You Know It's Hot, Don't Forget What You Got, Looking Back...

Nothing like Lauryn Hill quote to kick off a farewell post.

It is now 4:30pm on Tuesday, April 14. In exactly 16 hours, I will board a Qantas flight bound for NYC.
My feelings are as mixed as the drinks I will be having at my farewell jam in a few hours.

I got back from my 5-week journey on Easter--I like to time my resurrections with those of the Lord. I was taken in by Meg, who recently moved into a new house, complete with three bedrooms and a dungeon.
I kid you not.
Luckily, I wasn't forced to sleep there.

Much of yesterday I was dying to go home, frustrated because of the inability to get someone to drive me to pick up my luggage, especially when one friend had already offered, but then backed out by pretending like it wasn't happening. It really hit home the sense of helplessness I'd felt many times in Sydney, not being able to do the simplest things--like laundry, for instance--without paying excessive amounts, or asking someone I'm not really close to for a favor.

I know that, although the last thing I want is to shack up with my mother and her latin lover, I also can't wait to sleep in my own bed, not wear thongs--oops, i mean flip-flops!--in the shower, and come and go easily.

But today, as I ran errands around the city, I found myself quite nostalgic, and actually sad. The sun is shining, I was actually too warm in my long-sleeved top, and Sydney was beautiful--and I felt like I'd made it my place, in a way. I have friends here and know where to go, and have made memories. I also have six months left on my visa, and there is a part of me that wonders if going home is a bad idea. I just found out my main gay may be leaving NYC in mere weeks, and my sister from another mister is heading to grad school in the fall. Add to this the fact that I've spent 6 months being a total selfish loner, not having to do anything but stay afloat and answer to no one, and you have a blacktress with a deep-seated fear of returning to reality.

I mean, 6 months is nothing in the grand scheme of life. Granted, I missed a few births, engagements, a black president and a global financial crisis--but, you know, the bars will be the same, and the dudes I hate won't have gained the 50 pounds I hoped they would as punishment.

Will folks actually have missed me? I want my reunion to be like that of Christian the lion and his old owners. You know, like this:



Is that too much to ask? I just want to maul you with my LOVE!!

When it comes to Sydneytown, there are some THINGS I WON'T MISS:
-trying to get home after midnight and paying a crapton.
-paying for condiments. Seriously, don't you think it's sort of passive aggressive to sell someone french fries and then charge them 50 cents for a package of ketchup?
-explaining my hair to total strangers.
-hearing the songs 'Save Tonight' and 'Land Down Under' at least once a day. I mean, 'Land Down Under' in Australia?????????

But really, when I think about it, there are so many THINGS I"LL MISS LIKE WHOA:
-Sweet, sweet, Eli Reed. You began as a reader, and you became a soul sister.
-Oh, dear, dear Meg. You have taught me much about the side hustle, and the ability to be a rockstar.


Wedges with sweet chili and sour cream--the most unlikely-yet-heavenly combination in the history of cookery.

-Lemon, lime, and bitters. Best. drink. ever.
-Meeting random strangers on public transportation and then being facebooked by them.
-Telling people I'm a blacktress and not being asked 'where do you wait tables?'
-Suzy Q, who always tried to get me out of the house when I was depressed, and told me I should stay in Sydney. Her optimism is precious.
-Abbreviating every word possible.


-Sushi Train. Delicious, delicious Sushi Train. Above shows where I ate on the regular, including my last lunch in Ausland.

-And, of course, Aussie accents. I'm still holding out for my foreign husband!

Okay, off to dranks with peeps. Next posts will be the tales of my travels--soooooooooo worth the wait!

xoxo,
blacktress!

Blacktress, Corrupted

I am on a total high today, guys. Last night I did a short stand-up set at a bar in Darlinghurst--one of Sydney's most fashionable gayborhoods. The night was called "Girl, Corrupted," and featured female comics as part of the festivities leading up to Mardi Gras (March 7) that are taking place all over Sydney. Mardi Gras is a gay ol' time, and people have come from all over the world for the events and final party. Girl, Corrupted, was run by a lovely woman I've recently become friends with, and I was asked to do a 5-minute spot after a particularly successful open mic I did.

I was really nervous the days leading up to it, unsure of what to do. I've only done 3 shows here in Sydney, mostly because I spent the first four months freaking out about whether or not the Aussies could handle Sojourner's truths. Of course, once I finally faced the fear, it all went fine, although I felt a bit rusty. This time, instead of being in a dusty pub with an audience of 20, there were over 100 people and they'd paid $25 to see all of us--I had to be a credit to my race.

Last night's show attracted a mostly lesbian crowd, and I was worried the gays wouldn't appreciate my hetero nature. About half the comics were into lady love, and definitely stated their sexual orientation during their set.

I, however, chose to get up on stage and start singing "All my single ladies, all my single ladies...."

And it just went from there. Check it out, and leave feedback:

So It Begins.... 17/10/2008

I told you I'd go into my male suitor, right guys? Well, I practice what I preach (TRUTH, for those of you who were confused), so here it is. For the purposes of this blog, let’s call him Random Older Fellow—ROF for short. He works at the hostel I’m staying at. I met him the night I arrived, after hanging out with J-Date. I was on a high from my first social interaction and the viewing of the Opera House, so I was feeling chatty. I went over to the desk, because I’d left paperwork there, and asked if he’d found it.

He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”

“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”

I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.

“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.

We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.

The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.

Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.

He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.

He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”

“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”

He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.

Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.

Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?

Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”

Nice one.

We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.

Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?

I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.

Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.




Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.


PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.

