FAIL (Do’s and Don’ts of Trying to Talk to a Woman in the Club)

Ok, that is it! First off, while I think it's utterly ridiculous to try to "mack", "holla" or any variation of "meet" a person inside the club, men insist on giving this a try. Ladies, you know it's true. He's been peeping you from his side of the club, danced with you for three songs or has even offered to buy you a drink. This is fine, the problem comes with trying to "extend" the evening. Fellas, I'm talking to you if you've EVER gone up to a woman and asked any of the following questions while Young Jeezy, T.I. or Beyonce was playing in the background; "What do you do", "What are you doing after this", "Where are you from" "Where is your man".

I've personally been privy to this for almost a decade; it doesn't seem to be going away. So, let's make this as painless as possible. There are certain things that are an automatic turn off, if we can agree to get rid of the following things, there may be more comfortability involved for all parties and who knows, you may even get her number.

1. Ask her NAME. Sounds simple right? You'd be surprised how many conversations start with "So…are you enjoying yourself" and are followed by "Maybe we can exchange numbers and talk a little later". Seriously? Is this before or after we make up names for each other? I'll call you "Club Guy" and you can call me "Lil Mama"? Asking my name gives me the idea (whether true or not) that you are interested in ME. Also makes me feel like you're not a complete stranger…which you are. Now, there is a catch…she's probably going to want to know your name too. Let's avoid aliases; "Pooky", "G", "Duece" etc. If your name is Benjamin, introducing yourself as "Ben" is fine, if your name is Douglass introducing yourself as "D-Money"…not so much.
   
2. Avoid lengthy conversation. Here's a secret, there is nothing worse than a guy interrupting our "Beyonce Moment". That's when "Upgrade U", "Ego", "Single Ladies" or any other female-anthem-like song plays and we come together in comradeship to relish in this moment. What's worse than the interruption, is you coming over to ask "Whether I'm enjoying myself". This question is stupid as mere observation can answer it and we're more than likely thinking…"I was before you interrupted me". If, for whatever reason, you can not wait until the club ends, make your entrance and exit quick and brief. If we don't hint that we should go to a more quiet place, we're not trying to engage in lengthy discourse with you. Now is not the time to discuss your collegiate dissertation. And please, let's agree to avoid questions such as; "Where do you live/stay", "Where'd you park", "Where's your man""What do you do", it's just creepy. State your name, state your business and move around.
   
3. Keep your hands to YOURSELF! Most women with a healthy self esteem don't want your hands all over their bodies. We can stand to go clearer. If we don't know you, it's not okay for you to touch our behinds, rub our thighs, play in our hair or any other perverse affection that is unwarranted, in whole, because we DON'T KNOW YOU. Full body hugs as your opener…are also your closer. Don't do it. The often unavoidable pull of the arm in your direction, less disturbing but still inappropriate. Seriously, for one moment guys picture this, a woman walks up to you in the club and puts one arm around your waist and pulls your face close to hers so she can talk to you. While, you might enjoy her forwardness, if she turns and does the same thing to three other guys, you're going to feel a little creeped out. All this unwanted PDA stakes claim, and we are NOT together. (Not to mention, if I turn you down, I still want the cute dude I was eying to holla at me later) Play it safe; keep your hands to yourself.
   

I could go on, but I'll spare you. Remember, if you just can't wait until the party ends and music dies down, introduce yourself, keep it brief, and keep your hands to yourself and in return we'll try to take you seriously. Anything else is a fail; I mean, sure you'll be on our mind later but as a firm reminder why we don't give our number to men we meet at the club. Surely that's not what you want.

I Don’t

Tamara stirred the contents of Hamburger Helper around in the skillet as it simmered. She checked her cornbread to see if it had reached the golden texture her family preferred. Peaking over her shoulder at her five year old, who was sitting on the floor combing her baby doll's hair, "Scoot back from the tv," she warned.

Her 12 year old strolled in the house bouncing his basketball on her hardwood floors. One glance from her and he knew to stop. "Is dinner ready yet?" he asked, his voice much deeper than she remembered this morning.

"Almost. Go get out of those sweaty clothes and wash your hands. We'll eat as soon as your daddy gets here," she advised.

As if on cue, Donnie walked in the house, leaving tracks of mud from his work boots. How many times do I have to tell him to come in through the garage door and leave his shoes in there? she thought to herself. Sighing aloud, she knew she'd have to clean the mud off her foyer and carpet or else it would drive her crazy.

