Going With What Works

Hey guys,

It was 95 degrees in New York City today and I feel like I’ve just been through some sort of Sisyphus-like trial. All I was actually doing was existing, walking upwards of 4 blocks at a time, and trying not to be hideous. I’m finally home, showered, and wanting to distract myself from the heat and tomorrow’s next doctor’s appointment. Suddenly, I remembered a long lost love that I’d neglected—16 & Pregnant. I know there’s a teen mom out there struggling with a deadbeat dad, getting rid of her stretchmarks, and passing algebra who will help me get some perspective. Thank god for ON DEMAND—I’m gonna check out my options. Hopefully there’s a twang-filled Southern girl—she’ll understand what it’s like to live in this heat.

11:04
Oh my god, her name is Cleondra!
THIS IS ALREADY AMAZING.
She’s a pretty biracial Mississippi girl with 4 siblings! They’re like the Smollett family.

Do you remember them? They had their own tv show, for, like, a second. All their names start with J. Journee is the only one who's made a name for herself.

Her sis--named ZERICA --is a teen mom, too. Legacy!!!! It’s like getting into a good university, only much sadder.

Cleondra’s bf is Mario—a garage-working caramel fellow who lives right across the street from her! That’s so Clarissa & Sam.

Um, why wasn't this teenage boy, with ranging hormones and uncontrollable urges stopped from climbing up a ladder into a pubescent girl's bedroom? Man, life was different before Facebook.

I love the staged conversation where they have the couple talking about what it was like to find out they were pregnant while doing something “everyday”. They’re walking down the street—in the middle of the street, that is—and discussing their fate.
Her sister’s daughter is named Zyra—are they trying to build a family or a troupe of drag queens???

11:09
White mom Dixie sits with Cleondra on the bed, talking about pregnancy. Mom isn’t amped to have a second teen mom, obvs. “I got the whole big box of condoms…you say your heart sank? My heart sank.”
Apparently, she agreed to have an abortion, but being underage, they’d need parental consent, and Mario just couldn’t do that.
I don't understand.

11:11
Rob—Cleondra’s mom’s (black) boyfriend. He’s got a salt-and-pepper goatee and wears a silver chain. There is nothing more to say.

Over a family game of cards, brother Jerome tells her how disappointed he is. Damn, all these folks just sit around slurring—I can barely distinguish the insults from the requests for food!

11:13
“Not being able to dance on the dance team this year, sucks. I don’t get to see my friends as much.” Um, I think you’re going to have to let go of the Stomping the Yard and forget trying to Step Up 2 Da Streets—the only thing you need to Step Up to is motherhood.
She’s hanging with her dance team friends—these girls don’t look like they've got rhythm, but I'll allow it.

"Mario feels really guilty about getting me pregnant. He even decided not to go to the army and got a full-time job at a tire shop.”

Okay, is there a Teen Mom checklist for baby daddies? When they agree to do the show, do they have to sign both a waiver and a contract agreeing to be a cliché?

Mario plans to fix up his house so that they can live together—cause apparently Cleondra’s house is “chaotic” (um, with 12 people running around with names like Zerica and Zyra, I don’t need much convincing).

11:17
Barbecue at Mario’s house! His dad, Billy, chats with his son: “I want my grandbaby to grow up in something normal, no craziness, no chaos.” Mario agrees!

11:19
Cleondra sits in the library with friends. “How long are you going to take off school?” the token black one asks.
“Probably two weeks, then we have Christmas vacation, then I’ll come back in January.”

Let’s get this gay: She’s going to take off a month after getting pregnant and then get back to the books? I love how “I have a crib in my house, Mario has a crib in his house”—um, you've turned your baby into a nomad fresh from the womb?

11:21 – 33 Weeks Pregnant
Cleondra breaks it down: “Mario lives across the street with his dad, and his mom is around the corner. He’d rather go there than have dinner at my house.”

Mario’s mom, Maria (natch), is very West Side Story—bright purple halter top, tons of makeup, and though I can’t see it, I’m sure she’s wearing espadrilles while sitting on her couch.

First words out of her mouth: “I will not be called grandma. You have to choose between Nona, Gigi, or Yaya.” None of these are her name. Yaya is a common Greek word for grandmother, but they’re Latin and in Mississippi. I’m lost.

They discuss baby names: Maria likes “Twilight,”—who is this woman?!—and Cleondra is super annoyed. She doesn’t even want to discuss baby names. Her attitude toward Maria is so obvious.

Back at home, Mario calls her out for her attitude.
[Between their southern drawls and Cleondra’s refusal to open her mouth when she talks, I’m missing a lot of the convo.]

