Everything's Trash, But It's Okay

by Phoebe Robinson

Truth is, no matter who it is, if you got it in last night and are in these streets the following morning looking disheveled, you should be doing forward rolls into yoga mountain poses that are met with rousing applause à la Willy Wonka when he made his grand entrance at his chocolate factory. Congratu-fuckin’-lations on going to the Bone Zone.

I’ve been single for two years. And while there are tons of pluses to singledom—I can do what I want when I want, traveling the world solo is empowering, and rocking Nature’s Long Johns (aka leg hair that’s as long as Kenny Loggins’s hair during the seventies) keeps me warm during winter—I would be lying if I didn’t admit it’s sometimes difficult to be out in these dating streets in my early thirts.

Loneliness. And this is a biggie: lack of on-demand physical affection. I mean, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that fantasizing about riding Michael B. Jordan’s D like it’s a toboggan down the French Alps has gotten me through many a cold night. Unfortch, being boo’d up with MBJ is not my reality; my reality is late-night jam sessions where I change the words to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Free Fallin’” to “Free Wallin’,” which is about me forgetting to bring underwear to the gym, so after I shower, my lady walls are unprotected in my jeans. #DisrespectfulToThePettyEstateAndMyLevis.

Being single is rough stuff on occasion, and the worst thing about it is other people. More specifically, getting to know other people is the true bummer in the summer.

Simply put, there’s a lot of anxiety that goes into finding a romantic partner, and while some of it is self-inflicted (I should just eat a damn burger on a date if I want to!), some of it is because I’m older, which means I’m much more aware of red flags, and when you’re more aware of red flags, your dating pool shrinks significantly.

When you’re in your twenties, red flags are like the Microsoft Word paper clip that pops up on your computer screen, asking if you need help, yet you click the X immediately with an “I got this, boo” confidence because you think you can and should be able to date anybody and you’ll walk away unscathed and in slow motion like George Clooney did from the car bomb explosion in Syriana. However, by the time you hit your thirties, it’s different. You. Take. Dem. Red. Flags. To. SeriousTown. Suddenly, you and your friends become Woodward and Bernstein, fact-checking, calling on sources who shall not be named, going over all the evidence any time the person you have designs on does the smallest questionable thing, like not calling when they said they would. It might be a sign of the person’s flakiness, but usually it is just an honest mistake and falls under the category of red flag false alarm. But then there are situations that are so bad that not only does a red flag appear, but it’s accompanied by “Ironside,” the siren song Uma Thurman hears in Kill Bill right before she fucks some shit up.

Meeting a white dude on a dating app and his idea of making conversation with me is asking for my Ancestry.com family tree chart in hopes that I’m mixed? “Ironside” with a dash of “Go die in a fire; I’ll bring the marshmallows”

I signed up for Tins and immediately started judging people solely on a couple of photos and a short bio that is supposed to summarize an entire life. This is a flawed system, but it’s a system nonetheless.

Tinder is basically for people who, on some level, want to be like Ruth Bader Ginsburg and judge the hell out of others even though they’re barely equipped to judge a chili cook-off. That might be fun for a while but, eventually, being on Tinder can feel kind of like a rock-bottom moment;

I wasn’t even expecting or asking for the full word at that point. That’s how low my standards are in this disappointing and commitment-averse dating world. I’m aware that a stranger sending another stranger “congratulations” is akin to Tom Cruise telling Renée Zellweger, “You complete me,” at the end of Jerry Maguire. It’s far too early for a moment of sincerity. But, dude, put in some effort and be a little bit more like fictional serial killer Patrick Bateman . . . which is something that I never, ever thought I would write. I, of course, don’t mean the criminal part of him, but rather the part where he played the long game. He wasn’t like, “Down to get fucked and chopped into tiny pieces?” No, he feigned interest like a gahtdamn gentleman for two point two seconds and engaged in what people were saying to him. Just pretend you’re happy for me so the conversation can continue.

no, I will not be taking a Lyft to your crib so I can be murderized. Coretta Scott King didn’t go through all she went through for me to go out like that. In my mind, she worked her tail off so I can work my way onto the Obamas’ holiday-card recipient list.

It’s as though this dude is letting me know he still thinks I’m attractive despite being black American and not something more “exotic.” How patronizing and self-absorbed of him to think that I need or will only feel relief if I receive external reinforcement from a guy I barely know; furthermore, he’s participating in the racist and historically damaging fetishization that a black woman is only beautiful if she has a diverse background. But what’s even more infuriating is that in the span of me staying on Tinder for another week, David was the fourth guy who tried to see if I was indeed not African-American.

