ’cause she could see he was wearing thongs. I was feeling ole girl on that. That’s some questionable shit right there.
My mom and I used to commute, her going to work and me to school, some years back. Now, she was married but not blind, okay. There was this nicely dressed man who rode the bus too. She’d point him out and you have to know, me being young, this kinda helped me out on knowing what I should be looking for in a man on how he should carry himself. Anyway, the man was clean but not flashy. A right handsome fella, he was. I just wondered if he had a car but didn’t study on that too long ’cause he was getting the secret eye from my mom, ’til he did some shit that turned her off. Folks, the man sat down this one particular morning on the bus and his socks didn’t match his shoes. Oh, she was done with him after that. Shortly after, this was around the time I got another lesson on how to measure a man’s worth. And that’s kinda important. One of those lessons was, “If a man’s wearing rundown shoes, he ain’t hittin’ on shit.” Now, that man she was crushing on didn’t have rundown shoes, he just wasn’t matching up. I felt bad for the man on not knowing how to match up his shit, y’all. She didn’t give him much attention after that. Folks, if you think I can say some shit, I’m merely the apple that dropped from the tree, okay.
It is, however, natural that I look at a man’s shoes and socks now but that’s not a deal-breaker for me (Maybe it should be). What breaks it for me is a man who talks to a woman like shit. That ain’t right and based on what I know about folks in general, that kinda shit only speaks to how little that person is on the inside. And you know, when I look back on this one fella I was all fancied by, I feel sorry for him. Not sorry enough to stick around though. Uh uh. I even told him a time or two he was a bitch. A high maintenance one, at that! Plus, I don’t think there’s a fitting time to keep folk like that around. Hell, I’ve dumped women friends for their nit-pickety shit. I know I’ve got my ways but never will there be a time when I jibe with a man who shows contempt toward women. I could diagnose that, based on my extensive history with Dr. Phil but I’ll leave that to folk who are actually state-licensed.
I said all that to take you here, folks. On a much more serious note…a VERY serious note…some of you may be familiar with My Inner Chick’s blog, which pays tribute to the memory of her sister Kay, who left us as a result of domestic violence. Kim, who writes the blog, is witty and uses expletives like a pro (big ole smile and a wink at cha, chick). She keeps asking if I’m a real person, and yep, I kinda think so. See, the connection I have with her loss is having a mother who survived that very thing. So…who knew I’d be sitting here telling you this but the One from yonder… Lordy, mercy…