11:24 – Baby Shower!!
I love the bootleg showers thrown by high-school students!
They are playing a game where various condiments are placed in diapers and guests have to smell them and guess what it is.
Ew.
But there are a lot of people, even her main gay, Levonté (yes, Levonte. I can’t make this shit up. I wish I could.)
11:26
Mario sits with his pasty pal Myles in the tire shop.
Mario: “You’re 20, I’m 19—we’re the two youngest guys in the shop. And you got a baby and another on the way, and I got one on the way. That’s crazy.”
Yes, yes it is.
Apparently, Cleondra’s bedroom/private space is a “tent she got for her birthday, but if I say something, she’ll cry about it for 10 days. She’s all pregnant and hormonal. “

11:27
They’ve decided a name! It’s going to be…..
Kylee Sue.
[Even the graphics show it in small font, it’s so bad]

Um, I don’t know how to cope with this. I guess it’s a step up from Zyrtec, or whatever they’re naming themselves in the family, but still.

11:28—LABOR
[I love watching this without commercials]
“My mom’s too squeamish to stay in the delivery room, but Mario and Alexis [dance friend] are staying with me.”
Um, what kind of hot mess is it when your mother--who has clearly birthed upwards of 5 children—won’t stay in the delivery room because it’s unsightly? Clearly, everyone lacks the mothering skills in this house.

11:29
Birth is relatively quick and drama-free! (I mean, 6 hours of pain, but at least no one went into shock or V-fib)
Mario goes outside and hugs all of his homeys—he’s even got some tears! So tender!

Mom comes in the room, trying to get all parental when she couldn’t even let her daughter squeeze her hand during delivery. Dixie fail!

11:31

First night home—having the “whose house are we staying in?” fight. She’s tired and probably still vag-sore, and wants her bed. Mario’s also tired and wants his bed. He left to go home.
ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING ME????

And this is why teen moms can’t have nice things.

11:33
Cleondra’s voice over: “Mario’s never here, but my Mom and Rob [her boyfriend] are helping me out, and Zerica is home to take care of Zyra.”

(Oh god, watching the sister “comb” her biracial child’s hair is a bit painful, but damn if those pigtails don’t look cute once she’s finished.)

Mario and his mom (who is wearing a sheer lace top at her kitchen table with her son) talk about why he won’t stay over there. “I don’t want Kylee Sue around Zerica and Jerome at all. I don’t even want them around the child… if she won’t move in, this isn’t going to work.”

Don’t you think that the whole “I think your family’s sketchy and fucked up” conversation should have happened way before they were knockin’ boots?

11:35- 2 Weeks Old

“Taking care of Kylie consumes every minute of the day, and Mario’s at work all day. I can’t miss any of my midterms if I want to graduate.” So she leaves the baby with her sister (who has two piercings above and below her lips) while she takes a test.

Mario comes over and finds out that she left the baby with Zerica and Jerome—he’s not pleased. Luckily, his southern drawl and mumbling prevents him from sounding enraged.
“I’d rather you at least call me," he says. "I’d figure something out.”
“So, you don’t trust my family?”
Nope. No he doesn't.

11:38 – 3 Weeks Old
Cleondra calls Mario, asking him to come over and help her with Kylee. We see him sitting on a couch (in front of a cheesy flea market tapestry) surrounded by boxes and bouncing a tennis ball on the floor.

He responds: “I just don’t feel like doing anything right now. I’m not trying to hang out.”

HE LIVES ACROSS THE FUCKING STREET!!! Jewboo and I—childless, employed, adults who are quite into sleeping in our own beds--are separated by three trains and we make it work! Get it together!

11:40
She goes over to Mario’s house for the night so he can see what this 24/7 parenting is.

The clock reads 4:01 am—Kylee Sue starts crying. Cleondra, now holding Kylee Sue, tries to rouse Mario.
He won’t budge.

January. 1 Month Old –Cleondra goes back to school!
Because Mario doesn’t want the baby with her bro and sis, they had to make a babysitting schedule. The plan:

• Rob (mom’s boyfriend) will watch her on Mondays
• Mario will do Tuesday
• Mario’s mom on Wednesday
• Dixie (Cleondra’s mom) on Thursday
• Mario’s sister on Friday

I do not think any of these people read books for pleasure, and I’m pretty sure Rob has some kids of his own that aren’t getting attention.

11:42
Cleondra is angry that Mario won’t hang out with her and the baby more.

They’re in some sort of Applebee’s type of establishment, surrounded by several plates of food (thanks, MTV!), and they have a fight about who holds the baby so that the other can eat.

Watching this child get passed across a table full of trans fats is really upsetting.

Mario explains his absence: “I’d rather take her at my house. You say you need to sleep, so leave her with me at night and you can rest…You can’t let her come right across the fucking street? At her dad’s house? That’s bullshit. I will never fucking ask you to spend the night in my house. Spend the night when you move in. “

Dinner ends with them sitting across from each other, heads in hands, as the soundtrack of a frustrated and soulful acoustic guitar plays.

