Who’s Got Two Thumbs and a Case of the Mondays??

THIS GIRL!

I am hating on my job, y’all, for serious. I know that I’m lucky to be employed in a recession, but let me have my Monday rant, mmmkay?

When it comes to New Massa, the bloom has faded from the rose, as they say. Like Ian McKellen in “The Da Vinci Code,” he started off nice and enthusiastic, quick to teach me about Leonardo and offer me refuge. However, just as quickly, he turned on me, ready to shoot me in a church and poison me.
(if you haven’t seen “The Da Vinci Code,” then this makes no sense at all. Apologies).

New Massa is a high maintenance older gay—you know, the kind who don’t have patience for your shit because they came up in a time when they weren’t even allowed to love openly? He’s an “I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become an upper-echelon intellectual at a time when I’d be called gay just for buying oil paints.” So, you know, he doesn’t have time for your, “I’m sick, I have to go home” bullshit. Or your, “it’s 5:30pm, I am done here” exodus. He also has no concept that other people could have things to do, and whatever pops into his head has to be done right away. Oh, and he also likes to schmooze out on the town, promise artists feature articles and things, and then leave us lovely editors to do the writing.

Of course, writing is my job. I enjoy it. That’s what makes this bearable. But when he wants me to spend my time going to events “just to make contact,” that infringes on my personal time. When he wants me to spend all day in Long Island at a workshop when I don’t even have the staff camera to take photos, that means I’ve got to make up that day’s worth of office work—when, exactly? On a weekend? Oh, in the words of Whitney, HELL TO THE NO!

You must keep in mind people: my dream is humor writing and blackting. I am a blacktress. But momma didn’t raise no fool, and it’s about having bennies and some income coming in! So, I work. I pay my bills—and it takes some of the pressure and insanity off the creative process. But let’s not get it twisted—I’m not here for the love of the linen canvas. I’m not in it for the watercolors. This is my job—not my career.

A career is a responsibility that combines interests you have and skills you possess. In exchange for providing your skills and sharing your interest, you are given monetary compensation, opportunity for growth, and steadily increase in your skills and responsibilities.

A job is something you get to pay for your addictions! (you know, like shopping at Crumbs cupcakes) They do not pay me to care. I’m just here to pay for my HPV vaccine and therapy sessions, boo!

Quite frankly, I’m looking for a damn job that pays me more than I paid in college tuition! There is no reason I should leave one of the “top liberal arts universities in the country” with a shitload of debt and the inability to go to the movies without rearranging the finances. Blacktress is trying to break even—is that too much to ask?!

So, here it is, nearly noon on Monday, and I’ve already been at my desk 5 hours, and I’m trying to make sense of an article that is so annoyingly dry and pretentious—and I can only expect to do more of this, as this is the “new editorial voice” New Massa wants to go in. And tomorrow, I”ll be the only person to leave my desk before 5:30, because I have a 6 o’clock call time for a show I’m in. It’ll be blasphemous because, my god, shouldn’t I love art enough to want to stay here all day and into the night? As New Massa said when I went into his office to discuss this last week (I didn’t make it about him, but about “Artists sudden demands on my time”) he said two things that got me:
“Well, it comes down to putting in the hours,” and “It should, of course, be fun. It’s not meant to be painful.”
Well, sir, it is NOT fun—at least, not doing so regularly. And, unfortunately, I have other goals that prevent me from putting in the hours to a job that doesn’t pay overtime.

So, there you have it. Monday rants. How was your weekend, guys?

New Daddy Has Gone Cray Cray

Ok, so you guys know how much I love my new daddy, right?
Well, the bloom is starting to fade from the rose, as they say.
(does anyone actually say that besides my mom?)

He is sort of fabulous, but also enfuriating—sometimes I feel like I’m in a deleted scene from The Devil Wears Prada. Take, for instance, this morning’s conversation.

New Daddy: Okay, I’m thinking out loud here. We need to get a super issue of Watercolor mag out as soon as possible.

Me: How many additional pages of content would that require?

ND: I don’t know, 40?

Me: That’s roughly 4 extra articles, in addition to the 9-10 that appear in each issue. And you want that by when?

ND: For the next issue.

Me: That’s not possible.

