When the Jewboo's Away......

The Blacktress will find another jewboo!!

J/K. You know I only have one trueJew love. But Jewboo’s currently in Boston doing some shows, and I must admit, I don’t mind it one bit. I haven’t had to shave my legs in 4 days (yep, I said it), I haven’t had to gchat stalk him for my own amusement during the workday (largely because he’s not available), and, although the hotel they’re staying in is right between a Hooters and Fuddruckers, his vegetarianism is sure to keep him away from both hot wings and pretty young things.

I kicked off my first night of freedom by seeing a Comedy Central taping for comedian Nick Kroll last night. I don’t really have celebrity crushes, and I don’t really like to gush, but Nick Kroll is seriously my life partner. He’s a nerdy Jew from Rye, New York who has the pouty lips of a man of color and every word out of his mouth is brilliant to me. He mostly plays characters, my favorite being Fabrice Fabrice—the name so nice, you have to say it AGAIN.

Check him out interviewing Steve Carrell:

Fabrice Fabrice Interviews Steve Carell from Steve Carell

He is my spirit animal. He is my avatar. He is my patronus. And after sitting second row center during his taping my life is officially complete. Let me explain.


First and firstmost (as Bobby Bottleservice would say), Nick Kroll has been on my TO-DO list ever since I saw him at UCB 4 years ago. He was so wonderfully hilarious, and his questionable sexuality intrigued me. I figured at the very least, every gay needs a blacktress, and I could endear myself to him. Unfortunately, he was way too cool off stage for me to approach, so I just let it be. Since then, however, Kroll has blown up like Nagasaki, starring in “The League,” “Sit Down Shut Up,” and random movie cameos. When I saw he was doing a show at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I jumped on those tickets—hipsters be damned!

I bought 4, figuring I’d make some friends at some point prior to the show. Enjoying freedom without Jewboo I made it a ladies’ night, and brought three of my favorite funny girls (well, 2 of my favorites and a random who wanted a ticket). I arrived with a friend and there was no sign or sense of order to the process. “What do we do?” my Caucasian friend asked? I looked around. Manning the door were too buff black bodyguards.
“I see black men. I’m getting some answers,” I said.
I walked over to the bald guy (they always have the most power), and asked him what the deal was. As he spoke, his gold grill nearly blinded me, but I stood my ground, speaking with a confidence and comfort that let him know I was cool, but not trashy. He gestured for us to wait on this side, and we did accordingly. The people around us began lining up behind us; we’d inadvertently started the line and were at the front (Rosa would have been so proud!). We ended up getting 2nd row center seats, perfect for eye-fucking.

On select seats was a sheet of paper and pencil, and we were directed to write down questions for Fabrice Fabrice. “Good” questions would be selected and given to Fabrice to read on stage/on camera.

This was my moment to connect with him. I thought long and hard. Here’s what I came up with:
1. What was Raven Simone’s favorite meal on the set of “The Cheetah Girls”?
2. How did you discover that craft services was your passion?
3. How do you like to unwind after a long day of serving crafts?
xoxo, Blacktress!!!

I didn’t think he’d read it, but I wanted to just add a personal touch.

After our questions were collected and reviewed, Fabrice was handed a stack to read. I tried not to get too amped—and then hateful—when my friend’s questions were answered. But then……
“What was Raven’s favorite meal on the Cheetah girls? Cheetahs. Baby cheetahs.”
YES!!!! He got me.
He proceeded to answer the rest of them, and then read my signature aloud:

“XOXO, Blacktress. That’s a black actress. This woman is black and she’s hating on Raven. That’s not solidarity.”
(everything sounds hilarious in the voice of Fabrice Fabrice, trust).

Um, it was the greatest moment of my life. Nick Kroll uttered my alias with his full lips. He instantly knew what the word meant—he can certainly handle the truth. And the fact that my questions were chosen proves that we’re cosmically connected—I know what to ask him to make him shine like Geoffrey Rush.

So, in summararium, Nick is my boo, I am famous by proxy, and I love me a matzoh ball!

I totally wish I was Henry Winkler right now.

Move Over Patsy Cline - I'm the one who's CRAZY

I'm sitting at my desk right now, muttering to myself like a schizophrenic. I believe my exact words were, "Okay, okay, come on, come on." I have this article to write - in fact, I've had it to write for over a month now - and I've got all of 3 measley paragraphs.

It's a balmy 45 degrees (Farenheit), so I'm wearing a thin cable knit sweater, and figured I'd cas it up with jeans - after all, I do work at a magazine. I'm hip, I'm with it.

Turns out the big boss from Colorado (aka, the overseer), who laid off about 50 people yesterday, is coming in today with his right-hand woman. This is probably the wrong time to be dressed down. And I'm over here with an article unwritten. I'm gonna totally get fired for wearing jeans, aren't I?

