The Last Unicorn

It's Wednesday, and I leave the fair island of St. Croix tomorrow. It's been quite an adventure.
I anticipated quiet nights, but instead got Coors Lights.
I thought my disinterest in the male gender would emanate from me like a stinky pheromone, but instead I got hit on by a frat boy who resembled Duane 'The Rock' Johnson.

Old habits die hard.

However, I did discover a long-lost species of man that I thought had died. This is unsurprising, as many geologists, anthropologists, and mixologists discover species previously thought to be extinct when journeying to isolated islands. This man is no exception.

During my visit, the younger sister of KWalsh reconnected with an old flame from years ago, and came to us bitter old broads for advice.
"I don't really know what I want to do," she sighed, mildly confused.
"Well, what's his deal?" I asked, hoping the back story would enable me to give excellent advice.
"He was the drummer from last night," she reminded me. "He also teaches swimming to little kids. We have a great friendship, he's very honest and open, so I think it'll be drama-free, either way."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone, lady. You're telling me you've got a man who is creative, works with children, and expresses his emotions in an open manner, and you don't know what you want to do??

"Lock that shit down, girl!!!" I exclaimed.
This young, wide-eyed maiden did not know that what she had on her hands: the male equivalent of a unicorn. She was actually this close to holding on to something we'd all heard about, but thought wasn't actually real.
Until now.



"That bitch is a fucking unicorn," I explained to my young friend, who was still uncertain.
I mean I'd be proposing to the man within 3 weeks! (In fact, I've learned from certain redheads that failure to lock it down any sooner will result in him dating someone else and acting like you're a useless step-child of a woman.)

I can't remember the last time someone who possessed all those qualities made himself known to me in a sexy way, and actually stayed awesome after there was some P-in-V action. I'm about to make a documentary about this random and sell it to NatGeo (love that they abbreviate it--they're hip with the young people). Can you imagine the product tie-ins?
Unicorn Condoms (for his horn)
Uni-candy-Corns (Halloween fun!)
The possibilities are endless.

Speaking of unicorns and awesomeness, how effin' amped are you for Huge Jacked Man's new movie?! I am going to be in there like swimwear at 10:45am on Friday morning!! My need to see the movie opening day coupled with my dislike of large crowds, children, and talking during movies, requires I see it bright and early on the matinee tip.
I am totally gonna get prego at the end of it, I just know it.

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.

Career Moves

The premiere of Australia is taking place mere metres away in downtown Sydney. This means that Hugh Jackman--or, as I like to call him-- HUGE JACKED MAN-- is as close to me as he will ever be.
I must find a way to get inside him. I mean, inside the PREMIERE--yes, that's what I meant.

Anyway, I digress.

As you know, I've been down under over a month, which means being funemployed is no longer as fun as it was upon arrival. The boredom, coupled with my dwindling funds means I'm going to have to find work, stat.
The thing is, though, I don't really like working. Or waking up early, or not getting alot of money. So I'm starting to think outside of the box when it comes to means of employment. I chatted about it with my Elite Gay Visionary, and I think I may have found the job for me.

me: oh, and i may be going in to interview with a GENTLEMAN'S CLUB!
EGV: really??? i thought you nixed that idea?
me: i don't know should i just go in for the meeting?
EGV: you are naomi campbell
me: she may tell me i'm fat and kick me out immediately
EGV: you obviously have to go
me: think she'll make me strip? and then make me put ice cubes on my nipples?
EGV: maybe she'll give you ice cubes and ask you to impress her
at which point you take out a nail file and turn it into a miniature dolphin
me: HAHAHAHHA
you're just too amazing, elite gay visionary.
or maybe she'll give me a flute, tell me to spread my legs and play the australian national anthem
EGV: hahahaha
me: there are so many possibilities
EGV: i love how we've combined circus act and gentlemen's club.
we've obviously never been in one.
you should tell her you have great director skills and will stand on stage and tell girls what to do
me: i would love that
be in the wings just yelling at them "step, ball change!! now lick it....LICK IT.....LICK IT!"
EGV: haha step ball change
dance magic dance!

can you TOP THAT?!

I bet some of you are wondering about the status of the Photographer/The Giver. Despite my word vomit and awkwardness, it seems this fellow is still feeling the blacktress. I have been reluctant to go into detail because he may still be reading the blog, and I don’t want him knowing all of Sojourner’s truths just yet. However, I feel the need to share this relationship’s progress as it works toward becoming a REALationship (you know the difference—holla!)

