Young, Gifted, and BACK

Guys, I come to you now with my tail between my legs and my head hung in shame. I haven’t blogged in so long, you’d think I wasn’t an insecure narcissist whose primary form of procrastination was writing ramblings on the internet.

Since I last posted, there have been many changes afoot—I don’t even know where to begin!

1. On Friday, October 29th at 6:34pm, Jewboo called to tell me he GOT A JOB!!!
Yes, y’all!!! He’s got a sweet temp-to-perm gig at Columbia University! For those of you who don’t know, Columbia’s located in Harlem, which means that not only has Jewboo solved the “I’m broke-ass” problem, he’s also helped alleviate the “I love on the G train” issue! Other pluses to this new employment:
- Jewboo’s entire staff consists of strong black women and a black man named Junior. Our 8 months of dating have trained him perfectly for dealing with a strong black woman—and, should his superiors be prone to outbursts and mood swings, he will be able to respond by asking them if they are in “food distress.”
- When the gig goes permanent, Jewboo will be making 25% MORE THAN ME. Seriously. As an administrative assistant. It really makes me wish I hadn’t gone into debt going to a liberal arts university when managing an Outlook calendar is where the money is.
- With this newfound money, Jewboo can begin purchasing me foodstuffs of the baked variety. I’m ‘bout to get myself mad cupcakes, y’all!
- My mother can stop telling me that I need to “use this one as a back-up; don’t get attached.”

2. So, for Halloween, I decided to go as “slutty Condoleeza Rice,” complete with cheap corset purchased from H&M and a headband with a top hat. I was definitely a tramp, but luckily, my party of choice was a bunch of gays in a high school gymnasium in Chelsea. It was kind of amazing. The drag queens brought out their A game, and they actually taught me how to—

UGH, God, my fucking coworker keeps interrupting me, and I can’t get a blog in edgewise! He’s being such a fucking shunt*, and I having been wanting to cut him for days. My hatred has gotten so intense that Saturday night I dreamt we got into a fist fight. I wish he’d just never talk to me again—or only communicate with me via email. He’s just so damn….detail-oriented and “wanting to get your thoughts on” things that it just bothers the shit out of me. I swear to fucking god, I can’t handle being here.
*that’s Australian for “shitty cunt”

Okay, rant complete. Where was I?
Oh, right, HallowQUEEN. (How did I just start calling it this now???)
So, I’m dancing to remixed versions of every pop song I’ve ever known (when you speed up “Umbrella,” Rihanna sounds even more like a chipmunk than usual), in my trampy outfit, hanging out with two members of my BLONDtourage (white girls are excellent safety nets on nights when the crazies are out), when a guy crosses behind us to put is coat in a corner.

I freeze. My stomach twists in a figure-eight knot.
No, it isn’t one of the many former lovers I’ve had.
It was MY BOSS!!!

Yes, y’all! My boss was at the HallowQueen party, and decided to plant 4 centimenters from a blacktress! I immediately alerted the blondes and made sure to text my nearest and dearest. Jewboo’s response: “Isn’t yer boss a drag queen?” as though I shouldn’t have been at all surprised. One of the gals I was with was convinced he must have seen me, since he’d crossed several times to drop off his coat, go back to pull out his wallet and phone, and then go back to put something else in his pocket.

“Do you think he’d recognize me in this outfit?!”
I tried to continue dancing non-chalantly, but the night lost its luster. I wasn’t ready to be caught out dressed like a tramp by the man who signs my checks. I walked over to my bag to put my cell away when he turned towards me. I used my collapsible fan as a face shield (just like Condi would do), but it was a wrap.

Michael just looked at me, rolled his eyes and laughed, and said, “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

I swear, I’m only having former drag queens as bosses from now on.



Okay, there’s much more to report, but I gotta get back to work before the shunt comes over with another request. I’m glad I broke the block, y’all—how you been?

Remembrance of Things Past

OMG, guys. I’m really happy now. I got an email from my gyno!!!

Yes, guys, an e-mail! An e-mail is good because it means your test results came back negative. I remind myself of this with a little rhyme: If you didn’t fail, you get an email; If your phone rings, it doesn’t bring good things!