What in United Colors of Benetton is this fucking fuckery? If y’all dumb heauxes cannot tell that I am black AF and/or are hoping I’m mixed with something so I’m low-cal black, y’all can choke on the peacoat Rosa Parks wore when she told that white dude, “It’s gonna be a ‘no’ from me, dawg”—#Callback—and stayed her behind in the front of the bus.

So, to recap: (1) Being single is fun sometimes (assuming the starfish position in bed without having to worry about bumping into anyone is #Goals), and at others, it blows (Doing chores by yourself is trash. I have to do dishes and dust my bookshelves? LOL.co.uk/BloodyAwful). (2) Dating apps make it tough for black ladies (and indeed all ladies) to find a quality partner, and (3) being in your thirties means you inspect all potential romantic entanglements the way Detectives Stabler and Benson do a crime scene.

#YourMindWillMakeYouThinkAboutThatMomentWhenLiterallyEverythingIsGoingWellInYourLifeJustSoYouDontGetTooBigForYourBritches.

Whenever I’m in an interracial relationship, I get emails or queries from black dudes wanting to know why I’m not with a black guy (funny, when I’m single AF, these same black dudes aren’t asking me out, and most, if not all, of them are now happily boo’d up with nonblack—usually white—women). Look, I’m #TeamBlackLove.

That’s what interracial dating can feel like sometimes. Seems like plenty of people have ideas about it, many of them negative, and want to let everyone know about it. Despite the Pew Research Center revealing that IRCs are more common than ever (12 percent of all US newlyweds married someone of a different race), when a celebrity, friend, or family member is in an IRC in HD IRL—#TooManyAcronymsButThisIsMyBookSoFuckIt—it becomes the topic of focus, controversy, and conversation. Serena Williams, Constance Wu, and Jordan Peele have all been questioned for having partners outside their race. Out of all three of them, I am most dumbfounded by the rage I saw from black men on social media about Serena being married to the half-Armenian, half-German Reddit cofounder Alexis Ohanian. Some claimed that she is a sellout, that she couldn’t handle a black man, and that she is no longer a role model for young black women. If I remember correctly, she has publicly dated black men, but more importantly, throughout her entire career, I have witnessed black men on social media call her a monkey, say she is too manly, claim she is ugly and disgusting, assume that she couldn’t handle a black man (Common and Drake) and that’s why those relationships ended, and a litany of other insults (to be fair, nonblack men have historically dissed her as well), so for a lot of these black men to turn around and behave as though it is a grand betrayal that a black woman they didn’t respect found love wit...

Honey Bunches of No, y’all. I said it once, but I will say it again: Fetishizing or thinking that a mixed-race person is better because they fit within the arbitrary “exotic” box that society designed to create disharmony within racial groups (after all, we all know that race is a societal construct as well) is harmful and perpetuates the notion that those who don’t fall under the category of “white” are not multidimensional people, but objects without agency that people can project their thoughts, opinions, and desires onto without consequence.

I started to notice that, at times, it seemed that no IRC faces quite the same kind of scrutiny as white man/black woman (this may be colored—hehe—by my personal experience, but I’m sticking with it)—not even black man/white woman couplings. Of course, folks will run through the tried-and-true greatest hits album of racism (Mandingo myth, rebelling against one’s parental units, etc.), but with WM/BW, in addition to the racist snark, there’s also, a lot of times, confusion.

Guess what, folks, it ain’t about any false narrative of an “upside.” Some white dudes just—gasp!—find black women emotionally, intellectually, and physically attractive. And isn’t that the real problem? Thanks to the historical treatment and perception of black women, that’s not supposed to happen. Black women aren’t supposed to be considered beautiful by the mainstream. Not desirable. Not to be pursued romantically, at least not publicly. It’s fine to have her as a side piece, but to bring her to functions? Tsk-tsk.

Ultimately, some behave as though they cannot believe a WM would give up high status (being with a white woman) to be low status (being with a black woman). Heartbreaking, but that is often the message when they see a WM/BW couple.

Oh, who am I kidding? Even if I lived in Idaho, married with seven kids whose births had effectively turned my womb and vajeen into an open-concept kitchen under renovation, and MBJ slid into my DMs like Tom Cruise slid across the hardwood floor in Risky Business, I would be like, “Husband, there are enough Lunchables in the fridge for the chillrens,” chuck up the deuces, and get on the first Southwest flight to the land of This Definitely Gonna Fuck My Entire Marriage Up but #KanyeWestShrug.