11:45
Cleondra comes back home and talks to Dixie.
Awesome voice over: “I knew having a baby would change things, but I always thought Mario would support me. But now that doesn’t seem like a sure thing.”

Dixie—the only proactive one, clearly—invites Mario and his mom over to her house to air it out.

Maria, Mario, and Cleondra sit on the couch, slumped down like three guilty hooligans in the principal’s office.
Maria comes to Cleondra’s defense when Mario complains about her not leaving the baby with him so she can sleep: “No, as a mother, You expect all your little chickens to be in the nest at night.”
Um, as a human, your children probably shouldn’t be chickens. But I get her point.

Dixie—clearly a strong black woman in a white candy-coating—breaks it down: “If you can’t compromise now, you can’t compromise living in the same house.”

So, as two children, it takes their moms to help them reach a resolution. Mario will come over 2 times week, and they will work on compromising. Half-hearted hugs all around!

11:49 - Final Thoughts

Ugh, I wish Cleondra would enunciate—if you’re too bored to speak, how can you expect me to pay attention?
“Being a parent is hard. The child has to come first, but I’m doing it…. Mario’s my first relationship, I love him.”


Whew, that felt really good, guys. I’m finally ready to go bed.
xoxo,
Blacktress!

Signs Your Life Is A Mess

I normally don't do pithy, tumblr-esque posts, but I just received the following text message from my exterminator:

Besides i know if i was hungry and thirsty u would feed me i consider u guys my xtended family

The problems with this are manifold:

1. My exterminator has my personal cell phone number
2. I have HIS personal cell phone number
3. I have enough insect issues that I NEED his personal number
4. He has come so often that he feels as though WE ARE FAMILY.
5. He thinks he can count on me to provide basic sustenance in a time of need. I don't have the heart to tell him he's misinformed.

#fml
#nycbedbugepidemic
#inappropriate relationships

(A Vain Attempt at) Radio Silence

Hello Gentle Readers,

You may have noticed a lack of bloggery over the last week. This wasn't a hiatus as much as a crisis of faith (in blogging, that is). I'll admit that I've definitely brought new meaning to the acronym TMI with my posts, but with tags like "funny," "not funny," and "awkward," I assumed my goal of entertaining would get me off the hook (while at the same time allowing me to exorcise my demons). Alas, no. To top it off, I recently discovered that a Google search of my full name (my real one, obvs) will lead you to not only some wonderful (i.e. NSFW) youtube clips of me discussing Ps in Vs without Cs but also my blog! I, Sojourner, can’t handle my own truth!

This has led to me feel intensely self-conscious, and almost wondering if I should continue with the bloggery. Of course, this is the Internet and my posts aren’t under wraps, but they are also something for which someone actively has to search. If that’s the case, should I not write what I feel, or should people I have IRL relationships with not use my blog as a means of gaining access? Or maybe I should do me and they should do them, and just let the computer chips fall where they may? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Bottom line is: It’s called “Diary of a Mad Blacktress,” not “Diary of a Diplomatic Blacktress”--there should be little surprise if it gets darker than it would in person. I’m not saying people shouldn’t get angry when I express my truths, or that I'm a victim—we all know my feelings on HBCUs has inspired to all sorts of venomous comments—but if you choose to view this page, you must be prepared for my truth, my whole truth, and nothing but my truth! After all, my thoughts don’t make it law, and since when has a diary been filled with rainbows and kittens?
I mean, besides Justin Bieber’s.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I do want to let you guys know that things have been a hot mess--and I swear, no humans will be emotionally harmed in the creation of this post.

On Friday I had a 7 ½-hour job interview with seven different interviewers, during which I was asked all types of math and logic problems. Considering I was applying for a position that would mostly entail some copyediting and light Excel-spreadsheet-creating, I was definitely ill equipped for such stumpers as “How can we go about determining the number of teachers in North America?” for which I had to divide 300,000,000 by 175,000 BY HAND.

I haven’t done long division by hand since before 9/11, y'all. The climate’s changed, and I can’t cope!

I left the interview feeling stupider than I’ve felt in a long time. Not like I’m a girl genius, but I’ve never been in a job interview where I’ve felt the failure taking place. I watched interviewers 6 and 7 try to keep straight faces as I botched very basic things (like, you know, saying that the population of North America was 65 million). I won’t go into anymore, since Big Brother’s likely watching, but let’s just say Friday night involved a lot of cupcakes.

Yesterday featured a 2 ½-hour doctor’s appointment in which it was determined that I am developing glaucoma. After waiting for ridiculous amounts of time and pressing my face against what I’m sure were less-than-sanitary chin rests, the doctor deemed me a “glaucoma suspect”. Um, why did she have to make it sound sketchy? Was she profiling me? Did I commit an ocular crime against myself?
I’m sorry if I sound like “conspiracy brother,” but ever since I saw the new Uncle Ben’s rice commercial, I’ve been on the alert for other attempts at eradicating the brown.


