Lil Mama's Rules

by Sheneska Jackson

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Meet Madison Maguire -- a modern-day heroine to embrace and admire. She's feisty, gorgeous, smart, and savvy; on the surface, she appears to have it all. She's single and loving it, playing the field and sticking to the rules of dating she's learned through life's tough breaks. Madison holds her own as she fends off advances from two-bit actors, old flames, and a secret admirer who is determined to bring love into her life. The rules of the game change, however, when Mr. Right appears on the scene. But just as Madison is ready to follow the proddings of her heart, her life turns upside-down, forcing her to learn a whole new set of rules about love, loss, and trust.

Release date: May 6, 1998

Publisher: Simon & Schuster

Print pages: 272

Sample

Chapter 1

Rule number one: Never invite them back to your place. Once a man gets into your home it's all over. It's like something clicks inside his head and he starts thinking he's in paradise. Starts smiling and looking all around with his eyes bulging out his head as if he just hit the lottery and landed his ass in heaven. What he's really doing is marking his territory, just like a dog who's found his favorite spot and pisses on it.

I'm usually a stickler about my dating rules, but for some reason I slipped up this evening and allowed Terrence, with his pretty self, to come up to my condo, and now I'm sitting here on the edge of the sofa wondering when, if ever, he's gonna get out. I knew something was up when he pulled his car in front of my building and turned off the engine. I should've just said good-bye and jumped out, but I sat for a second too long, which gave Terrence just enough time to ask me if he could come in and use my bathroom. Damn. I rolled my eyes as I reached for the door handle, thinking, Can't you hold it till you get back to your own apartment? But Terrence got to squirming and squenching his knees together like some three-year-old toddler who was about to burst, so I decided to cut the brother a break and let him come in.

Big mistake.

Once we got up to my condo it was plain to see that Terrence didn't really have to use the bathroom at all. That was just a lie he made up so he could get his narrow behind into my house, where he's been now for the past hour, and from the looks of things he's not going to be leaving anytime too soon.

And to think, for a second there I thought Terrence might be my secret admirer. Not. He's too stupid to be that romantic, I thought to myself as I stared down at the sterling silver bracelet on my wrist. My secret admirer sent it to me on Monday and I still can't believe it. I've actually got a secret admirer. I thought this kind of thing only happened in the movies, or bad romance novels. Guess I thought wrong. Anyway, my secret admirer has been romancing me all month long. Every day, a new anonymous package arrives for me at my office, and for the life of me, I cannot figure out who has been sending them. Like I said, I thought it might have been Terrence, but I showed him my bracelet over dinner and he barely blinked an eye. Besides, being a secret admirer would be out of character for Terrence with his pretty ass. He's too into himself to flatter anyone else. To tell the truth, I don't have a clue about who's sending me all these gifts. I've called every guy I've ever known and asked him if he's the one, but they all say no. Somebody's lying. But every day, the gifts keep coming. This week alone, my secret admirer has sent me this bracelet, a box of Mrs. Fields cookies, a red silk camisole, and a fern. But never is there a card or a return address or anything to tip me in the direction of finding out who is sending me all these things.

I don't know how long I can stand being in the dark about this. When I think about it, it's really kind of weird. I'm starting to think that maybe I don't even know the person who's doing this at all. I mean, I know a lot of guys, but none of them have this much flair about themselves, or at least I don't think they do. Maybe my secret admirer doesn't even know who I am. Maybe I'm just someone he saw walking down the street. Maybe he's a rich oil baron who has decided to sweep me off my feet by sending endless gifts. Or maybe he's a psychotic killer. I mean, this is L.A. The guy could be some deranged freakazoid who's been watching me for years. Maybe he's trying to set me up or something. He'll send me gifts until he goes broke, then one day he'll show up at my office door with a bunch of receipts and a sawed-off shotgun and demand his money and threaten to kill me...Okay, okay. That probably won't happen, but I'm just saying, in L.A. you never know.

