Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!

So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.

It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).

Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.

Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!

As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!

Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!

Monday, October 22, 2007

Walkin' in a Whiteley Wonderland....

I’m really taking the motto of ‘erase, replace, embrace new face’ to heart. I think I have a new crush. After only two dates, I've weighed the facts:

-he’s not Australian

-he’s not foreign in any way

-he’s a tall glass of skim milk (I don’t want osteoporosis)

-he’s not a racist

-he doesn’t want to cum on my face

-he has no idea what a black fur shrug is, let alone has the urge to purchase one.

-he's not blacktose intolerant.

-he lives deep in Brooklyn (long-distance relationship)

-he’s currently (f)unemployed

-he’s from Indiana (which is kinda foreign)

-he’s a starving artist

-he doesn’t call me every day in a stalkerly fashion (I need constant reassurance)

- his last name is WHITELEY!

Should it in some way be illegal for me to date a man with the last name Whiteley? I can’t decide. And it took me damn near an hour on the underground railroad just to get to his crib—can I really make this trek in the depths of winter?? Well, seeing as it’s damn near 80 degrees a week before Halloween, maybe I have a little time before I start worrying about the winter trek.

I think my real hesitation comes from the fact that I’ve been putting all the work into this imaginary relationship. I have initiated dates 1 and 2, and I’m wondering how into Sojo this whitey—I mean, WHITELEY—is. On one hand, his (f)unemployed status means that I’m the one with the schedule that needs to be accommodated, so perhaps that’s why he’s letting me take the reigns. Then again, it could be that he’s a lazy hot mess. How will I be able to find out without getting emotionally oppressed?

I know I should just let him call me and see what happens. But I can’t help but want to cook him lasagna and spoon him in his college dorm-style bedroom. Besides, the TRUTH of the matter is that I like him. He's cute. I'm bored. I want to cuddle. And he's not doing anything else. So, let's get it on til the break of dawn!

No? Too much? Leave advice.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Where Am I?

So, I'm sitting here, packaging artists' slides and listening to music, creating a cocoon of productivity, when the mail guy rolls by my cubicle/veal pen with his cart. Mail guy is middle aged, bald, and has about 2 good teeth-- hot mess. He likes to chat, and I try to be friendly, so we have a rapport (and sometimes I get free interoffice envelopes). However, I do like to maintain a certain distance-- not only due to his breath, but because he's a little too chatty for my taste.

And this time, he went a bit too far.

"Hey Naomi, I got something for you."

I turn around, as mail guy often says this-- and it's ALWAYS MAIL. I mean, what else would he have for me? Yet, he always says he's got "something," as though we have secret exchanges. Hmm... maybe he's referring to the same PACKAGE as R. Kelly.

Anyway, I look and see that mail guy is holding.... a giant plastic green bottle, filled with confetti, a copy of Parenting magazine (with Shrek on the cover), and other treats.


"That is not for me, Mail Guy."

"Yes it is, look," he says, gesturing towards the bottles opening, where there is a large slit. "It's a piggy bank, too. I thought you could use it. It's a bottle and it's a piggy bank."

Again, I ask, WHAT?!

"Mail Guy, give that to whoever it belongs to."

He begins to roll away, laughing, "You know I take care of you, girl. I look out."

What is happening today?

The bottle was this big. Seriously. Wait, no-- it was BIGGER.

Mondays With Artists....

Okay, I know that technically today is Thursday, but I like the idea of a theme of sorts, so I’ve decided to use the same title as before. For background, see my previous post on the crazies I encounter via telephone at my place of employment. The following conversation was much more brief than Ms. Tembly, but still managed to pack enough discomfort in 3 minutes that I felt the need to share it with you. Read on, gentle reader….

Sojourner: Hello Ms. Sharp, this is Sojourner Truth, returning your call.

Sharp: Oh, yes, hello. I spoke with your advertising office yesterday and got some information. See, I’d been confused about my ad placement. I had been advertising online, thinking it was affiliated with your magazine, but it’s actually another publication.

Sojo: I see, I see. Will you be placing an ad in our directory this year?