I'm seriously cracked out. Take, for instance, an excerpt from this morning's first gchat with Jaime (yeah, okay, it's only 9:30 and I'm already procrastinating. what of it?):

me: what is this show?!
my crush greg or my (not) crush tim?
Jaime: no, Brandon Gates
duh
me: SO MANY CRUSHES
WHO IS THAT PERSON?
BRANDON GATES
ALL CAPS
me: ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME
INTENSITY


What the hell is wrong with me? Who are these crushes? Why am I dressed like I'm hitting the streets when the overseer is due in any second? Why on earth would I blog on the plantation at such a delicate time? I'm a hot ass mess today.

First Post of 2010!

Happy 2010 guys! I’ve really missed you; I haven’t blogged in a decade! 2009 was a wild ride from one hemisphere to the other – but let’s never speak of it again. I haven’t been on the plantation in over a week, but was quite pleased to arrive and find that our internet is down – there’s only so much work I can pretend to do when I can’t even check my outlook. Anywho—let’s get up to speed by writing a post in a word document.

Since last I blogged, things have been mostly copacetic. Christmas was spent seated in a recliner wearing an electric blanket (my one and only present from Santa) and watching “Taken,” starring Liam Neeson. I love action films, and came away with one vital piece of information: I have a deep-seated desire for Liam Neeson to be my real-life dad. Well, that, and never give a random TMI, or you’ll end up sex-trafficked, on a boat bound for the United Arab Emirates.

After Christmas, blacktress headed into the flurry of excitement that is the 7 days of Kwanzaa – which, as you all know, is Swahili for “After-Christmas sales.” Mother and I celebrated right, getting 40% off items at Banana Republic.

(I’m sorry, is it just me, or is any holiday invented by a dude named Ron in 1966 somewhat suspect? I just don’t know if I buy it. Plus, doesn’t “kinara” – in which the kwanzaa candles are held – sound a lot like ‘menorah’ + ‘kwanzaa’? You can’t call it your own and jack it from the Jews, people!)

I was thrown for a loop when, on 12/30, I received a facebook invite from the college bf to whom I lost my virginity. He’s still in purgatory, mostly because I don’t know how to handle this. While he’s a swell fella who I have no drama with (I know, a huge surprise!), I don’t know if he needs access to my f-book. I live my life by a few simple rules, one of which is: You can’t poke me on facebook after you’ve poked me in real life. Call me old fashioned, but it’s just how I roll.

I rang in 2010 with an uneventful mini-makeout session, only made more uneventful by the dude’s lack of follow-through. However, my most recent redheaded crush has lifted, as he had the gall – nay, the audacity - not to speak to a blacktress when she was looking hella good (you know, like the Gwen Stefani song). I realized that an imaginary relationship can only last so long if one party refuses to engage in conversation. I’m not cultivating crazy in 2010 – save the drama for Obama!

I was able to engage in many TV marathons, including Discovery Health’s “fat marathon” – the hour-long specials “I Eat 33,000 calories a day,” “Half-Ton Teen,” “Half-Ton Mom,” and “Half-Ton Dad” (not all in the same family), and my personal favorite, “The 650-lb Virgin,” – all of which I watched while eating pizza and cake. Ironic? Let’s ask Alanis Morissette.

[Sidebar: My office is freakishly quiet. What could these people be doing when we don’t even have access to the server? Clearly I have no work ethic]

Oh, guys, I just got the latest e-newsletter of New Voices Magazine – “THE magazine for Jewish students.”

Today’s message includes:


Don't you love the Holocaust?

Your movie theater does. Marked as "Oscar bait" whenever they come out, movies about the Final Solution have multiplied since Jerry Seinfeld made out during "Schindler's List" 17 years ago. Now Quentin Tarantino has decided to do the Jewish film execs one better, producing a spaghetti western starring the Juden. Miriam Mogilevsky takes a closer look.


But why worry about the Holocaust when Israel is on the eve of destruction? Sam Green reviews Rich Cohen's "Israel Is Real."


Don't let that get you down, though, because H&M is moving to Israel, says Beth Zalcman, and Americans should too.


Jewish media. No conspiracy.

THE site for Jewish college students.


Enjoy!

I don’t know why I get this magazine, or how I get on an email list in the first place. Is this some remnant of my relationship with the Israeli vegan investment banker? Did some audience member recall a bit in which I said “I can’t pass over those matzoh balls” and sign me up? Who knows. All I know is, I can’t put it down!!

Okay, it’s now 12:09pm and we’re finally back online. Time to earn my keep!

It’s cool, not trying to put a rush on you…

But I gotta let you know that I got a crush on… well, not you, this other dude.

Guys, I am totes crushin’ like a 14 year old. There’s this actor who was, like, made for me. FOR ME.

He is 6’4”, he has red hair (holla at a genetic anomaly!), and he is so pasty pale that he is damn near translucent.

He is so lacking in pigment that he appears to have no eyebrows or eyelashes – how does he fight off debris?! What about sweat?! He’s a medical marvel, and I must now how he survives. Maybe’s he’s one of the X-Men or something.

