Doctors, Greeks, and Hugh

Monday, 23 February 2009.

Oh em gee, there's so much to blog about, I don't even know where to begin. I'll start with Friday and see where that takes us. Okay, guys, I'm gonna get real with you for a second. Friday I went to the doctor cause I'd been having issues with my lady parts.
"Ew, blacktress, please don't go into a vagina monologue!" you're probably thinking.
I know, I know, TMI. But I have to tell you this craziness. Besides, I figure you guys know about most of the Ps in my V, so you can't be that squeamish.

Anyway, I go to the doc and explain the situation. She's kinda cold, which I absolutely hate in doctors--bedside manner is everything! Especially with a lady doctor. I mean, if I'm gonna drop my pants for anyone, medical professional or otherwise, I want us to have a chat and I want you to tell me I'm pretty. I don't ask for much.

After the debriefing, oddly enough she does not ask me to de-brief. She goes, "Okay, I'm going to have you take some tests at home, and then bring them back to me on Monday."
UM, WHAT?!
You want me to do my own medical testing?! Do I look like Doogie Howser?! Do I remind you of the sassy black attending on "Grey's Anatomy"? What makes you think this is something I should do? Besides, lady, what am I paying you for?!
This is what you get in a land of free healthcare.

Doogie would never make me do this.

She hands me two cups for me to TAKE HOME and pee in, and then hands me some kit and tells me how to go about putting a swab in my V, then closing it up in the sterile container.
Then tells me to drop it off at a lab.

Okay, look, I know it was almost 5pm on a Friday, but homegirl is still on the clock! I never in my life heard of taking a medical test home and then dropping it off, much in the manner of a pizza.
What is this take-home test nonsense?! Am I in 5th grade? Doesn't she know that if she gives me a take-home test, I'm going to cheat? (my desire to appear intelligent always trumps my sense of honour) Clearly I will swab my mouth instead of my vag and pour apple juice into my pee cup.
Just because.

I was so annoyed and baffled, and basically just asked her if I could go into the office's bathroom and do it there. She goes, "Well, it won't get the results back faster."
Um, paging Dr. Bitch, you're wanted in "GET THE HELL OUT!"
After all, they have to drop samples off anyway, and what do I look like on my morning commute with cups of urine?! One false move in the rush-hour crowd and it's pee for everyone!!!

So, I was given antibiotics and will not know the real status until next week. Good lord.

With yet another round of antibiotics to begin, I figure the best way to handle this is to get my drink on before I start a week of dry living. I headed down to Sidebar, my old plantation, and chatted with some staff and had a couple dranks.
Alone.

This is a big theme of my Oz life, but I'm actually getting quite comfortable with it--I'm becoming quite the strong black woman. I even go to restaurants alone. It's not so stressful being by myself, and I don't really care what drunken teen backpackers think of me.
That is, until a random starts talking to me.

I'd noticed this guy sorta staring at me for a while, but I didn't think anything of it because he was unattractive. I had been talking to some acquaintances for a bit and then was alone at the less crowded bar. Suddenly, he sidles up to me.
"Hello, where are you from?"
The backpacker's go-to opening line.
He tells me he's from GREECE.
Uh-oh, spaghettios. I think y'all all know how I feel about a Greek man.
He then follows up his opener with, "You drink alot."
Um, thanks for noticing my addiction, weird rando.
"No, it's good."
Why is it good?! It's not gonna get you anywhere! I think as I give him short answers, trying to silently explain to him that just because I'm alone doesn't mean I'm desperate for attention. I talk about my travel plans, cause that's simply fun for me, and he then goes, "Oh, I want to go traveling in two weeks, too, but I have no one to go with. It's hard traveling alone." He then suggests we travel together.
OH MY GOD. What's with Greek intensity?! What would make him think that was a good idea or an appropriate request? I get being a rolling stone, meeting people as you travel, becoming friends and having adventures. I do not get rocking up to a girl at a bar, telling her she drinks alot, and then asking if you two can go travel together.
Does. not. compute.
"Um, I'm gonna go over there," I said, before quickly running over to some people I only sorta know and asking them to talk to me for 10 minutes while the odd boy got the hint.
While with them, I talked about my redheaded love, which still hasn't died. It's both sad and tender.