"Daddy!" Zhia screamed, abandoning her doll and running out of the room to follow him. Tamara shook her head in amazement at how, daddy coming home always excited her daughter.

After shuffling food onto the four of their plates and sitting them on the table, Tamara called her family in so they could eat, and so she could hopefully, relax.

Donnie and the kids walked in and sat down. He prayed over their food and declared, "I have an announcement to make!" Drawing the attention of the kids and a raised eyebrow from Tamara, he continued, "Kids, this is it! Tamara…let's get married," he invited, grinning from ear to ear.

"Yay!" Zhia shouted. "You're going to be a princess, mommy," she informed.

Her 12 year old, unfazed by this 'news' continued eating: knowing the sooner he finished dinner, the sooner he could play video games.

Tamara rolled her eyes. Stabbing her green beans and putting them into her mouth, she stared intently at Donnie.

Donnie, almost forgetting, reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold, 1-carat ring and reached it across the table to her.

"Take it, mommy!" Zhia urged, smiling widely.

"Finish eating, Zhia," Tamara instructed as nicely as she could, with her son chuckling in the process. She sighed again.

"What's wrong, baby?" Donnie asked, arm still extended across the table. "This is what you've been waiting for, ain't it?"

Tamara chuckled, continuing to eat. Men, she thought, shaking her head back and forth.

Slamming his hand on the table, startling the children, "What the hell is wrong with you?" Donnie demanded.

"Uh oh, daddy's mad," her 5-year-old narrated.

Having had just about enough her damn self, Tamara deliberately rested her fork on her plate. Looking Donnie in his eyes. "Can we talk about this later?" she asked.

"No. We can talk about it right now!" he ordered, banging his hand against the table again, making her fork fall off her plate.

"Look mother--!" she yelled, catching herself because of her children.

"Oooh, mommy almost said a bad-" Zhia began.

"Zhia, Bernard…bye" she ordered.

Not needing to be told twice, Bernard grabbed his plate and his little sister and left the kitchen.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Donnie questioned.

"ME?!" Tamara yelled indignantly. "You're the damn caveman banging tables, "I am man, hear me roar" in this bitch," Tamara reminded.

"Yeah, cause I propose to you and you leave me hangin,'" he pointed out.

"Pro-pose?" she laughed in bewilderment. "That wasn't a proposal."

"Like hell it wasn't," he said offended. "You're ungrateful. That's what you are."

"And you're an idiot," Tamara said, grabbing her plate from the table and walking to the sink with it.

"I don't know what else you want," he said, throwing his fork onto the table.

"First of all, you little ingrate, I want you to stop throwing silverware and pounding tables. And secondly…hmm, I don't know, maybe a decent proposal, not that I want to marry you anyway," she confessed.

"A decent proposal? You trying to play me? It don't get no mo' decent than that. I gotta ring," he said, folding his arms across his chest.

"THAT YOU PULLED OUT OF YOUR POCKET!" she yelled as loud as she could, thinking a higher octave might make it register to him. "Where the hell is the box?" she questioned.

Donnie, taken aback and unable to account for the box, sat quietly for a minute. "So…you don't want to marry me?" he asked.

Exasperated, she bluntly told him, "No."

"After all this fucking time together, and you don't want to marry me?" he asked, befuddled.

"No" she said, shrugging her shoulders.

"You're so full of shit," he accused. "So…you're telling me if I did come in here with a box you wouldn't have said yes?" he asked, already not believing her.

"No, I wouldn't have." She said, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "You don't get it," she began. "There's so much, I don't even know where to start. One, I got over getting married and getting married to you a loonnnng time ago. Not to mention, you're tactless. What the hell makes you think I wouldn't want you to get on your knees, with a boxed ring? Oh! That's just for starters. Then, "hey kids this is it." Seriously? Proposing to your woman, in front of your kids, is ass-backwards! It's… it's thoughtless, it's ignorant, and quite frankly, it's ghetto." She confirmed.

Donnie sat in his seat feeling like a reprimanded child.

On a roll, Tamara continued, "Two, we've been together ten years and today-" she said, walking over to a calendar- "February…5^th, you decide to 'propose?' Why?" she insisted.

"Why not today?" he asked defensively.

Ignoring him, she continued, "Fuck today. Why ten years later, huh? Tell me that? Ten years, two kids later, and NOW you're ready? Are you kidding me?" she asked.