Anyway one thing is for damn sure. My secret admirer is not pretty boy Terrence. Just look at him. Done made himself right at home. The first thing he did when he walked through the door was head for the refrigerator. I hadn't even turned on the lights and already he had his big, hairy hands wrapped around my last diet Coke. Well I'll be damned, I said to myself as I watched him from the doorway. I was planning on taking that Coke with me to work tomorrow, and here he was popping it open and putting his fat lips around it like he was the one who'd clipped out the coupon from the Sunday Times and gone to the store and bought the case of soda and lugged it back home up three flights of stairs because the elevator was out. Well, I thought to myself, I'll just be damned.

"Nice place you got here, Madison," he said, walking through the living room and looking at everything as if he was casing the joint. Then his beady eyes spotted my new leather recliner, where he proceeded to plop his sloppy ass down. He tossed his leg over the arm of the chair, grabbed the remote control off the table next to him, turned on the television set, and made himself really comfortable. Too comfortable. As if he was the one who'd spent two weekends in a row going from mall to mall looking for the perfect recliner and big-screen TV that would fit just perfectly in the living room while not taking up too much space and looking too gaudy. How dare he? I thought and squinted my eyes. No really, how dare he?

I stood in the doorway watching as he flipped through all one hundred and twenty channels of my cable system, and thought to myself, This fool must be crazy. Who did he think he was, barging into my place and taking over? This was my damn condo, that was my damn recliner, my remote control, my TV, and that was my last damn diet Coke! I was pissed and I wanted Terrence to be gone and this whole date to be over with. I don't even know why I went out with him in the first place. He's not my type. He's one of those damn pretty boys. Handsome, wavy hair, manicured nails, uses more skin products than I do -- just pretty. Prettier than me. Terrence is definitely fine, and if I'm honest with myself, which I try never to be, I'll have to admit that Terrence's fineness is the reason why I accepted his date in the first place. When I first saw him jogging on the trail at Cheviot Hills Park I knew I had to meet him. He was jogging about ten feet in front of me and all I did for about twenty minutes was watch his butt bounce and wonder what it might take for a little woman like me to get my hands around a piece of meat like that. I couldn't catch up to him so I did the next best thing, the only thing an intelligent woman who hadn't had sex in a while could do -- I faked an ankle sprain, screamed, and hit the dirt. It was overly dramatic, but it worked, and Terrence stopped jogging and ran back to help me up. "Ooch, ooch, hurt, hurt," I whimpered as he bent over my ankle, giving me ample opportunity to check out his perfectly perfect body. He was wearing a pair of biker shorts with a pair of running shorts over them and no shirt. The butt was tight, the abs were tighter, and the pecs were popping straight out at me like they knew me personally. I swear I thought his chest was calling my name -- Madison, Madison. Touch me, Madison -- and I almost did, until I remembered that I was supposed to be hurt and went back to faking pain. "It hurts so bad," I cooed.

Terrence was kind enough to help me back to my car, and by the time we'd gotten there he'd asked me out. I've always been a sucker for a good body, so I let the fact that Terrence was a pretty boy slide, even though after further examination I could swear it looked like he'd had a nose job, and the more I looked at his perfect pecs, the more I suspected they might be implants too. But anyway, he was fine and I wanted to get to know him, so I accepted his invitation for a date.

Big mistake.

He took me out to my favorite Mexican restaurant, which was a plus, but all he did all night long was talk about himself -- a big negative. By the time our food arrived at our table, Terrence had gone on and on about how he was a model slash actor who was up for a big part in one of Spike Lee's new joints. But after dinner and about three strawberry margaritas, the real truth came out, which was that he'd only posed for one picture in his whole entire life, and the big part in the film he was up for was as an extra in a mall scene. Whoever said liquor will bring out the truth did not lie. I hardly talked at all during dinner, not because I didn't have anything to say, but because Terrence wouldn't give me a chance. Even after he confessed the truth about his bullshit career, he wouldn't shut his mouth long enough for me to get a word in edgewise. He talked nonstop about all the celebrities he'd met on auditions he'd gone to over the years, as if that would make up for the fact that he was still just another wanna-be actor who couldn't get a part in a film even if it was the autobiography of his own life.

He did shut up long enough to gaze into my eyes for a few minutes between stories. He was so fine that even though he was boring me to death, I couldn't help but smile and gaze back at his beautiful almond-shaped eyes and fantasize about how he'd look in a leopard skin G-string. Until, that is, he frowned up his nose and asked, "Is that a pimple or a blackhead on your cheek?"

