If you don’t know, I wrote a novel called the Mission (an ebook, out on various sites). It’s a romantic comedy/chick lit novel about, you guessed it, dating. Specifically, dating in D.C. and the idea of dating rules that women are often given to follow.
Here’s an excerpt:
Greg turned his head to me and raised an eyebrow. I hadn’t dated anyone in four months; what was I talking about?
Jamie spun around, eyes wide with curiosity. “Oh, really? What’s his name? What does he do?” she asked, leaning against my doorframe again.
I thought fast; of course she would want details. “His name is….
James.” Yeah, James. That was nice and respectable-sounding. So, what did James do? Maybe he could be a doctor. I’ve dated doctors before. Maybe even a plastic surgeon. Then I thought, she probably knew all the ones in the area with her melt-near-a-fire body. Another lawyer? No, she’d look him up on a legal search engine. Plus, you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a lawyer in this town. I looked down at the cover of my latest copy of Essence peeking out of my large handbag by my feet. Sean “Diddy” Combs was on the front, and I knew what James did.
“He’s a music producer,” I replied seriously.
Greg tried to control his laughter.
Jamie’s eyes glowed with surprise. “What label?”
Label? What the hell? “Uh…Um. He told me. I can’t remember the label…”
“It’s the one Jill Scott’s on, right? I remember you told me that.” Greg smiled.
I tried to cover the look of gratitude on my face and nodded my head in agreement. Jill Scott was neo-soul, right in my musical database. “Yeah, that one. I’ll have to ask him again. He works a lot with neo-soul music. He’s a VP and lives in New York.”
“Neo-soul, huh? That’s not really my area. But I’m sure the partners would be interested to know this. You’ve been holding back a major networking opportunity.” She wagged her index finger at me, and I wanted to bite it off. “Lives in New York? Must be hard, so far away,” Jamie stated, searching my eyes as if looking for a lie.
I shrugged. “Not really. It’s just a three-and-a-half-hour drive with no traffic. And he makes enough money where filling up his Mercedes with gas on a regular basis is no problem. Or he flies me to him. I prefer to go see him because I like the access he has. I meet some of his artists and get VIP treatment wherever we go. Next weekend we’re going to New York City for a celebrity party, but I can’t remember whose it is. Jay-Z, or Diddy, Kanye West? Who knows?” It was like I was plugged into a lying machine. Somebody stop me!
The right corner of Jamie’s upper lip twitched. She was pissed. All of a sudden, I was starting to feel better.
“Damn, can I go with ya’ll?” Greg asked, giving me a playful, wide-eyed look.
“Well, Sheila, sounds like you’re doing well for yourself. I suggest you show a good attitude and hold onto him. Maybe he just might stick around for the banquet. I would love to meet him,” Jamie smiled tightly.
Show a good attitude; I’ll show her my foot as it connects to her face. “Oh, he’ll be there for the banquet; we’re pretty serious,” I replied with confidence.
“Then who knows? Maybe you’ll defy statistics and get married!”
Thanks, Dateline and friends, for sharing with the masses the black woman’s plight in finding love. Seriously, how long would I get in jail for tasing someone? Might be worth it.
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Jamie gave a shocked face. “So, you could be getting engaged? How exciting. Wait until I tell everyone. The partners will love the exposure,” she muttered, leaving before I could straighten her gossiping ass out.
I stared at Greg in horror; he looked at me with pity. “What in the world? Friends don’t let friends be stupid!” I cried, throwing a paper clip at him.