"Technically, one," he whispered, under what he thought, was his breath.

"You shole' right," she added, hearing his snide remark. "Let me rephrase that, ten years, one biological kid later, why now? When I wanted to get married, you didn't want to. "Had to get your money right, your job together,'" she listed, rolling her eyes. "But today, a day that means absolutely nothing to either one of us," she paused "you decide to suggest that we get married. Cause you damn sure didn't propose." She said picking up the plate out the sink and rinsing it off.

"So, if you feel that way, why are you with me? If you weren't waiting to get married, why are you still here?" he asked, still unable to make sense of it all.

"Two words. Love and comfortability. I love you, I tolerate you, and I'm comfortable with the way things are. But, do I want to marry you? No…I don't," she said dropping the plate in the sink and walking out of the room.

Dangerously in Love

"I don't know what to tell him girl. How do I even start the conversation?" Janay said to her friend as she paced her living room floor, wracking her brain for options.

"Tell his crazy ass you don't want to be with him anymore. Plain and simple" her friend suggested, not understanding her conundrum.

"It's not that simple!" Janay yelled into the phone, throwing herself on the couch. "I've told you how into me he is. Not to mention..." she paused, running to the window just in time to see his black, Cadillac Escalade coming to a stop in her driveway. "He's here, what do I…how...gotta go!" she yelled, tossing her phone onto the couch just as he entered the living room.

Walking over with flowers in hand, Jermaine greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "How is my beautiful bride to be?" he asked, handing her the flowers.

"Uh…good. I'm good" she lied.

"That's great baby. I had the best day. I drove around town picking out tuxedos and even saw a beautiful wedding gown for you" he beamed.

"Wedding gown?!" she shrieked.

"Yeah…what's wrong babe? You don't look happy. I thought you'd be ecstatic that we're taking things to the next level." He said, pulling out a piece of fabric and measuring her waist.

As he intently gathered her measurements, she yielded a quick glance at the door to make sure it was still unlocked. "Don't you think it's a bit soon?" she asked pushing his hands away from her breasts as he attempted to wrap the tape around.

"Soon? Not hardly. As long as we've been together? Plus, when a man knows, he knows." He assured her, looking in her eyes he grabbed her trembling chin and kissed her on the lips, "And I know."

"I can't do this" she yelled, frantically moving toward the front door.

"Aww baby…its just wedding jitters. I hear everyone gets them" he said, removing her hand from the door knob and attempting to push the door shut.

Easing her back onto the door to keep it open, she shook her head vehemently, "It's not wedding jitters! It's just jitters" she confessed.

Whipping his head in her direction, "What are you trying to say" he asked, stepping further into her personal space.

"I'm…saying…this…isn't working for me" she said flinching; preparing for whatever backlash he might have.

Hearty laughter rang out from the depths of his throat, as he tossed his head back. She froze, squeezing her cervix tight to keep the piss from literally running out of her.

"I want you to leave" she whispered meekly.

"I love you" he answered gently, caressing the side of her face.

"I don't love you and I want you out of my house and out of my life now!" she said more sternly this time.

"I love you, you love me too, this is just emotion. Maybe you're pregnant" he suggested, eyes brightening at the idea.

"Look psycho, you don't love me, I don't love you and I damn sure ain't pregnant" she confirmed pushing him away from her in disgust. "Face it Jermaine. It's over." She said, opening the screen door and walking out first, praying he'd follow after.

He unknowingly obliged. "Jay, baby, we're going to be married. And don't be sad about not being pregnant yet, in due time we'll have a house full of kids. Now, let's go back in the house so we can pick a wedding date and start planning" he said, tugging her arm aggressively.

"LET GO OF ME YOU PSYCHO!!" she yelled, drawing her next door neighbor's attention. "Look freak, it's over. I'm not marrying you and I damn sure ain't having your deranged babies. Now, you have fifteen seconds to get in your car and drive away or I'm calling the police." She threatened.

"You're really serious aren't you" he asked.

"Yes I am." She said, "Fifteen…Fourteen" she began.

"Why would you break my heart like this? After all the time we spent together? I'm truly hurt" he said, as tears fell from his eyes. "At least tell me why" he demanded.

"I'm calling the police!" her neighbor yelled, whipping out her cell phone.

