Marriage Material

Hey guys. What’s been going on? I feel so out of the loop. The last couple weeks have been totes cray cray, but I’m finally rejoining society—and by that, I mean, going straight home after work and hopping in bed by 10 (Sojo is old, y’all). The major stressor this past week was a friend’s bachelorette party, which somehow I got involved in planning many months ago. At that time, blacktress loved a good party, and with no job and plenty of free time, planning a bachelorette was quite appealing.
No, I’m not in the wedding party.
No, I’m not even that close with this girl. I see her roughly every four months, over a 90-minute dinner in which she often tells me I “seem so much better than last time we talked,” which I guess is supposed to be uplifting, but I don’t really pay attention because she often just gets the high (or, I guess, to be more accurate, LOW) lights over thai food.

Anyway, I digress. I’m not bitter, I swear.

Suddenly, with the bachelorette date of April 24 approaching, I had to put my money (and seriously, I mean my money) where my mouth was, making a customized recipe book that consisted of personalized notes from family, friends, and even the future German in-laws. This wasn't particularly difficult, but it was time-consuming, as I had to find a way to get it done wile doing my 9-5, trying to get my side-hustle stand-up career on, and preparing for my television debut. Needless to say, I was pretty stressed.

But Saturday came, and it was me and 7 future doctors, only one of whom wasn’t in a serious long-term relationship. I planned an evening that started at my favorite wine bar, which was only made awkward by the fact that I’m not drinking at the moment. So, there I sat, as the conversation turned to episiotomies, (click at your own risk!) drinking my mocktail, and wondering why I was destined to die alone and poor. I also made a mental note never to get admitted into a hospital.
Good times.
I then planned for us to head over to a delicious tapas restaurant, where they didn’t take reservations, but told me to just put our names down 20-30 minutes before we were ready. Of course, at that point, the place was nearly empty and the hostess told me not to worry about it. When we got there less than half-an-hour later, however, the place was packed, and we ended up waiting over an hour to sit down. As we waited, we became acquainted with two cheesy d-bags, and, in true blacktress fashion, the baggier of the d-bags took a shine to me. His name was Keith, and he looked like a cross between Andrew Dice Clay and “The Situation,” from The Jersey Shore.
Not cute.

I love "The Dice's" bedazzled vest.

He spent much of the time pestering me to have a drink and telling me I needed to “loosen up,” by which I think he meant, “drop my panties.” He then told me I looked like Kelly Rowland from “Destiny’s Child,” after explaining that his friends tell him he looks like Billy Baldwin. He really brought it home when he said,
“We’re gonna be in the tabloids tomorrow! It’ll say, ‘Billy Baldwin has a case of Jungle Fever!!!”
Um, check please!

Oh wait, it’s 10pm and I HAVEN’T EATEN YET, so I can’t get a check.

The night was quite tame, as you can probably guess from a guest list that includes 6 docs who were either coming off of, or preparing for, an overnight shift. The girls were nice, but as the Maid of Honor and co-planner put it, “they're completely sleep-deprived people, which clearly translates to functioning at a level that hovers below normal humans.”

At the end of the night, I gathered my passport and other paperwork and headed to Greenpoint, BK, to hang out with Jewboo. After being accosted by “The Dice,” it was nice to hang out with a man who respected me despite the fact that my boobs were prominently displayed. The next morning, we had brunch with two of his old friends, and I tried my best to make a swell impression. As expected, the male friend was easy to get along with, quick to laugh, and perfectly content just shooting the shit, while Jewboo’s female friend was a bit quiet and reserved, making me nearly nauseous with nerves.

After that ended, we hung out for a bit, and Jewboo and I took a nap at around 4:30pm—cause we’re classy like that. I was clearly coming off of an emotional hangover of hanging out with the “Grey’s Anatomy” extras and trying to impress bf’s friends and needed to rest. Things were all well and good until I decided to break out my first cry of the new relationship, which we all know is the first nail in the coffin. Afterwards, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it had taken me 6 weeks to break out the waterworks, which definitely constitutes growth.

As you can imagine, the blacktress has a flair for the dramatic. Part of being a successful blacktress requires an ability to “easily access” one’s emotions, which means I can cry at the drop of a hat. The story of conjoined twins separated, a moving Chris Meloni monologue on “Law & Order: SVU,” or even just a particularly deserving “America’s Next Top Model” winner can bring a tear to a blacktress’ eye.

This easy access to emotions, coupled with my deep-seated need for approval and fear of dying alone means that one sideways glance from Jewboo after hanging out with engaged girls, and I’m blubbering like an idiot, because I’ve failed in my duty gf.

See, I’ve got this twisted perception that I bring two things to the relationship table: orgasms and food. After all, that’s the only reason heterosexual relationships function, isn’t it? Men don’t want to talk about feelings, they don’t want to be challenged in any way, and they don’t really look for a “partner,” so much as easy access to both food and vag….right?
Clearly, I’m a hot mess, suffering the aftermath of an absent father figure. For those of you who are surprised, I suggest you start reading this blog from the beginning.

Anyway, things are okay now, but I spent much of yesterday waiting to be IM’d, and then caving and IM’ing him with a stupid question…because in my head I am a 17-year-old in a CW drama, and I suffer from mild autism.

Anyhoozle, I’m glad that’s all over. Going to bed at 11pm last night was awesome. I feel way more emotionally stable. And even though I haven’t received so much as a “thank you” from the bride-to-be, I don’t mind, because it helps fuel my self-righteous resentment.