His skin is like porcelain, and looks as soft and smooth as vanilla pudding.
His hair is the color of honey and strawberry jam mixed together
His eyes are as blue as the ocean and the sky - no, the horizon line, where the ocean and sky meet

I am going on about his physical appearance because I have yet to speak to him for more than 2 seconds.
I met him through a mutual friend a couple months ago, and he seemed kinda cold, but this could be because our friend put me on blast, mentioning that when he and I first met, I hugged him and proclaimed, “you will be my winter spoon.” It wasn’t quite the impression I’d hoped to make, but I shook it off.

But I couldn’t get him off of my mind.
I think I know how Bella must have felt the first time she saw Edward.

This past weekend, a friend of mine told me she ran into this same redhead at a party and he referred to me as “a beautiful black woman.” HOLY SHIT.

Needless to say, the flame was rekindled.

I saw him last night at a party, and he was looking as good as ever, all pasty and piercing, with those eyes of his. It would have been a great time to walk up and say hello, now that I was armed with the knowledge that he was down with the brown. However, I was held back by the fact that, whenever I’m surrounded by improvisers, actors, and/or comedians, I become mildly autistic, painfully self-conscious, and my tongue turns to lead. Add that the fact that I wasn’t drinking, and you pretty much have me at the age of 13.

So, instead of re-introducing myself, saying hello, or complimenting him on his show like the strong black woman that I am, I just stared at him longingly/mildly creepily at random moments. This didn’t really bother me at first, because I know deep in my heart that I don’t need to date anyone at all right now, and if I never speak to him, he can never fail me (we all know how I emo I get when things don’t go well).

But after a while I realized that I was basically eye-fucking the poor pasty chap without consent, and the ultimate closure would be to speak to him and realize that he’s racist or something equally deal-breaking so I could stop idealizing. So, in an attempt to close the chapter on what was becoming my own personal Twilight, I told my friend about my crush and asked him what I should do. I believe my exact phraseology was, “How can I get in with ___? And by ‘get in with,’ I don’t mean his P in my V as much as a real conversation.” His advice was threefold:
-Mention Guns N Roses
-Tell him you’re Jewish
-Play with his elbow skin.


The last one was a mockery of my personal penchant for pinching elbow skin (weird, I know. Accept it.), and was just another way to set me up for embarrassment. Based on the first two suggestions, however, it would seem that so far my crush and I have absolutely nothing in common. This won’t stop me from an introduction, though. I’m thinking:
“When I was a little girl in Addis Ababa – I’m an Ethiopian Jew – I remember seeing Guns and Roses on the MTV VMA’s in 1992. Slash’s solo…. Am I right?”

I don’t know anything about said solo, but I’ll let him fill in the blank and get the ball rolling. A conversation is, after all, a two-way street… one that you pave over and construct manipulative roadblocks on to lead the driver (your crush) into the tunnel of LOVE.

I mean, whatever. It's just (just) a little crush (crush) - not like I faint every time we touch.
If you don't know what that line is from, let me take you back to the late 90s, friend.

Working Girl!

I'm breaking the writer's block by creating fiction. This way, when my life gets too boring or too tragic, I'm not at a loss. Here is the first installment.

Working Girl!
A true work of fiction.

Martha was excited. Today was her first day at a new job! But there were tons of papers to fill out, and she always got confused. Like this “computer use agreement.” She didn't see any stipulations about gchat, so it looked fine. “I guess I’ll put my John Hancock right here! “ Martha chuckled to herself as she wrote.
“But what about my W-4? What do they mean, how many dependents do you have? What do you write if you have codependence issues?” Martha wondered to herself. She was pretty needy, and depended on a lot of people for support. But I don’t think she should be taxed for it – after all, it already takes an emotional toll.

This is hard. she thought as she agonized over the deductions sheet. But I have to remind myself that the whole point of working is to have a reason to shower and shave, and force me to be in a place where I can’t sob openly. Martha was right. She had been starting to reek of saline and insecurity, and her 2-am pizza binges were starting to show on her hips. She thought of all the doors her new employment would open for her and smiled as she began the “emergency contact form.”

“I think I’m going to tell them that if there’s an emergency, they should contact my crush, Tommy,” Martha said to the HR representative sitting across from her. “He said he can’t be in a relationship right now, but I’m sure he’d want to know if something bad happens to me. He’d rush to my side, and seeing me near death would definitely change his mind.” Yep, I’m going to put his name down. she thought. She still had his cell and work numbers, even though he never really gave them to her or anything. Maybe she’ll put down his email address, too.

Oooh, Martha just got an email from her new coworker. At desk with her shiny new Mac laptop, she felt like she’d really made it to the big time. He answered my question with a one-liner – he’s clearly an efficient guy, she thought to herself as she hit the reply button. She leaned back to another colleague two desks down.
“Do you think I should write back and say 'thanks!' or just leave it.? I don’t want to clog his inbox. Maybe I should just write back with :).” She drew the smiley face on a post-it to clarify.