The goodness of brown, now in WHITE???? Why can’t the rice just be brown?! How many folks are looking at their plates going, “this rice tastes good, but it’s brown coloring just makes me sick.” I can’t handle this RICism!

After all the test, my vision returned to normal this morning—just in time for me to check my e-mail and read that I was rejected from the Women in Comedy Festival. Apparently, a show titled “The Blacktress Goes Inside Caucasia” isn’t appealing to the comedic women of Boston (I may have to call up Henry Louis Gates Jr. and see if he can get me and the ladies on a porch with some beers). I know rejection’s a part of the biz, but I’m just a squirrel trying to get a nut, y’all! And by “nut” I mean “seven minutes of stage time.” Is that so wrong?

Okay, I don’t want to leave you as depressed as I am, so here’s some potentially good news: I have a meeting with an agent on Thursday!

Unfortunately, it’s not one of the ones who came to my commercial class last week. I say it’s unfortunate because one of them was a hilarious nerdy gay man who referenced both Battlestar Galactica and Truth in Comedy, the improviser’s bible. If there’s anyone who should be representing a blacktress, it’s him.

I was put in touch with the woman I’m meeting on Thursday through one of the teachers of the class. After sending a thank-you e-mail to her, I followed up with:

Do you know if there are agents that specialize in/look primarily for comedians? I feel as though there's a lack of funny Af-Am females who aren't acting ghetto and aren't over 40, and there has to be an agent that wants to fill the void. In other words: I need to be playing Michelle Obama on SNL. Let me know your thoughts if you get a chance.

Best,
Blacktress

I was mostly being silly, but since she had complimented me several times on my sense of humor, I figured I could get her attention with some outlandish statements. She didn’t reply for a little while, so I started to get nervous (you know, just like I do after I tell a guy I have a crush on him). Just before I flipped out, I got an e-mail back from her titled “meet and greet,” addressed to be and some aol address. It only read:

C_____- meet Sojourner. She thinks she should play Michelle Obama on a miniseries.

Two minutes later I had an interview scheduled for 1pm!!!

Oh, and while I’m on an upswing, let me bring your attention to this wonderful video posted by the elite gay visionary Michael Martin. Re-post and spread widely!




*With a title espousing TRUTH, it's no wonder I love this book.

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.

Found MYSELF on Youtube!!

Thought I'd share one of my old sets with you, gang.....

This acts as a great reminder, whenever I get stressed out about Jewboo, that things could be worse. They could be WAY worse....



Part 2!

16 and Pregnant, Special 90-Min Episode!!

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HAPPY(?) St. Patrick's Day

So, the St. Paddy’s Day Parade is taking place right outside my building. As I headed out for my lunch break, I was visually assaulted by waves of green, and men in kilts.

I was petrified.

Now, we all know I love a man in woman’s garb (hello, Drag Race). Rather, I was terrified by the hoards of Caucasians, smelling of booze and feeling really excited about being white. This, my friends, is when Caucasia is at its most fearful. As I weaved my way through the crowd, desperate to reach the subway station, my heart started to palpitate. There was no room to move. My purse—and my loins—were in grave danger of being snatched! I started to have a flashback to plantation days, when Massa would have me work during his big parties. Although I wasn’t allowed to look anyone in the eye, and my only job was to serve, after some mead and ale, those white men would ask me if I wanted to be serviced!! It’s dangerous for a young blacktress when Caucasia’s feeling frisky!!!

After a brief jaunt outside the office, I came back up and could not get down the street. As I took a circuitous route, I saw two girls who looked like they were Jersey Shore castoffs drinking “soda” out of a big gulp. One was screaming to the other:
“Rachel, where’s AAAAMy? Where’s AAAmy??”
Clearly, Amy’s somewhere turning 16 and pregnant. After all, we all learned from Britney Spears what happens If You Seek Amy!!!

As I made it to my office, my excitement for being black swelled. As I watched young girls become mothers, and grown men pee on the street to avoid the port-a-potty line, it felt nice to be young, gifted, and black.

My coworker, who just came back from being outside said:

“I just saw a drunk woman being carried by two friends, yelling to everyone she passed, ‘YOU’RE Retarded!’ And there were girls who were wearing t-shirts that, if I actually did what there shirts told me to do, I’d get arrested.”

I reminded him that the day would soon be over, and those girls would be back in geometry class tomorrow, tempting him no more.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day Everyone!!!

16 and Pregnant Season 2!!!!

9:58pm--oh my god, i'm so excited. i'm blogging to you live from my living room, where i'm sitting in a chair with an electric blanket around my shoulders and my laptop on my...lap. my mom just called to me, asking me to get her medication that keeps her alive. "MOM, 16 and preggers is about to come on!!!" I yelled, much like the whiny 16 year old myself.