Sharp: Yes, I will. I’ve been out of the business for a while. (she then proceeds to tell me the following in a casual, almost offhand manner, as though she reciting her grocery list): My son was living with me for a while, then he got sick and died, and I lost a couple of years of my life, so I’m getting the business side of things in order.

Sojo: I’m sorry.

(I really didn’t know what to say. I was uncomfortable. This was much, much more than I needed to know—and had very little to do with the ad she was placing. )

Sharp: I love your magazine, but I live up in the sticks-- with a Nazi magazine retailer who doesn’t carry any of the publications I like.

(Harsh words—I see ‘Sharp’ isn’t just a clever surname. This woman is fierce.)

Sojo: We can start you on a subscription if you’d like.

(The attempt to see her the magazine is part of my new motto, ABC—Always Be Closing. You’ve gotta be workin’ it 24/7 365)

Sharp: Oh, I can’t do that. You see, Sojourner, on my social security income I can’t afford to subscribe to any magazines.

Uh-oh…I’ve just made things worse and more awkward.

Sharp: I’m living on basically $10- $15 per day, which comes out to roughly $3 per hour. And I’ve been calling my congressman to raise the social security so that it at least matches minimum wage, but it’s a losing battle.

Sojo: Oh, hell to the no, Ms. Sharp—that’s a hot mess!!!

Sharp: It is, Sojourner.

(We share a moment of silence, bonded over our oppression. Though, quite frankly, I made less than that as a slave, and I managed to still add some spice to my food.)

Sharp: Do you still write articles on artists.

(Um, yeah… that’s what we do.)

Sojo: Of course!

Sharp: Well, I’d love to submit my work for your review. I’ve been working on a 2008 calendar that I think shows great pieces.

Sojo: Great! I’ll send you our guidelines, all right?

I take down her e-mail address and mentally promise to donate some money to her life. It’s a hand up, not a hand out.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Let Me Tell You aSTORIa... About a Greek Man...

The Greek is over.

Cue strings.

After only 5 "dates," Zeus is out of the picture. I know that in Greek mythology gods can't "die," but Apollo is dead... to me. Yes, folks-- Poseidon has drowned, Hermes has run out of frequent flier miles, Ajax can no longer clean stains.

Friday night, Ambrosia and I headed to Queens for some.... one on one time. It was time to act on the tension.

Apparently it was also time for me to act impressed! Turns out Achilles' weakness isn't his heel-- if you know what I mean (and I think you do....*). I'd been anticipating tenderness and hotness, but it was rushed and lukewarm at best. I should also mention that Zeus had a tank of geckos in his bedroom.

I don't like to be watched, especially by animals peddling car insurance.

After a fitful night's sleep (apparently, they don't have indoor heating in Queens), I woke up and Zeus and I cuddled. I wondered when I was going to get my morning post-coital omelette. Instead, Odysseus excitededly told me he had a present for me and went to the closet.

What could it be? A key to his kingdom in Kalamata (yes, like the olives)?! A toga made of pure silk? A life-size drawing of my sleeping nude ebony figure?

It was a black fur shrug purchased at a thrift store.

I kid you not.

I'm not good at hiding my emotions (see previous posts, re: TRUTH), so forcing a smile was difficult. "Is this for me?" I asked, hoping he'd think my shock was born out of excitement. I'm clearly a much better blacktress than I thought, because he excitedly removed it from the hanger and told me to try it on.

"I thought it would look nice because of the black on black and the soft fur," he explained. He also admitted that he had purchased it for me after our second date.

I wanted to tell him it was a black on black crime, and he should be ashamed of his damn self for even looking at-- let alone purchasing-- such an abomination. But I didn't, cause it's the thought that counts.

The question is-- what was he thinking?!

As we headed out of the house (hopefully to get food, though this had yet to be determined), my dear sweet Litsa called, seeking blacktress council. I chatted with her for a while, then got off the phone so as not to be rude to Oedipus (this is a fitting name, as he recently told me he calls his mother 'little whore'-- WHAT?!). I filled him in on our chat, just to make him feel included and share some tenderness-- big mistake.