You know you’ve lived a little too hard if you’re really amped over STD test results. I’m not mathemagician, but I’d venture to say that one’s excitement over negative STD tests is directly proportional to one’s past sluttery. And, as many of you long-time readers can attest, Sojourner has definitely taken advantage of her freedom—and the legalization of miscegenation. As a hypochondriac, I get tested very regularly (sometimes I go in for a prescription refill and come out with two vials of blood drawn, just for the fun of it!), and the idea of an un-wrapped P in my V actually terrifies me, so my past, while varied, is relatively tidy.

Still, there were those nights….those Grease-like summer nights, when the club was dark and the booze was strong, and you didn’t know if that guy was on the up-and-up, but you hoped the amount of alcohol in your blood was so high that it would kill any foreign antibodies that entered.

Am I right, guys?


Anyway, I figure I just bought another 18 months of calm, especially now that I’m Jewboo’ed up and behaving.

Speaking of sluttery, I’m thinking of doing a trashy Halloween costume this year. I’m not really one for costumes (as a blacktress, I perpetually wear a mask….oooohh, that’s deep), and the idea of spending a lot of money or investing several hours in crafting a costume for one night of wear just seems silly. Besides, all the costumes for women are a slutty version of something really generic—you know, like a slutty fireman, a slutty witch, or a slutty slut.

I think, in honor of the slutty idiocy that is Halloween, my costume will be A Girl With Low-Self Esteem.

Booty shorts and/or booty skirt, the tiniest top you can imagine, and the need for endless male attention all night long.

I may end up having flashbacks.

Or, if I want to seem slutty-yet-cool, I’m thinking I can dress up as a Freudian Slip.

You know, wear a slip with my glasses and a name tag that says “Hello My Name is FREUD.”

What say you?

Happy Halloween Y'ALL!

I'll be spending Halloween night in the house, trying to avoid the crazy Carnevale that is NYC on a night of masks and mayhem. However, this doesn't mean I'm without spirit! Check out this oddly shaped man doing his best dance moves in a unitard. It's scarier than anything you'll see on All Hallows Eve:



You know there must be nothing going on in Nebraska when the news can devote over a minute of precious airtime to this dancing queen. They were like, "This just in: A calf was born on Knotts Farm! ... er, now for the pumpkin dance!"

The Hunt is On....

It's currently 60 degrees, windy, and raining. The weather is an inconvenient truth.
I was hoping that, with summer starting so late, it'd be balmy well into September, but it looks like Al Gore has other plans for us.

You know what this onset of cold weather means, don't you?

It means I'm gonna have to start the hunt for the winter spoon earlier than usual.
(For those of you out of the loop, here's more on the winter spoon--or, what a male friend of mine called "wife season.")

I'm a bit out of practice for this hunt, as last year I avoided this dilemma by leaving the hemisphere and bypassing winter completely. This only proved the correlation between cold weather and neediness, as I wasn't trying to get serious with any fools in Oztown, even though it was the midst of holidays, my birthday, and I was on the other side of the world alone. It was just too hot to be all cuddled up!

Now that I'm back in the game, I'd hoped to be able to woo potential winter partners in these final warm days with my dresses on and whatnot, and then use a slutty Halloween costume to seal the deal (I'm thinking of going as a Girl with Low Self Esteem this year. All T and A).

Alas, it looks like I'm gonna be in my galoshes and my granny sweater, and I'll have to hope someone sees through my layers into the inside spoon that I can become.

But I have hope. This winter, however, is unlike any winter that has come before. We've got a black prez, which makes black the new black, and nerdy black people the new hotness--in other words, my stock is on the rise! I think I may have a better shot at getting one this time around.

Thoughts? Comments, suggestions?

COTTON gin and tonics with Gay Visionaries-- aka HALLOWEEN

Happy Halloween Everybody!

Okay, I know I’m late—it’s called CP time. Get with it.

So, it’s been a while since I blogged. It’s because there have almost been too many things to discuss!!! Let’s re-cap:

The Greek went crazy. He began sending me angry emails, hurling insults at me much in the way the god Zeus hurled lightning bolts at mere mortals for sport. He also called me, utilizing his lack of a cell phone to give me attitude and force me to speak with him. He simply could not handle the truth of the fact that I DIDN'T WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM EVER AGAIN.