Her coworker said nothing.

Or maybe I should wink? she wondered. No, that probably counts as sexual harassment. Oh, workplace politics! ;P

The phone suddenly rang and when she went to pick it up it hit her desk lamp, making a loud clanging sound. Martha looked around to try and catch the eye of one of her coworkers, but no one saw her hit myself on the head with the phone humorously so they probably just think she’s making a lot of noise for no reason. I hope I don’t get fired!

She began to sweat profusely.

Martha’s desk was right across from the bathroom. All day, she could hear coworkers make onesies and twosies and wash their hands. I’d simply die if someone heard me use the bathroom, she thought resolutely. Seriously, I’d pass out and one of my lungs would collapse and I’d choke on my own saliva from embarrassment. I think I’ll try to keep my fluids low during the work day, and if I have to go, I’ll just go across the street to Barnes and Nobles. I mean, those people are strangers, I’ll never have to face them again.

I wonder if I should contact Tommy and tell him I got a job. Maybe I’ll send it from my office email, so he knows I’m not making it up. That’d be good. He’d know I’m really over him. Big and better, onwards and upwards, I always say!

I always say that. Seriously. She reinforced herself.

As the day wound down, Martha began to feel glum. I wonder what people with active social lives are doing tonight.

She was about to do a google search on the very subject when her boss walked by. She hurriedly closed the window and got to work!

What a day!

Moral Support.

I was talking to my crush last night on the phone, for the first time in 2 weeks-- as my loyal readers will recall, he'd been in Brazil for work. After a bit of phone tag, we finally worked it out.
Until my awkwardness kicked in.
Let me set the scene:

Blacktress and Crush are on the phone. Blacktress is outside a restaurant on Rivington street, before a stand up show. She has to be breezy and brief.

Blacktress: So, how was your trip?
Crush: Good, I did well with clients. It was good all around.
[there is loud barking in the background. His dog hates the blacktress.]
Blacktress: Why is she freaking out? Does she know I'm on the phone?
Crush: No, it's not my dog, I'm at the dog park so there are alot of them.
Blacktress: Oh, ok.
Crush: So, what is this whole, "becoming a gay icon" thing you were talking about on gchat?
Blacktress: Oh, I did a show for the gays, and they loved it. I got a bunch of invites to perform at other venues, and I was called "a magical creature."
Crush [in a high-pitched voice, as though speaking to a child]: Good girl!
Blacktress (laughing): Thanks!
Crush: What?
Blacktress: Thanks for your support.
Crush: Oh. I was talking to my dog.

Of course he was.

Um, we have a date Saturday night. I'm gonna need you to wish me luck.

The Fuhrer of My Heart?????

Last night I was reminded why I always date awkward dudes who aren't particularly attractive to anyone but me.
It is because I am really awkward around hot people. Hot men especially.
Remember how I lived in the quaint Sydney suburb of Lilyfield, with a flatmate who was a hottie-mchot-hot German guy?
He was so hot, it was awkward for me to live with him. Seriously. I didn't poop for about 6 weeks. I was also really awkward, and since he was mostly studying and not too chatty, we would have sporadic 10-minute conversations where I babbled like an overexcited schoolgirl and he spoke with sharp German efficiency.
One time, I came upstairs and he was in the common area at his computer (per usual), wearing no shirt. I got really flustered and excited, and said, 'Dude, why are you not wearing a shirt? Put on some clothes.'
Unfortunately, he did not know it was Opposite Day, and what I really meant was, 'Dude, can you please take off your pants as well, and spoon me?'

He has the features I have discovered are quite common in the German man: a chiseled jaw and lips like a girl. Seriously, I have been swooning over these strapping lads. I love it!
Anyway, he is back in his homeland and I got to see him last night. I was really excited to hang out, even though we weren't close, mostly because he's just so damn fine, you know?

He suggested we head to a place called Winery, which warmed my heart because he knows I don't like beer, and I know that's all he drinks. It was a cool spot, where you only pay 1 euro for your glass, drink as much as you want, and pay what you feel you should. It might actually have taken the place in my heart that was once reserved for the Bourgie Pig, which has simply become to bourgie for me to afford.

Anyway, we were meeting up with some of his friends, which prevented me from probing deep into his soul as I'd hoped. I was late to our meeting, and being an efficient German, he chastized me thoroughly. I don't know if this is possible, but he was actually hotter than I remembered. This instantly caused me to start rambling about what I'd done so far, and how huge my crush was on Berlin, and my time with the gay mafia (I can't say more about them, for obvious reasons). This ridiculous rambling and interrupting took place whenever we'd start to chat throughout the night.
I was so rude and silly. Of course, because I want him so bad that I can't really think clearly, I have told him about man drama--you know, I'm trying to de-sexualize him and treat him like a gal pal, in hopes of making myself less weird.

It does not work. Now I just feel like this really hot guy knows way too much about me.
Like the fact that I was worried about "my vag hanging out" while riding a bike in a short dress through the streets of Berlin.