She promised not to die until the first commercial.



10:00: Jenelle, from Oak Island, North Carolina.
Is it pathetic that her relationship has lasted longer than any one I've ever been in?
Her mom, Barbara, has a crazy thick Bawston accent and looks like the grim reaper from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure."
-her boyfriend, andrew, is a former model....who now lives with his parents and is unemployed.
10:01 - we open at 34 weeks prego. i love how MTV gets us right to the good stuff! we're in the middle of it all.

"I found out, the day you were in the bathtub, taking a bath, and i came in and saw you and knew you were pregnant" --Barbara, on the big reveal.
I won't ask why you were in the bathroom at the time, Barb.

10:02: Jenelle and her friends look like they're 13.
- "If you're responsible enough to have sex, you're responsible enough to have a baby" - Jenelle's friend, Lauren.
Um, I'm not sure how that works, but I appreciate your cold snap anyway, Lauren.

- "It's gonna be like dressing up a doll every day" - Jenelle, to her friend, Raven.
Um, a baby is not a doll. This is what happens when you're pregnant and aren't very bright.

- Jenelle's already planning to go to college online. May I suggest University of Phoenix?

"I'll go to parties and stuff, but I won't drink" - she says this like she's somehow above average. You're not supposed to drink when you're pregnant, fool!

10:05- Jenelle's mom's boyfriend Mike looks like he's homeless. And his two cents: "All you've got is a goose egg. [grabs napkin on kitchen table] This paper towel got more than you got."
Um, thanks, Mike. Thanks for the boost.

"He can support me mentally, mom"-- Jenelle, re: her unemployed boyfriend Andrew.
I'm going to have to put that as a requirement on my OkCupid profile. "Must be able to support me mentally."

10:09 - Andrew visits Jenelle's house! He's very scrawny for a model. Was he modeling for Bob's stores? I'm wondering if I can find a catalog.
He attempted to make hot dogs in the stove, and he burned them. This is daddy material for sure.

10:11- On how she got prego: "Andrew and I got in an argument and stopped talking for a couple of days, and when we stopped talking, I stopped using birth control, and then we got back together and we had sex and didn't use a condom....i mean, me and Andrew had had sex before I got on birth control and I never got pregnant, so I thought, why would it change now?"

10:12 - Andrew looks like he's on meth.

10:14- Why is Andrew cursing at Jenelle's mother like he has no home training?! And his dad is just standing off to the side, looking like a Jerry Springer audience member.

10:17pm [it seems like the commercials are shorter- it's like MTV knows what I need!] - 37 Weeks Pregnant.
"I thought Andrew would have a job, support me and the baby, and we'd have a car."
Did you? Did you, really, Jenelle? He wasn't working when you got knocked up--this is not a surprise!

"Is the daddy being supportive?" - why would the sonogram technician ask that question? What kind of reality tv is this?!

10:19 - Baby Shower!! Andrew didn't even call her!
"I'm glad I'm giving birth over summer vacation, cause I'm psyched to get back to school."
Um, Jenelle, you can't give birth over Labor Day weekend and make it to the first day of classes, boo bear!

10:21 - Jenelle wants to go out with her friends and won't help her mom clean up.
"I want my mom to understand that just cause I'm pregnant doesn't mean I'm gonna stop going out."
Um, I'm getting flashbacks to Farrah. Jenelle totally has this deluded idea of what being a mother is--she better watch out before she gets choked!

10:22- And now Andrew is breaking up with her over the phone! Telling her she's deluded and looks stupid! How do these dysfunctional teen relationships even last long enough for an egg to be fertilized????

10:25 - FRIENDtervention!
All the girls think she shouldn't be with Andrew.
"Do you really want your baby to around someone who's going to talk to you like a dog? How is he going to support you with no job, no car?" - Lauren. I think she may have college in her future.

10:26- Jenelle is texting while in labor! She's trying to reach Andrew--and he came!
Thank god he wore his diamond earrings - it's a big moment!

10:27 - Over 12 hours of labor!!! Thank god they used drawings to show the time lapse--I can't handle the blood and guts. It's like trying to get a watermelon through a keyhole.

Awww, the baby is so cute.
10:28 - Andrew is trying to cherish every moment--
Jace is his name - ugh, so country.
10:29 - The gals come by the hang out in the hospital.

10:30 - 2 Days Old.
Nurse Cate comes in and teaches her how to breastfeed, change a diaper, and burp the baby.
Do they do this for all new mothers? This seems highly unorthodox - do I have to get on MTV to get a little help after a birth?
"Did you bring my lip ring?"- Jenelle to her mom. God bless her priorities.