I went home around midnight (cause I'm just that cool), and while on the bus home, I composed the following note to self using as a text message:
"I am watching the woman in front of me make her own topsy tail. Seriously, a topsy tail. Of her own accord. Ew. Then, not happy with it (thank god) she has her boyfriend put her hair in a ponytail. Is he gay? I thought to myself at first. I would never let a hetero male touch my ponytail. You've got to get the right tension, smooth out the bumps. You have to know me!"
Do you guys remember the topsy tail?



Then, later, I thought, "Why is a girl with a topsy tail in a relationship and I'm not?"

Clearly, I'm in a weird head space.

Sidebar: I'm watching the Oscars now (it's just playing here), and my eggs are getting fertilized just watching Huge Jacked Man's opening number.

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'.

My Big Fat Greek Relationship

So, I think somewhere between fall of 2001 and last night, I lost my emotional virginity.

Seriously. I no longer feel optimism or excitement, and do not trust a word that comes out of the mouth of a heterosexual male. There was a time when it was all new and magical, and now I'm just like.... meh.

I had date # 2 with the Greek man last night.

We basically met up in front of Whole Paycheck--I mean Whole Foods-- with nothing planned. We met at 7pm-- clearly food hour-- and we ended up walking around the East Village and talking on a park bench.

Now, listen, I'm all down for living on the cheap-- and I respect the starving artist lifestyle (at least when you're actually foreign and broke, and not just going to the salvation army to beat all the poor people to the clothes), but I was looking too fine to be sitting on a park bench.

We did a lot of talking, and at one point a mildly drunk, 40-something-year-old Irishman walks by us. He's drinking red wine in a solo cup. He looks at the Greek demigod and says:
"Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but I want to say that you're a very handsome man. I hope when I grow up I'm as handsome as you are."

SEE HOW HOT HE IS????? HE MAKES INTOXICATED STRAIGHT MEN OPENLY GAY!!!!

Anyway, I'm cracking up at the absurdity of dating someone ridiculously good-looking (does this happen to hot people all the time???), when the Irishman turns to me and says, "You're gorgeous. You two are a very attractive couple. Are you a couple?"

I was flustered and confused by this. Not only was I now hot by association, but this complete stranger was calling out the status of our love on date deuce! I immediately put the kabosh on that. I say, "NO"..... just as El Greco says, "We're trying to be."

In the words of Nick Cearley in "Bernice Bobs Her Mullet": What an awkward moment!!!

I then scold the drunk for making things awkward and shoo him away. My date and I are left to marinate in our opposing views.

I don't know if it's something in the dolma, but the Greek man is blunt. He's, like, seriously so honest it's almost comical. On one hand, when he says, "I don't do anything I don't want to do," I can be sure he's on a date with me because he wants to be, and he's happy just sitting on a park bench and relishing in my nubianess. On the other hand, he will have no regard for my feelings and say whatever pops into his head. On my third hand (yes, I'm a three-handed circus freak), his honesty allows me to be just as TRUTHFUL, which you know I'm all about.

Later, in Union Square Park (yes, it was a hobo evening of park benches), the Greek asks me if I want to be his girlfriend.

DATE NUMBER 2, PEOPLE!!!

While I was flattered and turned on by the concept of commitment, I was taken aback by this suddeness. Much like the Whole Foods where we met, I like these things to happen organically. The man hasn't even seen me in my spectacles and retainer (yep, I'm classy)-- how can he be ready to handle my truths?!

I've decided he's like a puppy. An excited, fresh-from-the-pound golden retriever puppy, who is excited and jumps all over you and playfully licks in its quest to find an owner. While the energy and cuteness draws you in and makes you want to take him home and love him all night, he is still a canine. And like any puppy, he will inevitably crap on your carpet and need to be hit on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

BAD, BAD, GREEK HOTTIE! YOU ARE MOVING TOO FAST!!