ND: How long is that acrylic article? 250 words? what were you thinking?
[he has now moved on to another topic entirely, with no regard for what I said was not possible.]

Me: The article hasn’t been written or sent to me yet. You told you wanted a spread, so no more than 400 words—depends on how many images we get.

ND: Okay, okay [he pauses]. I’ve got the advertisers up my ass, I’ve inherited this clusterfuck, I don’t know.
[note: he says the above with complete nonchalance.]

[I don’t know what to say.]

ND: Okay, is there any way we can get this in to the next issue of the monthly?

Me: It ships on Thursday, and we don’t have any of the content. If the artist gets it to me on Monday, that still requires a scramble.

ND sighs and rubs his temple. I am fearful he’ll throw his hot coffee in my face.

ND: I need to please these advertisers. [pause] Okay, I’ll make a call to advertising, see what I can do. I’ll try to work some queer magic.


Naturally, his laugh line is my cue to exit, as he turns his seat back to his desk as he shoos me away.

I don’t know how to handle him. He’s very stream-of-consciousness, and he goes from pissed and hilarious at the drop of a dime. An older gay is the kind of breed that can turn on its hag, and I’m fearful of him. I need his approval as both my massa and an older gay, but I also need him to stop trippin’ and let me get my basic shit done. Toeing the line with this one will require a bit of finesse.

Thank god it’s Friday. I need to take a nap.

[aaahhh, New Daddy came over just as I was googling images of 'Angry Ian McKellen'--you know, basically Magneto in X-Men]

My New Daddy

So, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but there’s a new massa in charge of the magazine where I work. This means that I have to pretty much make a new impression and re-prove myself to this person who doesn’t know my worth as a woman of color and a writer. He came on about a month ago, but the old editor-in-chief was still around, showing him the ropes and getting him acclimated. It was a really confusing time, as I wasn’t sure who to direct my queries to or who was actually in charge—I felt like I was on an episode of “My Two Dads.”

What was with that plush car in their apartment? Such a weird situation. IT'S CALLED DNA TESTING, PEOPLE!


Last week was new massa’s first week solo, and we’re all in a tizzy, as we work to bring him up to speed, explain our roles, and keep everything chugging along and meeting deadlines. He and I went to the watercolor event on Friday night, which I was nervous about—I wanted him to know I was an asset to the staff, but also a cool person, because half the time, the difference between a pink slip and a paycheck comes down to who is liked the most. It was also kinda weird, because it was sort of a social event, but I was clearly with my superior—what could we talk about for four hours without veering into non-professional conversation? What if I accidentally revealed the fact that I hate my job sometimes? EEP!!

Well, fortunately for us all, New Massa is great. Imagine Ian McKellan with a dash of Michael Showalter.
I'm sorry, I'd add a pic of Michael Showalter, but I'm too obsessed with Ian McKellan and this apple to place anything next to it that could detract from its amazingness.


Needless to say, we’re getting along swimmingly.

He’s a wonderful gay man with a hot bi-racial live-in bf, and he curses a lot and we crack each other up. When I told him I was nervous about the event and hoped I wouldn’t have to speak, he said he didn’t know what to say, either. I said, “No, I’m the Michelle to your Barack. You take it away, I’ll be in the background with the arms.” He LOL’d like a little LOLcat, and I knew we’d be forever together.

Throughout the event, we chatted about the art, and mix and mingled like a total power couple. I was prompted to sing his praises in blog form because when I went into his office a few minutes ago to share a silly submission (you know the artists like to share their hot messes), he replies with, “Oh, I’m glad you came in, I wanted to tell you a story.”

This story was about a tranny artist he knows who was the son of a preacher, and his father got the whole church to raise money for his kid’s sex change.

Um, can I hang out with my boss every day and be best friends?

Although he’s super cool, I can tell he’s not one to mess around, like most power gays I know. Old Massa had been here 31 years, so he was really chill. He left at 2:30pm, and didn’t stress you as long as your work got done. This was much appreciated, as I aim to take as much time as I need to pursue my (bl)ac(k)ting career. I may have to put the early departures and long lunches on hold for a bit, as New Massa gets comfortable and stops freaking out—but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means we get to talk about trannies in the workplace.