I almost choked on the tortilla chip I'd just put in my mouth. It's a pimple, you little punk, I thought and tried to smile my embarrassment away. I'd thought putting a little black eyeliner over it would make it look like a beauty mark, but leave it to Mr. Pretty Boy to see through my Cindy Crawford impersonation and call me on it. Asshole. He even had the nerve to reach into his coat pocket and pull out a business card from his dermatologist.

"You might consider getting a chemical peel," he said and placed the card next to my balled-up fist on the table. "He also specializes in liposuction," he said and ever so slightly glanced around the table at my thighs.

I was speechless and embarrassed and mad as hell. He looked so perfect that I couldn't come back with an insult for him, so I just gritted my teeth, called over the waiter, and ordered another Midori margarita, an extra order of chips and guacamole, a side of beans and rice, and a shot of Triple Sec. By the time I got finished with Terrence I'd run the bill up to over eighty dollars and had eaten so much that I felt like I was going to pop clear out of my DKNY tailored suit. That'll teach Terrence to insult me, I thought and watched him squirm when it came time to pay the waiter. Needless to say, by the time we left the restaurant I was ready for the date to be over. I didn't want to see Terrence's perfect face ever again, and although I'd dreamt for a week about getting him in bed, I didn't want him anywhere near me anymore and I sure as hell didn't want him in my home, making himself comfy and invading my private sanctuary and drinking my last damn diet Coke. I hated to be rude, but I wanted him out and I wanted him out right now.

"Excuse me," I said, strolling through the living room like everything was peachy keen. "The bathroom is right down the hall," I said, pointing over my shoulder.

"Oh thanks, Madison," he said without even looking in my direction. "I just wanna catch this last couple minutes of ER. I was up for the role of the black doctor, you know. I coulda had that role, man. I shoulda had that role."

Yeah right, I thought, walking closer to him. "But I thought you had to go to the bathroom so badly," I said and watched this no-mannered SOB set his dripping wet soda can on the arm of my brand-new recliner.

"Ssh," he said and waved me off as he stared at the television.

Ssh, I thought to myself and eyed Terrence with a look that, if he had been paying me any attention, would have made him jump up and run for his life. Ssh? No, I didn't just get shushed in my own damn condo, I thought to myself as I felt an overwhelming urge to slap him on the back of his peanut-shaped head. I walked over to the coffee table, picked up a coaster, and threw it at him. "That's for the soda," I said and sat on the sofa across from him, wishing I'd aimed the coaster at his head.

"Thanks, babe."

Babe? Did he just call me babe? Whatever, Terrence, I thought and tried to keep calm. I crossed my legs and folded my arms across my chest and silently cursed myself out for not sticking to my dating rules and allowing this goon into my home. If I'd just stuck to my rules Terrence would not be here and I could be in my own damn recliner, flipping my own damn remote and sipping my own damn diet Coke -- the diet Coke thing was really pissing me off. Instead I'm stuck here staring at the side of Terrence's big head and wishing I'd had this condo booby-trapped with hidden doors so I could push a button and make him disappear. But it's all my fault. See, I made up the dating rules for my own protection, which is why rule number one is: Never invite them back to your place. I'm a single woman living by myself in Los Angeles, California. A girl can never be too careful in a place like this, where every man you meet is a potential serial killer. I've never had a date nut up and turn psycho on me, but you never know. I mean, Terrence could suddenly get pissed off because he didn't get that part on ER and go crazy. He could pull out a gun, blow the TV away, then grab me and lock me in a closet and torture me for weeks with boring stories of how he and Gary Coleman used to kick it together, until I'd beg for him to blow my brains out. Okay, okay, that probably won't happen, but I'm just saying, in L.A. you never know.