I did get to know much more about him, though. Apparently he has siblings, is getting a master's degree (can i call it a 'fuhrer' degree?), and has had his heart broken by a girl. He may have lived on struggle strasse briefly (more on that later). He has a lot of female friends, but not in the sketchy way. He is really funny and we spent an inappropriately long time quoting 'Team America'.


He is certainly a unicorn.
And he lives across 6 times zones.
Clearly this is the safest crush I can have at the moment. Nothing has happened, there is no way he could hurt me, our interactions have only been positive, and he doesn't have red hair! There's no chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that he would ever want me, and I can simply think of how pretty his face is.
I think the cold storage shed where my heart used to be can only deal with this much risk at the moment.
Who have I become?

The Blacktress Goes Blue--Blue Mountains, That Is

You want to know the cure for a broken heart?
A near-death experience.

So, last weekend with the redhead was really nice, although it involved alot of prepping/errand-running. I don't think anything says "I wanna have your babies" like folding a grown man's boxer briefs and packing his rucksack.
And making him mix CDs, uploading them onto his ipod, and filling in all track listings.
And meeting his family and bonding with his older brother.
And telling him you want to have his babies.

No, I didn't do that last one. However, I did say the following over the course of the weekend:
"I wish I could show you New York City."
"Fucking Canada?!" (this was said after we'd... physically expressed our emotions....)
"Why don't you stay here and be my boyfriend?"
"You and I will kiss on the northern hemisphere."
"Fine, go ahead, get with some acoustic-guitar-playing hippie chick, get it out of your system. Because then the blacktress will come for you in a few months' time."

Okay, that last one didn't sound as dodgy as it looks when I type it.

Anyway, I was quite broken up about his departure, and found that one of my feelings was a sense of, "He's going off to have an adventure and I'm stuck here." This, however, is kinda effed-up thinking, seeing as I am having an adventure of my own, up and moving to Australia and all. Leaving friends and family and all my normal coping mechanisms has enabled me to develop new skills. Instead of, you know, drinking a whole bottle of wine, listening to every Ani Difranco album I own, and then sobbing into my pillow, I decided to do the following:
Sob into my pillow briefly, then book a quick getaway to a new location.
This, I was convinced, would enable me to take my mind off of things, being in a new environment, and give me the sense of adventure I seem to think I'm lacking.

So, with a quick chat with Pete in the IEP office, I was off to the Blue Mountains, a scenic mountainous region that starts about an hour outside of the city. I didn't really have a plan, other than a group hiking tour scheduled for Friday. I woke up on Thursday morning at 7am, so I could get as much of the day there as possible. I quickly stuffed a messenger bag with toiletries, a couple items of clothing, some pajamas, a book and a journal, and my iPod.

Look at how spontaneous I am!!

As the train chugged along on the 2-hour ride to Katoomba, the biggest town in the City of the Blue Mountains, I realized I didn't have a map or any information about the YHA where I'd booked a room. I'd vaguely remembered that it wasn't too far from the train station, based on the map I saw online. Ah well, I'll just ask someone and I'm sure they'll point me in the right direction, I thought.

The Weasley twin has started to influence me--if he could pack for a 2- to 3-year journey the night before departure, and have no idea what he was going to do in Canada after his NYC jaunt, then I could certainly rock up to the Mountains for an overnight and see what could happen, right?

Wrong.

I don't know how many of you have followed Sojourner's journey, but I don't really like nature. You could say nature is not in my, um, nature.
I don't like the feeling of twigs underfoot, I don't enjoy sweating in public, and when it comes to insects I have a basic rule: when you're that small you don't need that many legs unless you're doing evil.
And, I don't know, maybe it's residual anger from my slavery days, but I have no desire to sleep outside on the ground. I worked too hard for the roof I have.

But I was going to give this a go. I was going to broaden my horizons, and perhaps be so busy trying to survive that I wouldn't think about how I'll probably die alone because no one I want will ever love me. (cue strings)

I did however start off strong, managing to make it to the hostel, drop off my stuff, and set out to find lunch. Katoomba Street, in Katoomba, has everything you'll ever need--antique shops, bookstores, cafes, and, in my case, a girl-crush.

I popped into a fish-and-chip shop for lunch (I love anywhere that only fries food), and after ordering, the girl at the register said, "I love your accent." She was red-haired, much like my lost lover, and I felt a pang of longing. Her name was Kate, and she had lived in LA for 9 years because her dad was a director.
Before I could ask if her pops wanted to put the blacktress in his next feature, my food came, and as I sat and ate, Kate periodically came over and asked me how I liked Sydney and my impressions of the Mountains. I told her I hadn't seen them yet, but wanted to check out Leura Cascades, which was on the handy map the hostel had provided. It seemed within walking distance, and Kate agreed, adding that it would be "quite nice to go on a cool day like this."

After I was done eating my plate of trans fats, Kate walked me outside and told me the best way to get to the cascades, periodically touching my arm for emphasis.
Her touch was tender. I felt safe and excited as I set off into the wilderness.