10:31 -"We been through a lot." - Andrew to Jenelle.
God bless men's ability to articulate emotions.

"You better not fuck it up, because once you do, I will be gone." - I hear that, Jenelle!! She's taking a cue from the RuPaul school of child-rearing - Don't fuck it up!

10:34 - Three days old. Andrew has to go back home!
Daddy's already leaving Jace--he's not coming back for two weeks!!!
Homie doesn't have a job, why won't Barbara let him stay with them?

10:35- One week old
"My first week home with Jace is alot harder than I thought it would be. I have no time to myself, and Andrew hasn't called once."
What?! Does Andrew think having a baby is like the army--one weekend a month, two weeks a year?! Ok, dude's officially on my shit list.

10:36 - Week three, she finally hears from Andrew. He said he went to jail for a DUI charge!!!
DUI?! WTF?!?!?! Oh hell to the no! You've got to know more about who you're sleeping with.
And he called her DRUNK when he got out of jail. Drunk dial on your day out of jail?!

10:38 - I love that she calls him up with all her friends around and puts him on speaker. This is so high school.

"My feelings for you have actually dropped." - Andrew, on their relationship
"Ever since you been going to jail, and ever since you never stopped drinking, my feelings have dropped, too." - Ooooh, Jenelle, with the grammatically incorrect BURN.

10:40 - Jenelle goes out with her friends--and has dark brown hair! Homegirl needs to quit.
- "Jace doesn't need me. He's got my mom" - YOU'RE his mom, Jenelle!!
- "What's cool about daycare is that I get to hang out with my friends after school, before my mom comes home with Jace."

See, this is why Tyler and Catelynn knew to give their baby up for adoption- their cracked out parents wouldn't have been able to raise a baby. This Jenelle girl, like so many others, thinks that all she has to do is pop it out and her mom will do all the work!

10:42 - I love how Jenelle keeps threatening to leave all the time.
She's taking her baby to the party!!!
HOT. ASS. MESS.
"I already had to give up my boyfriend. My mom's crazy if she thinks I'm going to give up my friends, too."
Um, Jenelle, you didn't "give up" your boyfriend - you both decided your "feelings dropped" after he was arrested for a DUI and drunk dialed you about it. Don't get it twisted, girl!!!

10:46 - Jenelle has been going out with her friends alot, and her mom is watching Jace all the time.
"If you don't shut up, I'm going to walk away." Jenelle is always threatening - her mom needs to call her damn bluff and gets rid of her.
"I don't want to talk to you, get the fuck out of my face." - Jenelle said that to her mom and now has her mother crying!!!
Why wasn't Jenelle clocked in the face? Maybe it's cause of the cameras.
This is so terrible, I feel so bad for her mom.

10:49 - Her girls come over that same night.
They actually call her out and are like, "You need to prove you can be a good mom."

10:53 - Jenelle decided to stay home.
"Over the next few days, it became clear how big this responsibility is. I never thought motherhood was going to be this hard."
Really, Jenelle? Did you not watch season 1?

10:54 - Jenelle to her friend Tori, breaking down motherhood:
"Imagine being in prison. That's what it's like--being in prison."
"People say I'm a bad mother because I'm partying...I make time for myself"

Um, you don't get time for yourself, Jenelle--that's why being a parent is no joke! You don't STOP TAKING YOUR PILL WHEN YOU AND YOUR BF GET INTO A FIGHT -- you just delete his number from your phone, like the rest of us.
"...I think that once I mature more, I'll grow up, and I won't want to party anymore"
Yes, once you mature, you will grow up--that's just biology, Jenelle.

10:56 - The final minutes!
"I want you to help me raise him while I get myself established."
- Jenelle makes her mom do the work.
Um, Barbara sounds drunk.
- Jenelle gave her mother sole custody, basically.
Jenelle's final thoughts:
Andrew's a douche
Being a mom is hard.
I wish I'd waited.

10:58 - Somber piano music over the credits.
I love that the producer's name is named Morgan J. Freeman. I really wish it was blacktor Morgan Freeman at the helm of this gem of a program.

On the next episode: Nikkole!
Ugh, judging by the spelling of her name, I know this episode is gonna be a hot mess.

Oh my god, guys, this one was intense. I'm hoping there will be a girl I actually like on the coming season.

Why I Am Getting Rid of All Online Dating Profiles

Unsolicited IM from Random Dude: Today is a perfect day to make love.
Me: Are you insane?
Random Dude: Why?
I just want to make love.

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.

2009: The Year of the Hot Ass Mess?

I don't know if this is going to be my year, gang. I currently write this post in bed with my right foot elevated and in serious pain. I am also fighting the urge to obsessively check the facebook status of a certain Swedish zoo-friend because, you know, that would be stalkerish.

This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.

Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.

We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.

Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.

At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.

So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.

Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.

He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."

Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!

Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.

We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.

With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.

Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....

There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.

So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?

The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.

After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.

I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.

At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.

So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.

Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)

So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.

Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.

Textual Seduction

So, the kiwi invited me over to his place for dinner tonight. It’ll be him and “a few friends.” I’m slightly nervous and slightly not really looking forward to it. I’m feeling sorta lukewarm towards this foreign man—and it’s not even a protectionist measure because I’m leaving soon. He’s really nice, friendly, straightforward, and relaxed, but I worry he may be a bit dim. Am I a bad person?
Yes, yes I am.

He kinda reminds me of a puppy--a scrappy, hyperactive golden retriever. You know how it is:
The cute puppy you just got from the pound is a bundle of joy, bounding all over the house. One day, after playing in the muddy woods, he’s so excited to see his new master that he jumps all over you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your favorite jeans.
“Bad, bad, puppy!” you say to him sternly.
He just pants and wags his (large) tail.
You can’t help but grin at his puppy excitement, but you’re still kinda pissed that he got carried away—not to mention that time he crapped on the carpet.

Do you get the analogy?

Anyway, I can’t really complain about the kiwi. The last thing I need is stress, and that’s the last thing he can bring to the table. Besides, I like being involved—it keeps me off the single streets and out of trouble. For real, y’all. For an example of what kind of shenanigans I get into when I’m on the market, check out the following text messages I’ve received from a certain “suitor.”

He is a 29-year-old PhD student at a prestigious New York university—New York University, to be exact. I point this out because these credentials imply that he’s a grown-ass man with more than ½ a brain.
Alas, I may be wrong.

After one date three weeks ago where we had a couple of drinks and he kept asking me to come over to his house (to which I said, “homeslice, slow down! Does my vag have an expiration date?!”), he has been blowing up my phone with pathetic attempts at textual seduction (I heart Snoop Dogg*). For example:

Received 07/19/2008, 7:05 pm: so are you comin over to be crapped on or what?
(my complete response: “No.”)

Received 7/19/2008, 7:15 pm: what about for some sex?

Seriously, these are real text messages I have received from an educated adult male pursuing an advanced degree.

Just when I thought the madness was over, I got this one over the weekend:

Received 08/02/2008, 6:04 pm: is there a reason i haven’t fingered u yet?

I KID YOU NOT.

Um, what should I have said-- "because you are an insane man lacking in propriety and respect, and possibly a sexual predator" ?

I didn’t even respond. I don’t even know how to. I feel like he is beyond reason, completely vulgar, and possibly autistic (at the very least, he’s got Aspberger’s).

But, I have found a silver lining:
Normally, in such circumstances, the blacktress would lament her fate, wondering “Why God, Why?!” would such a terrible person seek her out. She’d blame herself for somehow “making” this PhD student this way.

Not anymore.

As I fortify myself for my international journey, I realize that, at 29 years old, this dude’s got about 28 years, 8 months, and 14 days worth of issues that were there before I cropped up on the scene. There is no way that my dazzling conversation, rapier wit, and pretty green dress got him so beside himself that the only way he could express his interest was through crazy texts.

He is, in summation a HOT ASS MESS.

And that is certainly one thing the sweet, hyperactive kiwi is NOT. He may not believe in spelling words completely or properly via text, but everything he has to say is in good clean fun. He invites me to meals that he will prepare in the presence of other people, proving that he has both social and culinary skills. He is also keeping me off the single streets of this cray cray city, where apparently PhDs are still Playa-hating Degrees!


* if you have not seen the music video or heard the song on which my clever title is based, please click here.
If a man came at me with Snoop's level of mojo, I'd probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet by now.

To Catch a Predator

I think I may have to leave the hemisphere simply because I’ve gone out with too many guys in New York. For serious.

Last night, I joined White strong black woman Katie Walsh at a networking event for those in the publishing industry. I normally shrink in fear at the idea of swirling my wine glass and explaining my worth to strangers, but if I want to take the blacktress global, I’ve gotta be BLACKtive and show the world what they’re missing. Armed with my biznass cards (holla at a vistaprint.com!), I made my way down to Nolita hotspot Sweet & Vicious.

Once inside, I was greeted with a scent that can only be described as a combination of wheat beer, overpriced margaritas, sweat, and the desire for validation from others. By the time I made my way through the multitude and found my crew, I was sweating like a ho in church—how could I network when I was a hot sweaty mess?
I walked to the back of the bar, in hopes of making it to the outdoor garden for a spot of cool air. Before I could get outside, I was stopped in my tracks by a sight so heinous, my feet when numb.
Mike the Predator.