"WHY?! Maybe because you're crazy. I've known you two weeks Jermaine. You don't know my last name, you stole my house key and had a copy made. You're making wedding and future plans and we haven't even been on one date. We had a thirty minute conversation on the phone and now, you think I'm supposed to marry you?!" she exclaimed.

"That's insane" he retorted. "Your last name is Baker, our first date was on the produce aisle of Wal-mart, and those thirty minutes on the phone told me everything I need to know about you. We've got our whole life to date. And I do love you Janay… I do" he said never taking his eyes off her.

Silence was the response she gave.

"I even wrote my own vows…listen to this baby. 'Baby I love you, you are my life, my happiest moments aren't complete if you aren't by my side. You're my relation and connection to the-'"

"Fool that's Beyonce!" she exclaimed throwing her hands up as a police car stopped in front of her yard.

"You're going to regret this Janay. If I leave here, I'm taking all my love with me and I won't be back!" he warned.

"God I hope so" she sighed as he entered his escalade and backed out of her driveway.

Thanks for Listening

"You are NOT listening to me!" he yelled in anger.

"Yes I am babe" she reassured him, shaking her head knowing this was about to begin another 12-round argument between the two.

"Really? So what did I just say" he berated.

"Something about…"she paused, trying to recount his actual words. "And then, you said… well I do remember there was something about dinner." She offered in an uneasy tone. Turning back to the magazine she'd been reading, she flipped the page and admired a light purple cardigan being advertised.

"Thank you for that convincing argument" he remarked, clapping his hands sarcastically. Still angry that she wasn't giving him her full attention he continued, "You know what…I can't do this anymore." For months he'd hoped their conversation wouldn't have to come to this, but he knew this was beyond his breaking point.

The last five words jarring her from her magazine, she repeated "you can't do this anymore? What can't you do?"

"I can't keep coming home to an insensitive woman. You don't listen to a word I say, when you do even give me a hint of your attention, you exaggerate what I've said, and frankly, I'm tired of it. It's clear that you don't respect me or this relationship and I want out" he finished.

"All this over dinner?!" she exclaimed. Starting in on a tangent, defensively she began "Yes, I'm going to cook, I always cook. That's what kills me. You act like you're going to die, because there's still thirty minutes left on the food. Give me a break. I am not your slave, and you have the audacity to talk about respect!" she condemned.

"Wow" he concluded, the rest of his words being lost in thought. Shaking his head he began gathering his things.

"Exactly. 'Wow' is right. I've got some complaints of my own, but you know what, I put them to the side because I know you mean well. Do I listen to everything you say? No. I. Do. Not." She confessed slowly, "but that doesn't mean I don't respect you, that doesn't mean you aren't the apple of my eye. Sometimes you just talk about things that I don't care about. So yes, I'm guilty of looking at you and thinking about what I want to base the chicken in while you're talking. And there have been times when you've been talking about work, that I've zoned out and started thinking about what color fingernail polish I should replace with my current. We've all been guilty of that" she offered, "but when you say something important, I'm all ears".

Jason had long since quit packing things into his suitcase to stare incredulously at his very-soon-to-be-ex. "You know what?" he began, "You're a real asshole. Who says that? Fingernail polish and garlic lime seasoning are more important than my conversations with you?" he asked tossing his hands up in despair. "You're pathetic you know that! You're 36, no kids, never married, still wearing your hair in a childhood pageboy and you don't even have the decency to have a good personality. You're going to end up…alone, again, with a house full of cats, half your age, who climb in your hair and drink from the same glass as you. I was your last hope." He affirmed.

"Oh that is low!" she retaliated. "Pageboy?! This is a traditional bob!" she yelled in offense. "Maybe this breakup is a good thing, I don't know if I want to be with someone who doesn't know how to fix his own meals. Who whines like a three-month old child when dinner isn't ready. I'm not your psychologist, call her up! Get back on the couch, mister! For the record I have a brilliant personality" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "I have supported you, and loved you, and catered to your every need. I miss one conversation about dinner and now I'm the bad person? She asked "I caught the jest of what you were saying and if that's not good enough…screw you".

Giving an exasperated sigh, he headed for the door, turning around he said, "No that's not good enough for me. And for the record, I never said anything about dinner, I said my mother died at a diner this morning, but you're right, when I say something important you're all ears" he said letting the door slam behind him.