My dating rules are mainly for my own peace of mind, so I don't have to put up with shit that I don't like. Take rule number fifteen, for instance: Never date a man who wears white dress shoes or white belts. Ugh! That means he has no sense of style whatsoever and may show up for a date wearing a light blue checkered suit or a bow tie or some other out-of-date shit like that. Then there's rule number six: Never date a man who's shorter than you. I don't care what anyone says, but to me when a woman is taller than her man it looks crazy. It's okay for some people, but it always makes me feel like I'm the guy's mother instead of his date, and I for one find it hard to get in a romantic mood when every time the guy asks me for a kiss he has to stand up on his tippy toes. And too tall guys are out of the question as well. To me, anybody over six foot five is a freak. It's unnatural to be that damn big. I've never understood why people make fun of dwarfs but somebody like Shaquille O'Neal is a sex symbol. The guy's a giant. What's so cute about that? That's why dating rule number six point five is: Never go out with anyone who has to bend over to get through a door. Those guys may be attractive to some women, but to me it's just not natural.

But what I don't like the most is dealing with company when what I truly want to do is be alone. That's why "Never invite them back to your place" is at the top of my dating rules list. I like my solitude. I don't like people around me. I like balance and order. I'm an organized person and I believe there is a proper way to do everything, including dating. I've found over the years that men are ornery, dangerous creatures, and unless you have precise methods for dealing with them, they can turn your life upside down. Now, I don't mean to male-bash, but I just gotta tell it like it is. Men are bozos basically, and it takes an intelligent woman with an equally intelligent plan of action to navigate through the swamp of the male species and stay above water. And when done properly, dating can be a pleasant, harmless experience. But tonight is my own damn fault.

I thought my prayer that Terrence would find it in his heart to cut a sister a break and get his peanut head up and out of my damn house had been answered when the closing credits to ER popped up on the screen. I felt like jumping for joy when I saw him stretch out his legs and prepare to get up. Finally, I thought, I can have my home all to myself. Oh what joy, oh what splendor -- oh what is this fool doing? Just as Terrence was about to get up, he grabbed the remote control again and started flipping through the channels. I could've screamed. I thought he was gone, bye-bye, adios, au revoir, arrivederci, see ya when I see ya. But no, apparently Terrence had found his new home in my recliner and he wasn't about to give it up. It was all I could do to keep myself from getting ugly and jumping in his face and yelling, "Get out!" I'm usually not this nice with men I can't stand, but for some reason I didn't go off on Terrence, though it was taking every ounce of self-restraint I had in me not to. I don't know if it was because I was feeling bad for running up the dinner bill so high when I knew that Terrence didn't have a steady job, or if it was because I'd had one too many margaritas and my reflexes were numb. Whatever it was, Terrence had lucked out, but if he had any brains, he'd realize that my niceness wouldn't last for too long. But Terrence wasn't that smart. He just continued flipping the channels until he found a show he liked, then put down the remote and sank back into the cushions of the recliner.

"Twilight Zone, babe," he said as the theme music came blasting through the speakers.

"You're telling me," I said and got up from the sofa and stomped out the room.

I stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me, promising myself that I would never break my dating rules again. The next time a man drops me off and starts talking that shit about using my bathroom I'm gonna direct his stupid ass to the nearest gas station and run for my life. No, better yet, I thought as I opened the bathroom door and ran to my bedroom. I opened my top dresser drawer and pulled out my little pink book. It was time to make some additions to my dating rules list. I grabbed a pen, then headed back to the bathroom and closed the door. I opened my little pink book to the back and began writing. Rule number thirty-two: Always take separate cars. That's a good one. That way the guy won't have to pick me up or drop me off and he'll never know where I live and never be able to invite himself into my private sanctuary, unless I decide that I want him here. And while I'm at it, let me add yet another rule. Rule number thirty-three: No more dating pretty boys. I like my men to look good, but when they look too good, most times they know it, which means they're conceited, and I simply don't have time to deal with men like Terrence who think it kosher to remind a woman that she has a pimple on her cheek. What kind of mess is that? And furthermore, I'm gonna add rule number thirty-four: No more staying out past ten o'clock on a weeknight. I'm getting too old for this shit. It's only a few minutes after midnight, but I'm tired as hell. I'm a working woman and I've got to be up at the crack of dawn. Staying out late was cool when I was in my twenties. I could stay out till the sun came up, come home, take a quick catnap, and be up and out the door to work without a bag under my eye or a yawn in my mouth. But now that I've reached the big three-O, I can't do that anymore. If I'm not in the bed by ten-thirty and asleep by eleven, I can forget about being a productive member of society the next day. Right about now I'm feeling like I could just fall out, and if it wasn't for the knucklehead in the other room I would be flanked in flannel and dreaming in the comfort of my brass bed and satin sheets. But no. I'm up and agitated, and as I look at myself in the mirror I get even more upset because the eyeliner I'd put on top of my pimple has rubbed off to reveal a big, red, swollen lump with just a touch of white gooky stuff in the center. Damn, I thought as I went on ahead and popped the darn thing. "Do I really need a chemical peel?" I mumbled and ran my hand across my face and checked myself out from every angle. "Hell no," I finally said and blew myself a kiss. I don't care what Terrence says, I know I look good for my age. Hell, I'm in my prime. And I don't need any liposuction either. Shit, I jog every weekend and take three step classes during the week, so whatever fat is still on my body after all that is meant to be there. Fuck Terrence with his pretty ass and his dermatology suggestions, I thought and turned on the faucet. I balled a piece of soap in my hands and began washing my face, until that is, I got some of the soap in my eyes and almost threw my arms out of their sockets as I flung them around in search of a towel. It was only fitting, considering the type of night I was having, that I couldn't find a towel because I'd taken them all out earlier to be washed, so I stuck my head in the sink and let the water run over my eyes until the burning stopped. Of course the water got in my ears and my mouth and ran up my nose and I couldn't breathe, and for a second there I was sure I was going to drown myself, which I figured would be the perfect ending to this mess of a night. Luckily for me, I was able to pull myself out of the death trap I'd gotten into, and after banging my head on all sides of the sink and knocking over the soap dish, I fell to the floor, gasping for air. Well I'll be damned, I said to myself as I grabbed ahold of the counter and pulled myself back up. Can this night get any worse?

When I looked into the mirror again, I almost screamed. My shoulder-length braids were soaking wet, the collar of my DKNY suit was dripping, and my eyes were swollen and looking as red as the big-ass pimple on my cheek. "Damn it all to heck," I said and tore myself out of my suit. I stepped out of my black patent DKNY pumps and picked up the bottle of DKNY perfume that had fallen to the floor in my tussle to free my head from the sink. I bent over and wrung out my braids and wrapped one of those squooshy hair bands around them. "This night has been a disaster," I said to myself as I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. A big, fat disaster. The only good thing about tonight is that I got to eat at my favorite Mexican restaurant, but even that was starting to turn on me because now I've got gas like a diesel truck and it's stinking up this little bathroom so badly that I can't even sit in here any longer.

I got up and opened the door and headed for my bedroom, but before I got there, I stuck my head around the corner to peep into the living room at Terrence. Still there. Hadn't even changed his position. Damn. I hurried into my room and slammed the door behind me and threw my suit and shoes into a pile in the corner. Since I had on Calvin Klein underwear, I opened my dresser drawer and pulled out a CK T-shirt and a pair of CK boxer shorts and fell across my bed wondering when or if this date from the dark side would end.