Life has two categories, trash and non-trash, and I like to believe I’m an unofficial expert at identifying for myself, as well as for others, which moments ought to be tossed in a Glad garbage bag that’ll end up at landfills (aka Earth’s junk drawers) and what should be held up like Simba at the beginning of The Lion King while one sings the Zulu intro to “Circle of Life.” I’m that good. Not to get all Game of Thrones on ya, but you can call me Phoebe of the House Robinson, First of Her Name, the Blerd, Drinker of Rosé and Also Chardonnay When Rosé Is Not an Option, Khaleesi of Ignorance, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Trash.

sometimes when I give friends advice, I end it with, “but IDK tho,” so that way if my advice Hindenburgs their lives, I can point to the “but IDK tho” clause so they can’t cuss me out completely. You know the saying “Those who can’t do, teach?” Well, in my case, there’s the following saying: “Those who identify trash can do so because the double helixes of their DNA are made out of the plastic rings that keep together a six-pack of Fanta.”

For example, having to do a number two after showering? Trash. Finding an outlet in a store while running errands so you can charge your phone for ten minutes? Non-trash. The fact that Maxine Waters probably put her 1991 game of spades with Ruby Dee, Cicely Tyson, and Alfre Woodard on permanent hold to become a US representative for California? Simultaneously, trash and non-trash. I mean, thank you for your service, Maxine, but I really wish you could’ve finished that game so I could hear about all the #BlackGirlMagic that transpired.

How hot was it? It was so hot that I get why the devil leaves hell to take an Airbnb vacation to the polar ice caps and melts them because he’s mad at living in such a hot-ass home.

yes, I know. I’m attractive. I’m cute. I’m pretty, but I’m not hot. Hot is next-level attractiveness that makes people trail off midsentence and forces their bodies to suffer mild and involuntary whiplash that’s bad enough to warrant a phone call to Cellino & Barnes, injury attorneys. No one is getting minor whiplash when I walk into the room.

When rich people suggest some pricey shit that y’all can do, you do one of three things: (1) Laugh uncontrollably like Vincent Price on “Thriller,” pull up your checking account info on your mobile banking app, and then say, “Stop fucking around and lemme know what time you want to go to Cicis pizza tonight.” (2) Toss up a Michelle Tanner thumbs-up with a chaser of “You got it, dude,” while mentally going over the meth recipe Walter White came up with on Breaking Bad and decide then and there you’re going to be a drug dealer for a few days so you can afford to hang out with said rich folk, or (3) as I like to do, just assume they know you ain’t got no money and that they’ll have to pay for everything.

Now, normally, I’m distrustful of white people with boats (because of slavery, duh!), but I just had a feeling there was going to be hella crudités. There was no way I was passing on free prosciutto.

See, this is what I don’t understand about the concept of waiting for some “special” event such as a bachelorette party to engage in debauchery. Especially in your thirties. In your early twents, maaaaaaybe. You still have that new-at-adulthood flavor about you. If you were a wine, you’d probably be described as a smoky bouquet of student loans and Plan B pill residue that incorporates Cool Whip overtones and then finishes with notes of still being on a T-Mobile Friends & Family plan with your parental units.

But in your thirts? Naw. While you’re by no means a veteran at life, you’ve lived enough that you don’t need an “excuse” to go to Vegas and act a dang fool. Plus, acting a dang fool takes on a different meaning as you age. Take me, for example. Gray hair is coming in by the strands on my temples, and each day I’m one step closer to serving Frederick Douglass realness. So, to me, going to the club and making out with a random hottie is not living on the edge. However, attending a housewarming party, being lactose-intolerant and eating two slices of gourmet pizza (because of course it is gourmet) without having taken Gas-X, and then crop-dusting the entire apartment before telling the lie, “Oh, it must be their dog,” to the person I’m talking to and leaving before they can finish asking the question “Shanice and Derek have a dog?” is living on the edge.

“Look, I’m not one of your little friends.” When a black mom says to you, “I’m not one of your little friends,” please consider your life canceled; furthermore, your afterlife has been declined like when Chase Bank is overzealous about fraud prevention and shuts down my debit card when I attempt to buy sixty dollars’ worth of items from Bed Bath & Beyond.

Non-Trash Moment of My Life #3: Figuring Out the Tip at a Restaurant . . . Without the Help of a Calculator Real talk, whenever I do that, I feel like Taraji P. Henson in Hidden Figures when she pulls over that giant-ass chalkboard to do genius mathematicals in front of Kevin Costner, who is quietly sipping coffee and nodding his head in approval. So, like, where’s the movie about me?