Mike and I went on a date in the early summer of 2006, shortly after I was emancipated from the shackles of the Deaf. He was probably my fourth “real” date outside of college, and when he ducked out of the bar at 2 am and returned with a bouquet of flowers from a bodega (I kid you not), I thought I’d found a future baby daddy. From Saturday morning until our date on Tuesday, he was all up in my George Foreman (grill) sending texts, leaving messages, and asking me if I “was as excited for the date as he was!”

I was young. I was naïve. I had been weakened by the Deaf. And for some crazy reason, I thought he was seriously just that sprung over the blacktress.
I was wrong.
When we finally went out on our date
He showed up for our date 15 minutes late (-10)
He said he’d have something planned, and then just took me to a nearby bar so he could grab a burger (-5)
He asked me to come over his house and said he’d get a car service to drop me off at home. (ew. -5)
Being the fool I was, I still proceeded to make out with him in a private area of the bar, and after a few minutes, he UNZIPPED HIS PANTS AND PULLED OUT HIS FLACID MEMBER.
I.
KID.
YOU.
NOT.

AAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Needless to say, that was our last date.

I remember going home in tears, wondering why in god’s name I was releasing some sort of asshole-attracting pheromone (little did I know this was only the beginning of my dating joys in NYC). Soon after I ended up with the polar opposite of Pervy Mike—the Israeli, vegan, investment banker who did a semester at a black college, and would NEVER pull out his member out of turn.

When I saw Mike networking at Sweet & Vicious, with his slicked back hair and tan suit, he looked like a pimp who worked the docks of Miami, just waiting for an unsuspecting ‘fugee to be taken into his grasp. Or, as Katie put it, “he totally looks like he’d be a sexual predator!”
How right she was.

Being so cramped it was impossible to network or look attractive, I left the bar shortly after arriving. Even Saturday morning, the idea that Mike was still alive, single, and able to stalk new victims still baffled me.
That is, until I met MIKE NUMBER 2!!!!

I was invited to a friend’s engagement party in midtown, where I partook of an open bar and yummy apps. Out of nowhere, I was approached by a clean-looking gentleman with spectacles and well-maintained facial hair. He introduced himself as Mike, and we proceeded to talk for most of the evening.
He was 33, lived in Greenwich, CT, and worked at a hedge fund.
Within an hour, he was asking me if I’d like to come to Connecticut with him.
WTF?!
Honestly, men have lost their minds. His readiness to bed me can only be defined as gall. No—hubris. Yes, hubris and over-weening pride!!!

After taking my number and accepting that I wouldn’t go home with him, I left and headed to another party with a new homegirl who is quickly rising in the ranks, where the theme was ‘bananas’—and it was indeed b-a-n-a-n-a-s, like Gwen Stefani says. There, I danced to Justin Timberlake with a man who can only be described as a walking orgasm.
Seriously, he was hotter than anything I’d ever seen. Even hotter than the crazy Greek.

After three JT jams in a row, we sealed our attraction with a smooch, and I walked off chat with my friend—CAUSE WE DON'T LOVE THEM HOS.
Somehow, me and the “walking O” started to talking again (after my gal pal pointed out that he was “eye-fucking the shit out of me”), and the fact that he HAS A GIRLFRIEND slipped out.

“Oh god, I feel like such a terrible person,” I said. Because, seriously, nothing’s more awkward than feeling like you’ve forced your lips onto someone who didn’t want them.
But I was wrong.
“No, you shouldn’t. I wanted to do it, too.”
OH SNAP!!!
Turned out hottie’s gf not only lived in Brooklyn, she was asleep, at home SICK, as he was flirting with me!!

Now, this is a hot ass mess. A woman can’t even sleep in peace when she’s got a boyfriend—dude will use any sort of excuse to misbehave.
“Oh, well, babe, you were in the middle of your REM sleep, and so I figured it was fair game….”
HUBRIS, OVER-WEENING PRIDE!!!

If I wasn’t certain men were dirty dogs, I then get a call from the bride-to-be from the engagement party and the following rings in my ears at 11am.
“Naomi, I am so glad you didn’t go home with Mike—he has herpes!!”
I KID YOU NOT, Y’ALL!!!

That fool was going to try to get me to cross state lines with him to Connecticut so he could give me herpes—the gift that keeps on giving!!!

Look, I know STD talk isn’t sexy, and is often quite difficult, but you better disclose that info ASAP—I’m not trying to be one of those couples in a kayak (“he has it. I don’t.”)!!!!

So, over the weekend, from Thursday to Sunday, I learned the following:
1. A man who pulled his P out in a bar WILL live to the tell the tale—even if you’d hoped he was dead in a ditch.
2. People in Greenwich have herpes—STDs aren’t just for the lower class!
3. A man who is hotter than Ethan Hawke making out with Angelina Jolie while James McAvoy watches DOES have a girlfriend, and WILL still make out with you.
4. "To Catch a Predator" needs to extend its search to working young men in NYC.
5. HUBRIS IS EVERYWHERE!!!!