The walk wasn't too long, and I had no trouble following the map combined with my girl-crush's directions. However, it was quite hot when I set off, but figured I could deal with the help of shade. As I walked, I saw a tall thin black guy who was on my train ride up. When we passed each other he said, "Hello goddess, we meet again. How are you?"
I was briefly pleased by being referred to as a goddess.
Maybe I need to start dating within my race again.

Anyway, I get to Cliff Drive, and start to follow the signs along the trail to Leura Cascades.
I felt good. I felt strong. I was facing my fear, not wallowing in sadness, and moving my body after a fried feast--I was growing. I put my headphones in and put on some Jack Johnson--I knew he'd appreciate such outdoor activity.

Soon, however, the heat began to beat down on a blacktress. It was nearly 85 degrees, which I saw on a thermometer on my way to the trail (it was in Celsius, but I can do the math now--I'm mad international, yo). I was beginning to have flashbacks to the hot Southern sun, and my days of toil.

Oh, I should also mention that I was wearing dark blue jeans.
And converse sneakers.
And I hadn't even brought a water bottle.

Can you say hot ass mess?



As you can see, heat doesn't agree with me, for I sweat much in the manner of Whitney Houston. (If you've never seen Ms. Houston sweat under the harsh stage lights, youtube that shizzle. You could wax a floor with all that gloss)

I trudged on, determined to get to these cool cascades Kate had promised me. I could not have another ginger let me down this week. And on top of that, I am young, gifted, and black--there's nothing I can't do.

As I walked, I noticed that there weren't many other people on the trail. In fact, I only saw 6 people in an hour, and they were in two groups of 3.
"Hm, perhaps I should have told someone where I was going," I thought to myself as these safe trios passed by. "Or maybe I should have written down the phone number of the hostel or some other nearby safety organization."
I had just brought my ipod and camera.

Clearly, I must learn to walk the fine line between spontaneity and not ending up dead in a ditch.

For serious, the trail was hella treacherous. Lacking shoes with good traction, those slippery sandstone rocks kept getting me, and the distance between the fake man-made nature-stairs was too great, and at one point resulted in a dangerous spill. As I caught myself on a rock (ew, gross, rocks!), I took a breath and saw my life flash before my eyes. In that instant, I learned one thing:
I'm way behind schedule.

I sat down briefly to write, but then a bird shat near me and I got up. I kept going in what I thought was the right direction, but was then faced with a series of steep fake-nature stairs:
I don't know if you can tell from the pic, but these fuckers were hella steep. I went to take a step, then realized that I'd already cheated death once, and if my memory of the "Final Destination" films serves, he won't let you get away too often. So, um, I turned back around.

I realized that to get to the falls I had to actually walk back on the street to the next trail entrance, then descend. Once I got there, however, I was tired and sweaty, and flies were buzzing around me like I was an African sponsor child--can a blacktress get 10 cents a day?!--so I pretty much decided to F that S and make my way to the hostel.

Fuck. I forgot that when you do a hike you have to, like, get back to where you started--usually by hiking.

It was nearly 4pm, and the sun was beating down hard. What had been an easy walk to the Cascades was harder on the return, as much of it was on an incline. My vision started to blur, and I wondered if this was what death felt like. I needed some H20 like whoa.

As I re-approached civilization, I saw on my map that there was a supermarket nearby. I mustered up what little strength I had left and made it to the huge Coles, where I spent the first 5 minutes deliriously wandering, nearly sinking to my knees at one point out of gratitude for air conditioning. I finally made it to the 'water' section, and grabbed two 1.5-liter bottles. I got the supermarket brand because I was drawn to its lovely label:

"It's natural and refreshing." - Elysha, drinks 2 litres a day.

Um, since when did we need endorsements for water? Isn't it basically something that sells itself, being a basic human need and all? Besides, who is Elysha? She's not famous. She actually looks like a cartoon when you see the bottle in person. And she drinks 2 litres, but the bottle is only 1.5. So, what, Coles brand--you want me to feel like a failure? You want me to compete with Elysha for approval? WTF, mate?!

I still bought 2 anyway, cause they were only $1 each.

I made it back to the hostel shortly after 4pm, and immediately attempted to de-gross-ify. I thought I was going to pass out, seeing as I hadn't really slept in 2 days and my body had begun eating my organs for survival. I forced myself to stay up til 9, and was totally that annoying "Early sleeping" girl in the hostel room, making everyone tiptoe when they came in to drop things off and feel guilty for having energy.

The next morning I woke up bright and early, partially because I couldn't sleep because it had been hot as balls all night. In addition, I had to get prepped for my guided hike with a small group, which would start at around 9am.