To be able to support yourself without financial help from friends or family is a dream come true.

Coooooooool, I guess I’ll enjoy an amuse-bouche of sadness with an entrée of oxygen because I, for damn sure, don’t have cash to buy food)

#IHadToDrinkVitaminWaterToReplenishTheElectrolytesILostFromCrying), is “making it,” at least for me.

Not only is it unaesthetically pleasing for a black person’s skin to look like the half-erased chalkboard that Bart writes on during the Simpsons opening credits, but dry skin feels awful, plus other black people judge you for not having your moisturizing game on lock.

so when I applied to college, it was half for geographical reasons and the other half because I simply didn’t know what else to do. Luckily, I was smart enough to know that getting into college bought me about four more years to figure out who I wanted to be and what I wanted to do, or more accurately, to have a serviceable answer when adults asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. This arbitrary expectation for you to have your entire life figured out while barely in your twenties is ludicrous by today’s standards.

I discovered something within me that I didn’t know I possessed: I’m the type of person who thrives when her back is against the wall.

My telling people I was going to be a writer and then actually doing that is kind of like when you meet someone, immediately forget their name, and are in the awkward position of introducing them to someone else, so you go, “This is . . . Steve,” and Steve is like, “Haha. The only person who calls me Steve is my dad; usually, I have everyone call me Stephen. But yeah, it’s Steve, Stephen.” And you’re like, “That’s not all your dad and I have in common. We both like beer,” and then you immediately walk away because words aren’t your friend anymore.

I finally committed to something, and there’s nothing better than seeing someone you love figure out a part of their life, not because they were forced to but because they wanted to.

When I think of Palm Springs, I think of unwinding in a cute AF house that I found on Airbnb, drinking tequila, and seeing old-ass white people with their Jamaican or Haitian caretakers at the grocery store. But I decided to go ATV’ing because the only thing I’m more scared of than hurting myself is FOMO. I said, “Yaaas,” and went with the gang to the ATV site.

Not only that, society is infamous for telling people of color that they don’t do thrill-seeking activities. That it’s just white people who are adventurous. Well, guess what? Five black women decided on a whim to do something they’d never done before. Something they’ve been programmed to think isn’t for them and they crushed it. So, tell me again, what else aren’t people of color supposed to do? I’ll be there with my fanny pack full of nonhelpful first aid remedies.

For real, they’re not the casual “I’m not going to leave a message and I’ll just try you another time” kind of folk. No one is when you owe them money. When you owe people money, they’ll leave clues like this is National Treasure. They’ll be like, “Let’s play Sudoku.” And you’re blowing through it because it’s strangely easy and they’ll stop you midgame and go, “It’s easy because these are my checking account and routing numbers. Direct-deposit a bitch her money.”

Then she got ready to leave me her cell number when she paused . . . because she didn’t know her cell number and said she was going to find out what it was and text it to me! I. Want. To. Be. That. Rich! Truly, to be that rich and that busy that you need to and can afford to employ someone on staff who is getting health and dental insurance to, among other things, tell you what your own cell number is absolutely #LifeGoals and #AetnaGoals.

I immediately threw my carrot on the ground because fuck health and raced over to meet Oprah. And OMG! She hugged me! To be hugged by Oprah is to have Elton John sing “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and the sun is like, “A’ight, I’ll stay up here and it’ll be 2:15 P.M., all day, e’ry day.” To be hugged by Ms. Winfrey is to wake up one day without Michelle Obama’s bank account but with Michelle Obama arms and think, I’m cool with that.

so they turn into Annalise Keating, cross-examining the Target employee about why they’re only receiving store credit. Like, really? This is Target. You honestly believe you’ll never again find anything in Targs that you can spend that fifty bucks store credit on? Anyway, the returns line at Target, like this analogy, is hella long. But what’s important about Target returns is that if you have your receipt, you’ll get your money back, and if not, then you’re on #TeamStoreCredit, which is still great because you can use it to get something you truly want. And if you really think about it, reparations kind of works in the same way. Again, hear me out, y’all!

he used to date Naomi Campbell, so obviously, he has great taste in black women. I understand I am nothing like Naomi. HOWEVER! You know how when you eat dry-ass, knock-off Cheerios, and you think to yourself, But it’s still cereal tho, and cry into your breakfast? Naomi may be a legendary supermodel, but I’m still black tho!

Larry Mullen Jr., drummer. He’s ripped, super talented, and he now wears glasses while performing and is basically serving Clark Kent sensuality, so I’d obviously smash, but his name is Larry, so . . . that’s tough.