This ended up sparking a whole tirade on the "trivialities of people's lives," and how I shouldn't even offer advice because people will do what they want to do.

Zeus has no soul. And he won't feed me. And he requires extensive travel for lackluster love. And he doesn't have a cell phone.

There are geckos in his room.

He bought me a black fur shrug.

Need I say more?

Time to erase, replace, embrace a new face! Help-- only 4 weeks til Thanksgiving, and I wanna be thankful for a good man!

*it's his penis. Apparently those statues aren't out of proportion after all! (yes, I went there!)

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Mating Season

I know how boring it is to talk about the weather, guys, but this time I really think its important. As you all know by the brisk night air, fall is finally approaching—and it is indeed an inconvenient truth. Why? Because now it’s time for me to get a damn man!

See, in the summer, I could be single and free, wearing my tank tops and flip flops, and still keep it grown and sexy. Now, it’s time for tall socks, unflattering winter hats, and layers of clothing. And nothing kills the damn mood like layers of clothing. Have you ever tried to act on your sexual impulses when you’re wearing tights under your pants?! By the time you get undressed, it’s time to put the clothes back on again!

I like to have a man from Thanksgiving to Arbor Day. That way, I can get holiday loving and cuddle while it’s too cold to go out. Not only will I be able to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah and KWANZAA with a special someone, but my birthday (December 7—mark it!) is also a time where a man pillow is in order. As the Christmas song goes: Oh the weather outside is frightful/but the coitus is so delightful/and since we’ve no place to go/let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…

After a stand up show last night, I was talking to intern about this phenomenon. Intern is a tall glass of milk who works in my office—but not for my company. I call him “intern” not only to protect his fragile undergraduate identity but to make him feel like he has a role. He is more than a cog in the wheel who sorts packages in the mailroom.

Anyway, intern said that he and his guy friends call this time of year “Wife Season.” I didn’t know men could be so practical! They know that people stop going out—and put on winter weight—around the holidays, and the likelihood of finding a fine piece of ace after the new year is slim to none. It’s completely acceptable to find someone attractive in October and stay with them until the leaves re-(Orlando)bloom, even if you don’t like them all that much. I completely agree with this strategy, as I’ve learned that there is no such thing as “the one” or “destiny”—people come into your life for a reason…. or a season. And for me, that season is winter.

This came up during an image search for "wife season." They don't look very happy.

If you have any eligible bachelors who appreciate a good spooning and like a cup of hot chocolate on a winter’s night, holla at a freed slave playa!

I'm currently working on this "winter wife" concept by releasing pure pheromones.

Seriously, this is the only way I can explain the fact that, last weekend, I attracted the attention of three different males. I think I may have mono—you know, the kissing disease.

Friday night started out innocently enough-- though I was worried things would get out of control. I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn during the Blackout of 2007, so I thought that I’d somehow recreate the night of horrors. I went out with a motley crew of theater friends, internet lovers, and college pals. The night began as it should: with wine at the Bourgeois Pig, then a trip to St. Dymphna's to find foreign men. Somehow, Uncle Ming's (my haven of debauchery) became involved, and I met a tall bald man. He became quite smitten with the blacktress, and insisted that Sojo (and her friends) attend HOME, a fancy meatpacking district bar. This is not usually my scene, but, needing something to blog about, I went.

Cut to us dancing in our private table with bottle service as the banker boy smooches Sojo.... and I smooch back!

Saturday involved a trip to Queens to see the Greek (who I know call ZEUS), and then a trip to Brooklyn for a b-day party. Somehow, I met another tall glass of skim and just told him, "I wanna make out with you."

What can I say? Oh, I know: "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the discovery channel."

That's Zeus, and that's a white version of me begging for his winter lovin'.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Office Wife

You may be surprised to learn that, in addition to being a woman of color, writer, and blacktress, I am also in a committed REAL-ationship with a woman.

She is my office wife. Her name is Allison, and she’s a semi-precious stone of Caucasian beauty.