He called me today. Yes, about 14 hours later-- for someone without a cell phone, he certainly knows how to reach out and touch a sister-- and he will call me every day if I ask him to. And he will also grow his facial hair because I told him I liked the way it looked on our first date.

I guess I should be swooning, but I'm not. You would think a fine, tall, foreign glass of milk who is willing to do whatever I ask would be a dream come true, and yet I'm spent (like the money in his wallet must be if I can't even get a meal!).

I've got the mentality of a 40-year-old divorcee: cold, bitter, cynical, and feeling emotionally chubby. No matter how fine he may be, I just don't want someone all up in my George Foreman (grill) unless they can engage in thoughtful discourse on race, drink red wine, decipher my drunken texts, write sonnets in iambic pentameter, and sit with me and watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze. Oh yeah, and if they have to STAY IN MY TIME ZONE.

I worry that someone who can start an exclusive relationship after 2 dates may be a bit fickle in his affections. Am I wrong? Leave an opinion.

And, here's another question: If you could be a Ninja Turtle, which one would you be???
I think I'd be Raphael, the angsty one.

Black Aphrodite

Today, I’d like to talk about the foreign man.

I know I’ve mentioned him before, but things are really starting to get out of control. They just can’t get enough of the blacktress!

Saturday night (fully sober… ish), I was heading home on the train shortly after 2 am. This is something I never do at such an hour—especially when my meal tickets are on display and I’m looking grown and sexy. But I was feeling confident in the crowd waiting at the 2nd avenue station.

As I’m waiting, I notice an attractive glass of milk waiting for the train as well. I thought we looked at each other a couple of times, but by 2 am, my game was shot. I wasn’t even trying to smile then look away (that’s how I do, y’all!). In true crazy MTA fashion, an E train pulls into the F/V station. I get on it anyway, too tired to argue with the transit system’s madness. The attractive glass of milk enters and asks if the train is going to Queens. Between his accent and need to go to the outer boroughs in the wee hours of the morning, I knew he was foreign.

Oh, I should also mention that he was wearing a pinstriped fedora, much like this one:

I can often tell a foreign man by his accessories and/or number of buttons undone on his shirt. About a month ago, getting on the B train (hm… why do so many of my foreign encounters happen underground?…. The railroad to the freedom and free love!), I noticed a bald man making eyes at me. I then notice he’s wearing, like, 3 rings (none of them a wedding band—holla!), and I knew he had to be “the other.” On the train, we are forced together by rush hour crowding and I ask him where he’s from. He tells me he’s from Venice, Italy… before telling me I’m beautiful and should come visit him.

The rings don’t lie… much like hips.

Anyway, back to my current foreign correspondent: he tells me he’s from Greece and he’s an artist. I use my art magazine lingo and intellect to name-drop professors who work at the school where he studies. I also give him my business email, in case he wants to send me his work. The convo is effortless. Apparently, I’ve got more game than Milton Bradley, even at 3 in the am! We even start speaking in Spanish, so you know he’s down with the multi-culti flavor.

When I start to exit the station so that I can catch a cab due to train malfunction, he actually comes out of the subway and waits with me!* What?! I had no idea what was happening. When I insisted that he not miss his train, he said, “No, let me be a gentleman.”

A what?

I’ve heard tell of these “gentlemen,” but (as you know from so many posts) so rarely meet them. See, they don’t raise men right in our homeland. A stranger would never escort a lady out of the subway unless he wanted to drag her to a back alley and put her soon-to-be-severed head in a bag.

This is one more reason I’ve got to get out of America.

So, like, I know I can't put all my eggs in this foreign basket, but I'm not asking for much. I just want him to draw me a la Jack and Rose in Titanic, and take me to his homeland where I will become Black Aphrodite.



* Do you know three cabs REFUSED to take me to Harlem as I tried to get home?! The Greek man had to actually ask the fourth driver to, “take this beautiful woman home so she can sleep.” You know this world is too hot of a mess!