Help me…help me

So, I went to this relationship forum tonight. The setting was nice, it was held at a reputable establishment…The Breakfast Klub. There was free food and light music playing. By the time I arrived, the place was comfortably crowded…with women. This in itself is an issue but we'll come back to that. The moderator for tonight's event was a middle-aged lady named Marilyn. She was very engaging and the setup was nice. She'd gone around the room asking this mostly, woman-filled crowd, relationship questions. Questions ranging from "what did you do in your last relationship that aided in it not working out" to "why won't men tell women they are looking for a 'playmate' instead of pretending they are interested in a relationship". Needless to say, it was a very interesting evening.

The problems I had are as follows: In a room specked with mostly women, it was the moderator's position to go around the room to ask the dozen men present (and I'm being generous, I think their number topped at ten) to give their advice on many of the questions answered. 1) Not all, but some, not most, but a lot of men, aren't honest. For the ones present, many of their significant others were in the room, so getting an honest answer…was like pulling teeth. Prime example: in a room full of women, when asked what guys thought of women who go to nightclubs scantly clad, every male (because she asked each and EVERY one) except one, frowned upon those women. She did not give the women a chance to respond to the question at all (and yes, my hand was up lol). My thing is…really? Is that really what you think when you see a women in a balloon-bottom dress and 4 inch eff-me pumps? Somehow I doubt that. But how DO you respond when the moderator has already shown her disdain "why would a woman dress that way, especially in winter time, blah, blah, blaaaah".

My position is…it's not cold inside the club. I personally talk about the man or woman who enters a nightclub in a Christmas sweater or mock turtleneck so yeah…be more appropriately dressed. Dockers and a pocket protector aren't exactly club attire. Now I do agree with one male who stated that it takes more effort to put on clothes, and to be sexy when you are fully clothed. No objection there, whatsoever. I think we have to realize that women dress how they want to dress. Not saying it's right or wrong. If men are to judge a woman based on what she has on, how is that any different from a woman judging a man by what kind of car he drives?

Speaking of judging, I did find it astounding that many people don't want to know about the "past" of the people they plan to get involved with. There were 2 of us, (myself and another guy) who stated we'd like to know. No credit to the guy…he just wanted to know in the event that he was dating the town slut, he could end it and ward off embarrassment. Others stated they didn't want to know because a person's past is essentially "irrelevant". I'd like to know, NOT to judge you, but I definitely think your past shapes you and has helped to make you who you are. In addition, if you have (had) the tendency to punch in walls and hit women with frying pans, that's just information I don't need to "stumble" into (literally). Plus it helps show what kind of growth you have made, and the real testament is whether I can deal with ALL of you, not just the pretty picture before me today. Everyone has a past, let's talk about it.

We also talked about black men not being allowed to be the "head of the household" because women were bringing home more money or because women were being too controlling. It was my expressed position that a woman making more money than a man shouldn't be emasculating because in the event that they moved toward marriage and agreed as such, their money would become one. In addition, a man's worth and sense of self should not come from his ability to take care of a person he did not birth. My opposition to his "manhood" comes when it involves running MY life. Being head of the household and dictator of my life are two different things (even God gives free will). I think that people are missing the point. We need to be solid people prior to going into a relationship, we should give just as much as we receive and it should be my pleasure and position to lift you up as a person and as my man. If this isn't happening, no amount of income, your ability to change the oil or take out the trash or discipline the kids won't matter…we have a bigger issue.

Finally, the moderator suggested that the next meeting be a panel of all men, in which women would sit back and only be able to ask questions and not give any feedback. Though I am not a feminist, I was definitely not in cahoots with this. It's wrong on SO many levels. One, the mere fact that you have more women in the room than men indicates men aren't too concerned about fixing the state of the "black relationship". Two, I'm tired of every self-help remedy being that a woman sits back and listens to what a man THINKS she should be doing. Three, unless you plan to put every man on that panel you will never have an accurate account of what men want or what women "should" do. They (and we) can only tell you how to be with them. Every man is different. We are not carbon copies. So, if the goal is to help [black] women do better in relationships deal with real issues that lead to breakups and divorce, such as insecurity, poor money management, extreme baggage, lack of reciprocity etc, in doing so, you help them, help themselves. That's all we really need…help me, help ME.

 

Blended Lies

"You act like it's my fault that the number is in your phone Stanley!" she yelled.

"You ain't have no business going through my phone" he reprimanded, snatching his phone out her hand. "You trippin about finding numbers you need to stay your nosey ass out my shit."