Whiteley never called. He’s dead to me. I should have known not to even holla at a man who sleeps on a mattress on a floor.

I’m meeting with the co-op board tonight to see if I get my apartment!!! This is the big moment guys. Sojo will finally be free from the shackles of the oppression of her mother and her latin lover Eduardo. Keep your fingers crossed (for me) and your legs crossed (for Jesus)!

Last night was the greatest night of my life. I attended the Halloween/birthday extravaganza of the actor Nick Cearley, where gorgeous gay men were scantily clad and enjoying $5 mojitos. It was men, men everywhere—and not a drop to drink!!! While I’m normally against the “holiday” of Halloween, as it encourages people to assume alternate identities and not live up to the TRUTH, I thought I’d reclaim it and show the truth of who I once was.

I donned my old bonnet, the skirt I wore when working in the fields, and I brought some cotton balls that I’d picked in the hot, sweaty aisles of Duane Reade. I called the white men ‘Massa’ and didn’t look them in the eye—just as I used to do. I knew it might make people uncomfortable, but they don’t call me “You can’t handle the TRUTH” for nothing!

(That's me and Massa Colin, remembering the good times.)

Though I anticipated scorn, and prayed I wouldn't be attacked by someone dressed as a Black Panther, I was pleased to find that the gays could indeed handle my truth. One fine man—his name was Patrick, I believe—was wearing a green sleeveless top and booty shorts to accentuate his…. Masculinity. He came up to me and said, “Sister, where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

I was shocked. I wasn’t anticipating this introduction from a half-naked man. I faltered.

“What?” I said.

“I said—where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”

“DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE!!!!!”

We began a rousing rendition of the old spiritual that my mammy used to sing to me, and he told me he was from Mississippi. We spoke of the past and how we’d changed, and the freedom we’d both enjoyed as oppressed peoples. I asked him how he could be so bold as to come out on the streets of Manhattan in such a clothing—or, bet yet, lack of clothing.

He explained to me that he was one of BLOW WHITE’S SEVEN WHORES:

Sleazy, Easy, Slutty, Bitchy, Horny, Sticky, and… COCK!

The most brilliant costume I’ve ever seen in my life. Each of these whores came into my world and showed me the TRUTH of Halloween—it’s about creativity, expressing oneself as a strong black woman/man/trans and wearing little more than a codpiece.

As I relished in the beauty of the moment and sang “Wade in the Water” with my new massas, I tall figure caught my eye. It was—No, it couldn’t be! Yes—it was!

Actor Jeff Hiller!!!!!!!

You may recall from my previous posting on the musical extravaganza Bernice Bobs Her Mullet, that Jeff Hiller is my calcium boost, gay icon, and actor/comedian extraordinaire. I have been drawn to his art since seeing him perform in the UCB group CREEP, where is I was drawn to his height, his rapier wit, and subtle-yet-effective fashion sense. When I saw him as Draycott Deyo in Joe Major’s magnum opus, my friend crush grew deeper. And now, it could become real.

I instantly stopped Jeff in his tracks, as he made his way over to the birthday boy. I told him my name, showed him my cotton balls, and told him I would be his surrogate, should the need ever arise. I spoke in run-on sentences, explained how I had TiVo’d the two commercials he’s currently featured in, and called him “Massa Hiller.”

Jeff could handle the truth!!!!!!! He laughed, he didn’t fear the blacktress, and he was everything I dreamed he’d be. After letting him say his hellos and work the room, I moved in again, apologizing for my intensity. I asked him about his craft, how he became so self-actualized (and tall), and what I could do to get out there as a blacktress. I told him I would be the Mel to his Flight of the Conchords. His response:
“Oh, you mean my friend Kristin?”

SHUT THE FLIP UP! How could he just drop that Nagasaki bomb on me like it wasn’t no thang?! I lost it, I had to be torn away and escorted to the underground railroad so that I could go home.I think he thought I was drunk.

I wasn’t.

But I think I may have finally found my baby daddy.

Everyone who reads this should look Jeff up on MySpace and totally become his friend. Tell him Sojourner sent you. He’ll know what it means.

Okay, back to work on the plantation!