Before I moved here, I had this perception of “Chocolate City”, as my sister affectionately called DC.  As an undergraduate, I would take the six hour bus ride to DC or the 60 minute plane ride, three or four times per year.  I did the tourist thing and a little shopping.  But mainly, I soaked in the sweet sounds of R&B and consumed peach martinis and the images of the well-dressed, educated, African-American men.

When I graduated, I had my sights set on graduate school and the [African] American dream -- that I would find my husband in graduate school, he’d sweep me off of my feet,and propose to me at a Redskins game.  Amidst my tears, my heart screaming “yes!”, he’d slip the modest one-carat ring on my finger.  The ceremony would take place by the Big Chair; Chuck Brown would perform the ceremony.  I would glide down the aisle to a go-go version of the wedding march and the reception would be catered by Mama Cole's.  My husband and I would live happily ever after as a part of the Black bourgeoisie, with our two children and our pug affectionately named Barry Farms.  We wouldn’t abandon DC for the Montgomery Counties or Loudon Counties of the area, because the origin of our love was the District of Columbia.

Several years later, when I awoke from this dream (or nightmare) by which I measure all of my relationships, I was still single and meeting the man of my dreams in graducate school was no longer an option. Now happy hour -- that proverbial meat market -- was the most likely place to meet a man. I resented the fact that I had to make the trek to Adam’s Morgan or U Street for a date or to Chinatown for a movie.  I was a proud resident of southeast from the day I moved to the nation’s capital and wanted to hangout in my own back yard before I hung out in anyone else’s.

I do not want to be misunderstood.  I’ve always been proud, but just as cautious about disclosing where I live.  There are times when I deliberately fail to mention which ward I live in, until I get a feel for the crowd.  There are those who talk about the “ghetto,” crime and drug infested southeast.  Then, there are those who speak of the new condos and townhouses coming up in the area, and how much potential southeast will have…in ten years or so.  I usually drop the residential bomb on them, once they have inserted their patent leather pumps or loafers into their mouths, that way they have no defense when I proclaim “I…yes I…live in southeast”.  I do a full turn, clockwise and counter clockwise, to fill the silence and entertain their blank stares.  I’m a young professional, I am attractive, independent and realize that “need”, as it relates to companionship, doesn’t connote weakness and vulnerability. I have two pieces of paper and several student loans that imply that I am educated, a catch, yet I live in Southeast.  I am no anomaly. Formally educated or not, there are many relatively attractive, considerably intelligent, verifiably sane folks in their 20s and 30s in search of mature relationships in southeast.

As I journey through DC, searching yet humbly waiting for compatibility, understanding and therefore love, I bring other singles along.  I am the voice that Southeast professionals need, male and female.  With not-so-fond memories of Tropicana, a Jamaican Eatery on Alabama Avenue as the back drop for a first date or sweet and sincere lunches of egg salad and tuna fish sandwiches and kettle chips in Anacostia Park, I tell a single woman’s story.    Whether dates from a horror film or fairy tale, my dating history is far more PG-13 than that of Carrie Bradshaw, but just as passionate and optimistic about love.