So, last Friday was a low key night, where we attended an art opening that I’d be invited to through work. I thought that the event’s open bar and hip downtown artists would show him how important and with-it I am. Plus, being a photographer, I thought he’d be all into the art scene.

For moral support, I asked my homegirl Karisa to show up an hour earlier.

“SoTru, why would you show up an hour early for a date?” You may be wondering. I know this seems strange. However, I find an early arrival decreases later awkwardness. By scoping out the area before my date, I am able to check my face to see if there were any issues while in transit, make note of all the nearest exits (in case he turns out to be cray), and know where things are to make it seem like I come to said establishment regularly. When my date arrives and I am already waiting, I have what I like to call “the upper hand,” as he wonders if he’s late and tries to placate me with compliments.

Anyway, after checking out some art and having some free dranks, we headed back to the BK to kick it old school. We had a college-style date—you know, sitting in a room and watching a movie. While many of my lady friends wondered why I wouldn’t demand lobster tails and a Broadway show, I stand by my choice of a low key date. First of all, such interactions are the main reason I look for a winter spoon; it’s too damn cold to be hittin’ the streets! Point number two: Do not wine me and dine me just to end up lyin’ to me! I don’t need all the bells and whistles and distraction—let me see what YOU are about, you know? How many times have I giggled and cooed in a tipsy state as a man said things that were clearly red flags? For instance, when I'm at the club and he goes:

I’ve always wanted to kiss a black girl. (WARNING: You have a fetishizer on your hands!)
OR
Oh my god, you’re, like, actually funny. That’s so rare. (Reverse compliments mean you are with a level-one emotional abuser. Back away).

With simply a bottle of Cabernet and X-Men 2 on the boob tube, I could really get to the root of this photog—go “behind the lens” if you will (will you?).

After getting all hot and bothered by the sight of sweaty, bulging Hugh Jackman—aka HUGE JACKED MAN!—I had to assess my desires…and the Giver’s. Was he a slut? A ho? A freak? Did he have a different girl every day of the week?
I told him it was cool, I’m not trying to put a rush on you—but I gotta let you know that I got a crush on you.

After wondering why I was quoting Lil’ Kim, he responded in kind, and I think we reached an understanding. Being deep in the BK after midnight, the logical choice was to spend the night…right? After physically expressing our emotions, we had a little pillow talk. We started talking about movies, and somehow the film Teen Witch came up.

Again, this would be a prime example of my awkwardness and word vomit. I don’t know if any of you have seen it, but Teen Witch is a 1989 classic about a girl who discovers she is a witch on her 16th birthday. Mousy Louise then uses her new powers to make herself hot, popular, and win the man of her dreams, only to realize, she doesn’t need magic after all.

Oh, did I mention it’s sort of a musical with songs such as “I like Boys,” and “I Wanna Be the Most Popular Girl”?

Yes, it IS the greatest film of our time.

But I wouldn’t necessarily recommend sharing this information with a man in his bed….unless he’s REALLY AWESOME (like the Photographer)—or gay (like my besties). One mention of the film, and the photog begins the first few lines of the film’s best track: “Top That.” It’s a great rap in which Louise’s equally mousy friend Polly is magically given the gift of street cred and approaches her far-off crush (Rhett Cappalletti) in fierce urban poetry.

Wait, I don’t think my description is doing the scene justice. See for yourself.

AAAHHH!!!! HOW GOOD IS THIS?!?!?!?!?! CAN YOU TOP THAT?????????
I find myself to be as awkward as Polly, and I guess you could call the Photographer my Rhett Cappelletti--only without the tight stonewashed jeans. But they both have the same street flava.

As you can imagine, the Photog’s knowledge of this great film and its music sparked much delight in the heart of the blacktress. As I fought the urge to propose marriage on the spot, he told me it was “quiet time” as I squealed with excitement at 3 am. Of course, his pop culture knowledge coupled with his no-nonsense manliness only fanned the love fires.

In honor of the role of musical films in our lives, he and I are going to see Sweeney Todd tonight.

And then I’m going to come home and Photoshop our heads together to see what our offspring will look like.

JK (Rowling)!!!!

Or am I???????