I arrived late to the bus and was totally "that girl who kept everyone waiting" for the first 30 minutes of the tour. Our guide was Jon, an old, ruddy, Australian who knew the land like the back of his calloused hands. As I looked at the other people on the tour I realized how ridiculous I seemed, in my jeans from yesterday and my converse. They all had on shoes such as this:


I, on the other hand, was rockin these:
They also wore sensible breathable shorts and tops, while the coolest thing I had was the tank top I'd slept in the night before. Clearly, I'd be in the group doing the "short walk"--which, fittingly, involved being driven to various sites on a short bus.

Although, in my defense, there was my polar opposite--a girl wearing sneakers with a floral mini-skirt and aquamarine tube top. Is homegirl going from the trail to the club? I wondered as we split off into the two groups of short and long walks. Initially, I was the only person signed up to do the short walk (I say know your limitations, bitches!), but the heat convinced 4 other women to go for the ride. We got to see some great wildlife, and even walked through a rainforest as John told us about seedlings and saps and the devastation caused by the 2006 brushfire. I was hotter than a ho in church, and almost had a heart attack when I had to brush an ant off my boob, but I was able to see tons of sites without getting lost, and even befriended a 30-year-old Canadian Asian woman who used to play rugby and now worked as a yacht technician. Holla at a vacay on the Amalfi coast, y'all!!

On the way back I checked out a local magazine, which included info on various walks, along with tips. Here's an excerpt:

Important Notes About Bushwalking Safety:

Always carry sufficient drinking water.
Always carry first aid, as well as personal meidcation.
Know your route and advise friends of your plans.
Do not rely on mobile phones in remote locations.
Wear sensible walking shoes
Match your walk to you sensibilities.

Oops, my bad.

All in all, I'm glad I can say I tried. However, unless you're a hot redheaded Aussie boy willing to hold my hand and kill any thing that crawls in my path, count the blacktress out of the next hiking trip.

Performance Anxiety

So, as I said in my previous post, there is a red-haired man that's got me swooning! As I also said, he is leaving me for my hemisphere. Other than the terrible irony and complete unfairness that is an Australian man leaving me when I'm in Australia, this now means two of my future husbands will be in Canada: him and Michael Cera.

I don't know how I'm supposed to live in a world where everything I love is sent to Canada. I'm gonna have to get Obama to do something about this.

Anyway, we were talking about exchanging some music to broaden his horizons and provide him with some new tunes as he embarks on a new voyage. I believe his exact words were, "I want some cruisey tunes."

Though he uses this word often, I'm still not quite sure what 'cruisey' means. This is one of those Aussie terms that I'm still grasping three months in. Like that time he said there was a "biffo at the cricket," which I assumed was some sort of foodstuff, but actually means "there was a fight a the cricket match."


Basically, I think "cruisey" means laid back, rhythmic tunes you can sort of bop to--the kind of jam that puts a pep in your step, but doesn't overwhelm an afternoon bbq. Regardless, I'm basing my CD creation on this theory.

Guys, this is a very high-pressure situation. Remember back in the middle-school days when you were totes crushin' on someone, and you wanted to show your luuurrvvv? You went back home, broke out a cassette, and got to recording tunes that you were convinced proved your coolness--and your ability to be the perfect partner. The result looked something like this:


Remember how hard making a mixtape was? Stopping, pausing, trying to keep the flow seamless, so you'd even rewind a little bit to make sure the time between songs wasn't too long? It was a labor of love, and by the time you handed over it was not unlike your still-beating heart--only way less gross.

To this day, nothing proves you're into a guy like rolling up to him slowly and whispering in his ear, "Damn boy, you so fine I wanna make you a mix tape."
Go ahead, try it on your next crush.

He's going to judge me based on my musical taste! What if he listens to it and is like, "oh em gee, she sucks balls. but not mine. no sir, not mine." ?!?!??! This is very stressful. He will be listening to these tunes as he backpacks the Canadian wilderness. I will use these tunes to keep myself on his mind even when we are separated by thousands of miles. I can NOT have him remembering that I'm kind of lame.

As you can see, I'm really into him. So into him that I did not blog about him for a week and refuse to talk about our actual interactions because the only comedic fodder comes from my giddiness, not his foolishness. So into him that he left his man-deodorant at my place before his flight, saying that I should hold on to it cause he can't take an aerosol can on the plane, but I'm pretty sure he's leaving it here because he wants me to sniff it and think of him.
So into him that I almost told his brother how I felt.
I IM'd the friend of mine who got me in touch with him, and our conversation would have gone something like this:
me: HEY GIRL
HOW DO I GET [FRED WEASLEY] TO MARRY ME?! IT'LL BE LIKE IN HARRY POTTER BOOK 5 WHEN THEY ALL NEED DATES FOR THE YULE BALL AND FRED ASKS OUT ANGELINA, THE BLACK GIRL!!!
my friend: roofies. [i think she would have said this]

Instead, it went like this:
me: HEY GIRL
then, for some reason unbeknownst* to me, I paused and waited for her to respond. I never do this, seeing as I have a lot to say at all times.
my friend: hey Sojourner, this is her boyfriend [and my Weasley twin's brother!!!]. she's out right now.
me: oh, hey, sorry about that.
her boyfriend: no dramas.