Thanks For the Boost, Guys

Most of my friends are quite happy and excited for my impending journey to Oz—they support my desire to pose as Michelle Obama, and I think some of them may even respond to the emails I’ll send once I’m in a foreign land away from everyone I know. What’s been funny, though, is the way in which they choose to show their support. Often, it comes in the form of an email or Facebook wall post containing a link to some crazy and/or dangerous Australian happening.

For example:

Qantas Faces Special Safety Probe
Oh, cool. The airline I’m flying has safety issues. I think the best part of this tidbit was that it was preceded by, “Just looking out for you…” Girl, unless you got a parachute or a private jet, I have no alternative but to hop on my unsafe Qantas jalopy and hope for the best!

Then, of course, came the harrowing news of the Man Drought—which was sent to me by three different people.

We all know I didn’t take this information well. However, dear Eli Reed informed me that she and her homegirls were doing just fine with the menfolk, so my fears have been temporarily assuaged.

The news that the Mayor of Mt. Isa seeks ugly women to help the rugged men find love also gave me a bit of a boost.


This latest tidbit of Ozzie info, sent to me from my homegirl in LDN, just makes me terrified:
Monster Pig Traps Aussie Woman in Home


I cannot leave the confines of the city center. My favorite line from the article is, "It's a beautiful male pig but he's just so big and so pushy," she told the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

Lady, if I had a nickel for every time a beautiful male pig was big and pushy, I’d have $2.15.

Rabbit-Proof Blacktress/ Longings to Go Down Under

You all know how I have dreams of becoming an overseas pop-singing sensation, right?
Yeah, so I’m thinking it’s time I kick that jam into high-gear. Perhaps, instead of Ashley Tisdale, they can put a blacktress in the remake of Teen Witch! Imagine:

Int. Classroom. Day.
A dowdy blacktress, in glasses and an ill-fitting potato-sack dress, sits in the back of the class, doodling and staring longingly at Mark (played by Soul Food television hottie Boris Kodjoe), a star football player who already has a full scholarship to a historically black college—even though he’s only a junior.
He catches her staring, and he smiles. His teeth gleam like white Chiclets. She drops her pen, flustered. When she reaches down to pick it up, she smacks her head on the desk—so awkward! She shrieks, and all her classmates turn and snicker as she holds her throbbing head.

Teacher:
Do you have something to say, Sojourner?

Sojourner:
No, massa—I mean, Mister Hiller.

She looks over at Mark and blushes (yes, a black girl can blush).

Okay, that’s all I got so far, but the rest of it will involve a choreographed dance routine to the remix of Nina Simone’s hit song “Young, Gifted, and Black,” which will feature a rap by Lil’ Bow Wow (or, as I like to call him, “The WOW”).

Um, if you can’t tell, I’m bored, guys.
Not just cause it’s Monday and I’m on the plantation, but with NYC in general. It’s just getting old. The same bars, the same pervy guys, the same trains with the same delays—I need a change of pace.

So I’m thinking moving to Australia.

Yes, I want to go down under.

Some of my loyal readers who have followed the truth from the beginning may be thinking that I want to go down under for the man who inspired this post. And although having his mixie babies would be a good time, I'm not about to pull a Felicity for a man who may not be worth is weight in gold doubloons.

But, his desire for a blacktress has really gotten me thinking. Why am I here dealing with crazy and lazy hot messes, when there is a whole world of men who may be down with the brown? The Australian has shown me what I could be missing. Besides, the weather’s mild, the men are tanned and rugged, and everyone has an accent. I could get a job at a bar (you know how I love to enable other people’s addictions) or work in an office. I could get a gig as a nanny, but that'll be too similar to my slave past, and I may have flashbacks. Or, I could really develop my skills as a blacktress and be a recurring character on Neighbours, in which I play....a black girl who moves into the neighborhood!!!
I don’t really care what I do as long as it allows Sojourner to write, travel, and see something new (not the movie—though I will probably bring that DVD with me as a carry-on).

But I’m fearful. Will they be able to handle a blacktress down under? Where will I get my hair did? Will the white male oppress me? Will I get to make out with hot dudes? I mean, I’ve read about the Aborigines and seen Rabbit-Proof Fence, so I know tensions can run a little high—how will they feel about Sojourner? CAN THEY HANDLE THE TRUTH???

What do you think, guys? Any suggestions?
I think I may have some Australian blog readers (ELI REED, i'm talking to you): if you have any insights, please bring them to a blacktress (we can exchange email addresses and discuss). Would you be my friend if I came to your hemisphere? If you like the blog, you’ll love Sojo IN THE FLESH.

To Eli Reed.....

My Australian has been found out. (see her comment on the previous post)

I think we are soul sisters from different misters. I will tell you all the things I discovered from reading her blogger profile that prove my point:

1. She’s from Detroit, but lives in Sydney.
This makes us soul mates because Detroit, Michigan—aka, the City That God Forgot—is my second home. It is where my mother’s from, and where I spent every childhood summer and now all major holidays. I also want to live in Sydney, as that’s where the men appreciate the blacktress and would probably love the truth.

2. She is a comedian, much like myself.
But we probably wouldn’t steal each other’s thunder, and could probably be like a funnier, more attractive version of Frangela (you know, those black chicks who comment on VH1 shows and aren’t really funny).

3. She has a boyfriend and a cat.
These are two things I want more than anything! I’ve had each of them at different points in my life, but to have both a BF and a feline AT THE SAME TIME….WHILE LIVING IN AUSTRALIA…..she lives the dream, my I’m living a dream deferred.

I can’t wait til the day we magically meet and become besties-- it'll be like an episode of that Aussie TV show "Neighbours," that used to star Natalie Imbruglia. Maybe she can find me some Australian men who like the blacktresses so that when I come I’ll have some dudes waiting. I don’t know how long you’ve been reading this blog, my international soul sister, but when it comes to men, I like a tall glass of skim milk! Holla at a calcium boost!