Initially, I was nervous and awkward around Allison. She wears a lot of muted tones, sensible slacks, and has well-coiffed blonde hair. I figured she was not going to be able to handle Sojourner. I was worried that she’d be like, “aah, she’s black, I don’t know how to talk to her!” and she’d mistake my sassiness for negro anger. I was warned pre-meeting not to use profanity around Allison, lest her delicate ears burn.

Then, one day, I came in to work looking all done up. It’s a rare moment, when the contact lenses and cute top appear in tandem, and Allison noticed. Not only did she feed my ego, but she also said, “Oh, you got your hair did!”

YES! I got my hair DID!!!

Where Allison learned the incorrect verbiage used for black-tresses, I will never know! What are they teaching young people in the suburbs of Hoboken?! My shock was further compounded when, a few days later, I asked Alli for some hand lotion and she said, “Why, are your elbows ashy?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!! Kind of offensive, yet kind of hilarious and subversive!
She can handle the truth!!

The best part is that she says these things with the wide-open eagerness of a child, not a hint of irony or self-awareness in her voice. Her words are pure and her love is true.

Since those moments, I’ve let it all hang out with Allison, even letting her read my blog. And she attended my comedic performance a few weeks back, and laughed at moments when others didn’t. I think this is why I love her most. No matter what I say to her, she cracks up. She allows my randomness to flow free, and makes our cubicles/veal pens feel like wide open meadows filled with flowers and unicorns.

Do you see how poetic this love makes me?!

And when she edits my articles, wielding her red pen like a sword, I know she’s doing it out of love. She is doing it so that, one day my blogs don’t contain so many typos and improper uses of commas. She does it because she cares.

We’re getting gay married in Ontario next week. Our registry is at pottery barn and Melissa Ethridge’s garage sale.

This is me and Alli. She's standing over me copyediting an article I wrote. She's kind of like a female Abe Lincoln, in her understanding of the brown people and desire for us to be equals.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Spreading the TRUTH- SOJO LIVE

Here's 15 minutes of Sojourner ranting about internet dates, low standards, grandmas.

Hear the truth. See it in the nubian flesh.

I know it's a little dark (like Sojo herself), but we're all black when the lights go out-- holla!

Leave a comment. Like McDonald's, I welcome your feedback.

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

Gross Moments

Oh my god.

I think I work in a crack den.

I went to the bathroom after having my mid-afternoon Oreo* cookies and milk and saw a GIANT COCKROACH.

It was huge! I swear, I thought I heard it talk.

I was in the individual/handicapped/differently abled bathroom and almost screamed in horror. The cockroach was clearly startled by my presence, and started to zoom around the room. I thought I was trapped until I remembered to turn the handle-- much like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park (they're thinking!!!!).

I left the stall and had to use the larger ladies room, which is very difficult for me, as I hate relieving myself publicly. Luckily, it was just a onesy, so I hightailed it out of there pretty quick.

Once I calmed down, I started to think of "Flavor of Love," cause I've always thought Flava Flav looks like a cockroach. LOOK:
EWWWW.... He is so terrifying. I think the flavor of his love is something nasty, like... urine.
When the world comes to an end, only Flava will survive.

Anyway, that, coupled with the recent consumption of Oreos had me thinking about how badly I want to be on that show. You know how he gives each girl a demeaning nickname? I think mine would be something ridiculous like "Brainy Bourgie," cause I can read, string coherent sentences together, and will not relieve myself publicly like many of them are wont to do.

I can hear him now in the confessional:
"Oh yeah, I'm feeling Brainy Bourgie, cause she classy. She always be recoilin' when I come close-- that sh** be sexy. Oh yeah, she makin' it to the next round. We could have some smarty-art babies, little Urkels runnin' around."

I would totally use my chance in the spotlight to call the truth left and right on that show. I'd show up with Toni Morrison books, GED exams, and get those sad women on the right track. I know their only aspiration is to be a video ho, but they should at the very least be able to count their earnings and tally up a bill.

*for the longest time I was called an Oreo due to my tendency to "talk White." It took me years before I'd put one of those delicious treats to my lips. By the way, I don't talk White, I talk right!