It's nights like this that make me think that maybe I should just give up dating altogether. "Yeah right, Madison," I mumbled and stared up at the ceiling. That will never happen. I wouldn't know how to act if I didn't have a man on my arm at least two times a week. That's my damn problem. I like men too much. Even the ones that get on my nerves, like Terrence. As bad as this date has been with him, I know that if he were to ask me out again, I'd say yes. I know I should be pickier about the men I date, but I figure if the man is offering me a free meal and I don't have anything else to do, why not say yes? Hell, it beats sitting at home in front of the cable all by myself and nibbling on popcorn. My mother is always telling me that I should find myself one good man and stick with him, but for some reason I just can't do that. To be honest, I really don't want just one man. I don't want to be tied down and fall into some boring domestic routine, and I sure as hell don't want to be married. Fuck that. I don't believe in marriage. I don't care what anyone says; the whole institution of marriage is a joke. It's played out. Everyone I know who's gotten married has ended up getting a divorce, except for my aunt Farcie and uncle Frank, but they don't count 'cause they don't even screw anymore. They're only fifty years old and they sleep in separate beds, and whenever the family gets together they end up arguing over silly shit like who's gonna drive home. I swear, the last time we all had dinner at my mother's house they stood outside on the curb for fifteen minutes throwing the car keys back and forth at each other. I just stood in the window watching and laughing though it really wasn't funny. When I thought about it, it was actually sad. I can't figure out why anyone would stay married to someone they can't stand. Doesn't make any sense to me. I've never seen one totally blissful marriage in all my days, and I figure if I can't be happy with someone for the rest of my life, then I might as well stay on my own. Contrary to popular belief, there is no shortage of eligible black men, at least not that I can see. Women are always bitching about how hard it is to find a good man, but for me it's no problem at all. The only reason women have problems with men is because women are liars. They aren't looking for good men, they're looking for husbands. They don't want to go out on nice, fun dates, they want to set dates -- wedding dates. If women would just chill and accept men for who they are instead of all the time trying to lock themselves into serious relationships, they'd have no problem. Women only have trouble dating because every man they see is a man they want to marry. But not me. When I go out with a man all I want is a good time. I don't want to tie him down, I don't want commitments, and I damn sure don't want a husband. I'm quite content to be thirty and single, and regardless of what my mother says, I do not need a steady man in my life. What for? So he can come in and start ruling every damn thing? That's how men are. They're selfish by nature, and again, I don't mean to bash the male species as a whole, but I've got to tell it like it is. I've dated every kind of man there is and I have yet to find one who is willing to have a totally honest fifty-fifty relationship. Seventy-thirty, yes. Sixty-forty, yes. But fifty-fifty? Please. In all my years of dating, I've never found one man who I'd even halfway consider marrying....Okay, okay....I'm lying. There was this one guy, a long time ago. A very, very long time ago. But it was nothing serious....Okay, okay, I'm lying again. It was very serious. In fact we were engaged to be married. We were in love, and I was happy. Oh what joy, oh what splendor -- oh what a big, fucking joke.

His name was Christopher Anzel, and although it sickens me to admit it now, he was my first and only love. He was a beautiful man. Intelligent, thoughtful, hardworking, caring, and, oh yes, the brother was fine. Not pretty boy fine like Terrence out there, but chiseled, steak-eating, rugged, pass me a beer fine. But I didn't fall in love with Chris because of his fineness. It was the man underneath the chocolate skin, sexy eyes, and rock hard chest that got me hooked. Chris was...he was...Well, to tell the truth, the brother was a bit strange. We met when I was in my junior year at Loyola Marymount University and Chris had just transferred there from Chicago to complete his last year of medical residency at the university's Emergency Center. Neither one of us had much time for dating, but every time we saw each other zipping through the hallways at school we'd take a second to stop and chat. We'd barely talk for more than five minutes at a time, but somehow I knew Chris was something special. Maybe it was the way he always looked me dead in the eyes when we spoke, or maybe it was the way he always asked how I was doing and waited for my response like he really cared what my answer would be. Or maybe it was the strange way he spoke. He didn't have a lisp or anything like that. It was just his words. They were odd. I'd never heard a man use words the way Chris did. He'd say things like, "Hello, Madison. Isn't this a glorious day?" Glorious? How many brothers have you heard use that word before? Think about it. Not too many. But Chris was always saying kind things like that. He wasn't afraid to speak softly or from his heart. Chris was an eternal optimist. He often talked about things like faith and believing and miracles. I remember one afternoon when I ran into him as I was walking to class and freaking out over this big exam I was about to take. Chris stopped me, put his hand on my shoulder, and looked into my eyes as if he could plainly see every ounce of frustration that was brewing through my body. "Faith is the evidence of things not seen," he said. "Relax. Let the energy of the universe enter your soul. Close your eyes and inhale. Claim your right to succeed and the universe will do the rest."

So I'm standing there, right. I'm listening. I've got my eyes closed, I'm inhaling, and I'm thinking, Either this guy is higher than a helicopter, working overtime for the Psychic Friends Network, or just plain nuts. Or maybe I was the one who was nuts for standing in the middle of the hallway trying to snort a piece of the universe up my nose. "This is silly," I said and opened my eyes, but when I did I realized Chris was gone. I looked both ways down the hall, but he was nowhere to be seen, and for a second there I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But sinc