I’ve missed you guys. I’ll be back with funnier blog posts soon.

Forget Me Not

Last night, while hanging out with my main gay JJS iii, I received a voicemail from a man with whom I engaged in a makeout session Saturday evening. I was mildly excited to see a missed call from an unidentified number, and had a sneaking suspicion it might be him.

The male in question was someone I had met months earlier at a stand up comedy show (we were both performing), and his wry wit and inherent dorkiness endeared him to me, and I asked him if we could go on a date (you know this blacktress is upfront!!). We went on a semi-date, and while there was a fun comedic rapport, I could tell he had about as much interest in me as a gay man has in a vagina.
But he isn’t gay.

Cut to 5 months later—May 10, 2008. At the party of blacktor Victor Varnado, the comedian/disinterested date and I are reunited, and there is much merrymaking. He’s suddenly all up in a blacktress’s George Foreman (grill) like a horndog on prom night, and I wonder what has changed. I figured I best not over-think it, especially with me Australia-bound in a few months time—now, more than ever, we don’t love these hos. I figured I could get my makeout on and end up just fine.
We had a nice time, and there was a bit of me that felt a little boost from getting with an unrequited crush, even though I was no longer crushing. I felt all was right in the world. Perhaps, like Joni Mitchell, he didn’t know what he’d got til it was gone, and now he was carpe-ing the diem and getting with this.
He kissed me again, before leaving the party at 3am, apparently to “go fishing with a friend in Long Island City, Queens”—a sentence that made little sense at the time, but I thought it best to overlook it.
I was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine Monday evening.
That is, until the message went on.
It went something like this:

Hey Sojourner, this is D-Bag McGee. It is 6:30 on Monday and I have an incredibly awkward question to ask you, and that is…uh…what did we do Saturday night at Victor’s party--because I have no recollection whatsoever because I drank too much and my mind is absolutely a blank slate, so there’s a big question mark as to what happened at Victor’s party--did I break some windows, did I steal things? I have no idea what happened, and uh…yeah…. [then, the following he said in a sing-song voice]: I hope everything’s okay, I hope I didn’t do anything bad, I feel embarrassed and awkward, bye!

I. Shit. You. Not.
I literally just transcribed the message from my phone, where it is eternally saved.

I honestly think when I was born, the man upstairs looked at my wet, placenta-juice-covered body and said, “let’s give this one something to blog about.”

Now, some of my most loyal readers know that I, too, have engaged in too much drink in one evening, and suffered from what I am now calling a Whiteout (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for details). I mean, we’ve all been there.

But we do NOT go there with a blacktress.

W. T. F?! I mean, nothing is more insulting than calling someone and saying, “I don’t remember making out with you.” This was no random mid-dance smooch. This was much dirty dancing foreplay (foreplay is MORE play—holla!), and then a hard-core makeout session, which was briefly interrupted by the party host (who jumped on top of us and called us tramps) and then resumed!!! It was then followed by a long conversation in the living room, where I sat on his lap as though he was Santa and he told me I was really hot and cute (I mean, he was speaking TRUTH, obvi).

How could he blackout on a blacktress?!

You know I called that bitch back posthaste and let him know what was what. Our conversation went something like this:

[phone rings. He answers.]
Sojo: You are such a d-bag.
D-Bag: What?
Sojo: I said, you are such a d-bag.
D-Bag (hesitantly): Why?
Sojo: We made out last night.
And I’m pregnant.
And I’m keeping it.
D-Bag (a quiet terror): Ha…?
Sojo (as though speaking to the character of Corky from the television series “Life Goes On”): Seriously, we made out. Like, what?! You don’t remember?!
D-Bag (quiet terror still seeps through the phone lines): No…. I just, like, don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is us all talking in the DDR room, and then me waking up at my friend’s place.
Sojo: Well, you missed a good time, D-bag McGee. You should have been there.
D-Bag: I was soooo out of it.
Sojo: I’m sorry you were “so out of it,” I didn’t mean to take advantage of you by letting you kiss me. If I’d known you weren’t in your right mind, I certainly wouldn’t have put my lips on yours.
D-Bag: No, no, you shouldn’t feel bad, it’s my fault.
Sojo: I was being sarcastic. Of course I don’t feel bad—if anything, I now have the upper hand, because you feel silly.
D-Bag: God, I was sooo drunk.
Sojo: Um, could you stop saying that? You’re making me feel bad.
D-Bag (taking long pause): Um….sorry, I’m here, I’m just digesting all this….
Sojo: You blacked out on a blacktress!!!!
D-Bag: Yeah, um….
Sojo: You might want to handle your alcoholic scandal. Be careful out there. Bye.
[We hang up, and luckily, with my main gay by my side, I am able to resume my normal activities.]

Okay, let the record show that this dude is 33 years old—or, I should say, 33 years YOUNG. How are you 33, calling up a fine-ass blacktress such as myself, with no recollection? Shouldn’t you know how to hold your liquor by the age of 33?! And repeatedly saying he was drunk just made me feel like I was some gross mistake he made, like filling in the wrong bubble on a standardized test, or accidentally drinking baby’s blood.

I am seriously done with the male gender. This is what that random college student was talking about in that paper I graded a month back.
What has become of the world when a man can call you up and just TELL YOU he forgot about making out, and then, when hearing the news, instead of rejoicing, he openly expresses his horror and distaste?!!

WHAT IS MY LIFE???

Reason #249 I need to blow this popstand.