To be or not to be a Queen B

To put it mildly, I’ve been rather cranky lately. Most of August, and all of September. A quick tour of my blog posts from the past two months will confirm this.

Chatting to one of my girlfriends I tried to put into words my concern that I’m turning into a bitch, a girl who has stopped caring about others’ feelings and just goes through life filled with anger and negative energy. To prove my point, I exclaimed without any trace of irony, “I mean… I wear black on purpose, now!”

She suggested that maybe Vanilla has a long ways before reaching true Queen B levels of bitchy? Maybe I was still at the Vanilla B levels of bitchy?

Bah. Maybe.


I’ve developed an assertive efficiency that borders on unpleasantness at work – I’ve significantly decreased the amount of time I spend massaging people’s feelings. I am a manager: I explain what I need and why, offer the opportunity to brainstorm on the best/most convenient approach for everybody involved, and then I expect it done. To the extent it doesn’t get done… Well. I’m not in the mood to make friends in the workplace. I swear a lot at work. I know I am getting thisclose to being a drain on people’s energy. Part of my says, “not my problem. If ppl just did their jobs, I wouldn’t be so frustrated.” Logical, true. But I recall a version of myself that was capable of taking a deep breath, assuming positive intent, and bringing a smile to my coworkers face. The memory of that Vanilla feels very distant.


Since writing I’m going on a peniscation and unfollowing Beaut on social media, I’ve felt better: it is always a relief when secrets are out in the open – shame can’t survive in daylight. However, Beaut and I got into a huge fight on Monday. HUGE. I sent him the “peniscation” post and told him that I refused further communication with him until he’d read it from beginning to end – he owed me that much. So far, he hasn’t read it. Can’t say I am too surprised. Resigned at having more proof that my purpose in his life was to be convenient and amusing.

Yesterday was kizomba class. He was there. It was the first time seeing him since our fight and my friendship-ending ultimatum. I was worried – would I be able to handle it? My cousins believe that I need to change dance schools STAT. I refuse to. I have found a school where the teacher, price, schedule, students, location all suit me perfectly. Leaving because of Beaut’s presence would just be handing him one more victory over me. FUCK THAT.

Anyhow, surprisingly, it went just fine. I concentrated on the steps, listened to teacher, smiled at all my partners and enjoyed dance class. When it was Beaut’s turn, we danced without a hitch. He asked me if we were cool, now? Vanilla B gave him an amused smile. “No.” And turned to greet my next partner, dismissing him.

DD claims that I am a prodigy. She is the world acclaimed professor of the highly coveted topic “Lessons in Contempt and Ignoring Nuisances 101”

  • Lesson 1: Don’t look at them. Look past them.
  • Lesson 2: They don’t exist, therefore you no longer see them at all.
  • Lesson 3: Reduce their voice to annoying background noise – no intelligible words therefore nothing you need to respond to.

Intuitively, I did all three, and it didn’t cost me that much to do so. Part of me is relieved, because another 1-2 weeks of this and the contempt I feel will fade into indifference, meaning that I’ll be completely at ease sharing the same oxygen as him at dance school. Part of me is completely freaked out because only a Queen B is comfortable denying others’ existence, and reducing them to invisibility.


Every day I struggle with the temptation of forwarding the “peniscation” post to Main Girl, and watching their interaction implode. I’m ashamed of my glee at the possibility of tripping him up, and my complete unconcern with using Main Girl as road kill to achieve my means. Yet, like Queen B herself, I am enjoying finally acknowledging my hurt pride, and anger. It is empowering to be able to say, “Yes. I am angry as fuck. I will not be ashamed of how I feel.” Or as B puts it, “What’s worse, lookin’ jealous or crazy? Jealous or crazy? Or like being walked all over lately, walked all over lately, I’d rather be crazy.”

Pity that my anger won’t produce a multi-million record deal and artistic recognition. #lemonadeismyfavoritealbumof2016


This morning, I was taking public transportation, irritated with the world, brushing past ppl with sighs of annoyance, careless of whether or not I jostled them. Then I noticed a young girl, with some sort of palsy and mental health troubles, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking fearfully up the loooooooooooooooong flight of stairs. With dismay, as countless people pushed past her, causing her to struggle with her balance, she looked at the out-of-order escalator next to the stair case.

I was late for work. I had already received about 25 emails, 5 of which had REALLY irritated me, and 1 of which was from the CFO impatient for one of my analyses. I would have been one out of dozens of people that ignored that girl.

I stopped. I asked her if she would like me to walk up the stairs with her. She stuttered a shy, anxious yes. It took us 5 minutes, when it would have taken me less than 45 seconds.

Not a Vanilla B. I’d forgotten how that felt.

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