AAHHHH! Can you imagine how that would have gone if I'd kept talking?! I'd be the mayor of Awkward City!!!

So I'm sitting here at 11:30 am on Australia Day trying to get some cruisey tunes. I made one sure-fire winner only to discover that the disc won't play in a CD player. I AM BEING FOILED BY TECHNOLOGY!!

I now have to go buy new blank CDs that are more versatile. This is way hard, guys.

As I wipe the sweat off of my brow, I try to remember that this is just a nice thing, and he'll appreciate my follow-through-- even if he thinks I have the musical taste of an emo 14 year old.

But, um, seriously, how do you record music so that it plays a subliminal message that makes him want to wed me in a rushed Canadian ceremony?

Whoever's got the answer gets to be the flowergirl.


* I'm trying to bring this word back into the general lexicon. What do we think?

I Have a Fatty Girl-Crush On My Podiatrist

Yesterday I had an appointment with a podiatrist, which I was only able to get with the help of Linda from the IEP office--seriously, these IEP folks are worth every penny, helping a blacktress find assistance when all seemed lost. I called the doctor's office and managed to get booked for the next day to see 'Jo.'

"Um, blacktress, is this 'Jo' character's office located in a van down by the river??" You may be wondering. No, no, reader. You know how laidback the aussies are. It's quite Australian to call up for a doctor's appointment and have everyone refer to the doctor by his or her first name, just like you're meeting a friend for lunch and just sorting the details with his/her secretary. Equality, yay!!

I showed up awkwardly early, but took this opportunity to read the trashy mags made available. I was fully engrossed in InStyle Australia (reversed seasons, reversed fashions!) when I heard my name. I looked up and saw a blonde bombshell looking at me.
"Hi, Naomi, I'm Jo."
"Hi," I said back. For a brief instant, I just thought she was being really friendly, and I almost went back to my magazine before realizing she was the podiatrist I had made an appointment with.

When we went into the office, where the lighting was much better, her hotness became even more apparent. She was totally rocking the high-waisted skirt with the tucked-in blouse in the 1960s style I love. She had Angie Jolie lips but they didn't look fake. She was, like, porno hot. But, like, classy porn--the soft-core stuff you'd order after you checked into your room at the Radisson.

I explained the situation to her, handed her my ultrasounds, and she was instantly on the case. She removed my bandage to look at my wound (her touch was so gentle), and it looked all healed and not hideous. I thought I was finally in the clear, but she stopped me.

"I know it looks closed, but I don't think it is underneath, and we want to open it up so the body can continue to heal from the inside out. I'm just going to get a scalpel, don't freak out...."

After that, it was all a blur. Excuse me, hot doctor?! You think you can play Sojo?! I've heard this kind of backwards talk on the plantation--how are you going to get a surgical implement, apply it to my body while I'm fully conscious, and tell me to NOT freak out? That's like saying, "I just want to have fun" after showing up at my place of employment--does not compute!

But, as I do with most hot people, I quickly succumbed to her backwards logic and gave her the go-ahead to cut me open from groin to sturnum, figuring it'd all be worth it in the end.

Again, her touch was quite tender, and I didn't feel any pain as she went to work. I was half-tempted to ask her if she came here often, but decided against it. She explained that I didn't have an infection anymore, and that I've torn the tendons that are responsible for movement of toes, which explains why, you know, they aren't moving. One of these tendons also runs down your leg into your foot, which explains why I've been having leg pain. Between initial infection, the tearing, and not being stitched, it's just a slow healing process, and I'm going to have to go back for follow-ups to make sure I regain movement. She also said I had to stay off my foot as much as possible and to ice it every night.

After finally having a handle on what was going on, and getting to bask in the hotness of Jo, I was feeling good. The sun was shining, I'd be able to walk soon enough, but still wasn't ready for work--doctor's orders! With this newfound excitement, I called up my manager and just told him flat-out that I QUIT!!!

I AM FREE, Y'ALL!!!

No more pouring of Tooheys. No more making quick fucks. No more getting yelled at by incoherent d-bags. No more 5-am bedtimes without the fun that's supposed to come before. And, most importantly, I will never have to hear "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry again.

Now, here's hoping a temp gig opens up post-haste. Yay for freedom!

can you TOP THAT?!

I bet some of you are wondering about the status of the Photographer/The Giver. Despite my word vomit and awkwardness, it seems this fellow is still feeling the blacktress. I have been reluctant to go into detail because he may still be reading the blog, and I don’t want him knowing all of Sojourner’s truths just yet. However, I feel the need to share this relationship’s progress as it works toward becoming a REALationship (you know the difference—holla!)

So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.

For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.

“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.

Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:

I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).

With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).

After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.

After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.

Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.

Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?

Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.

But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.

Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.

AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.

As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.

In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.

And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.

JK (Rowling)!!!!

Or am I???????

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:

PROS	CONS
-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.