"WHAT!?" she yelled incredulously. Ok, this was it. She'd given him the opportunity to at least pretend he wasn't romantically involved with the trifling hussy whose nude photo had shown up on the screen when she'd called, but he wasn't even trying. "Why do I always have to show how crazy I am" she questioned before taking it there. Walking over, she towered over him as he looked up at her patronizing her with his eyes.

"He really thinks I won't do anything to him" she realized. Nodding her head at her own revelation, she reached over, covered his entire, smug face with her fingers and pushed his head aside. "Stay out of your shit?" she repeated. Curling her fingers into a fist she landed a hard one against his right eye. "Or what?! What are you gonna do if I don't?" she countered hitting him again, this time causing his face to swell.

"Bitch!" he yelled, hopping up from his seat, "you not finna sit here and hit me like I'm some got-damn child."

Walking over to him she forcefully slapped the Iphone out of his hand and onto the floor. Shaking his head in amazement at the turn for crazy his girlfriend had just made, he reached down to pick up the phone, almost grasping it before she hastily swooped in and yanked it from the ground. Racing down the stairs, slipping over several, she hurried toward the blender and dunked the phone in. With Stanley quick on her heels, she turned to face him with a mischievous grin on her face.

"I'm sorry" he yelled, never taking his eyes off his prized mechanical possession lying cater-corner in the blending device. "I never did nothing with her, I promise" he "confessed". "You right, I was wrong for taking her number, for talking to her, but baby I promise, I didn't ask for that picture of her" he offered, hoping she wouldn't ask how it came to be her Caller ID. "And I was in the process of breaking it off with her cause I love you, you know, and I was telling her that" he rambled, thinking quickly on his toes.

She waited, finger hovering over the 'crushed' option.

"You know I love you, this is all one big misunderstanding. You said you love me too, so why you doing me like this?!" he questioned, feigning hurt feelings, wiping away imaginary tears.

"Why?" she asked looking at him through angry eyes. "Because you're a no-good piece of shit liar!" she yelled livid. " I did say I loved you" she said shaking her head at her own stupidity, "but then I went to the doctor Stanley. And you know what he told me?" she asked awaiting his reply. "He told me that I was pregnant Stanley, notice I said 'was'. But I'd already known it. For four months I'd known I was pregnant, and I waited, and waited for the perfect time to tell you. But you with your bullshit and your lies, it was something every week. The twins from Vegas, the hoe from the hood, and now this bitch, with her exposed nipple piercings mocking me from your cell phone. I lost my baby stressing over you and you never had the decency to even notice I was pregnant" she scoffed. "Didn't have the decency to come up with a good lie, and now, you care more about a $200 phone than you do the 'love of your life'. I'm doing this to you cause you did it to me" she said pressing down on the button as the phone bounced up and down, shards of plastic flying recklessly in circles.

5 Star Chic (2)

Remember, all characters are fictional and resemblances to actual persons are merely coincidental. Meet Erin McCall.



Erin McCall



Hello, I'm Erin. Erin McCall, attorney at law. I don't like to brag...BUT if ever there were such a thing as a 5 Star Chic, I'd definitely be the definition. I'm a very driven person. 28 and I've got an undergraduate degree in English and a Juris Doctorate degree in Sports Law and have already made quite the name for myself as an Entertainment Lawyer. So much so, that I've been able to pay off my student loans, I have ZERO debt, just bought a new Range Rover Sport...cash, (which I finagled down by $10,000) and in 3 years I plan to pay off my half a million dollar house. While I'm tooting my own horn, let me also mention that I have scholarships named after me at both my high school and college alma maters. I take an exotic vacation yearly and I give back in my spare time, not to mention I've done it all on my own. See, growing up, no one expected a skinny little girl from Third Ward, Texas to graduate high school, graduate Suma Cum Laude from The University of Texas (Go Longhorns!) or matriculate through law school in the top 5% of my class. Ahh. Good ole' expectations. I don't live by them. Don't put me in a box, I've been known to break down many. It's only a matter of time before my current law firm, Sterling & Shepherd, becomes Sterling, Shepherd, and McCall. So when you look at me, I'm all woman. I don't have, want or need a man. They're expendable. Anything they can do, I can do better, and I do mean ANYTHING. :) I get them when I desire to, which isn't often. Now that's a 5 Star Chic.