Performance Anxiety

So, as I said in my previous post, there is a red-haired man that's got me swooning! As I also said, he is leaving me for my hemisphere. Other than the terrible irony and complete unfairness that is an Australian man leaving me when I'm in Australia, this now means two of my future husbands will be in Canada: him and Michael Cera.

I don't know how I'm supposed to live in a world where everything I love is sent to Canada. I'm gonna have to get Obama to do something about this.

Anyway, we were talking about exchanging some music to broaden his horizons and provide him with some new tunes as he embarks on a new voyage. I believe his exact words were, "I want some cruisey tunes."

Though he uses this word often, I'm still not quite sure what 'cruisey' means. This is one of those Aussie terms that I'm still grasping three months in. Like that time he said there was a "biffo at the cricket," which I assumed was some sort of foodstuff, but actually means "there was a fight a the cricket match."


Basically, I think "cruisey" means laid back, rhythmic tunes you can sort of bop to--the kind of jam that puts a pep in your step, but doesn't overwhelm an afternoon bbq. Regardless, I'm basing my CD creation on this theory.

Guys, this is a very high-pressure situation. Remember back in the middle-school days when you were totes crushin' on someone, and you wanted to show your luuurrvvv? You went back home, broke out a cassette, and got to recording tunes that you were convinced proved your coolness--and your ability to be the perfect partner. The result looked something like this:


Remember how hard making a mixtape was? Stopping, pausing, trying to keep the flow seamless, so you'd even rewind a little bit to make sure the time between songs wasn't too long? It was a labor of love, and by the time you handed over it was not unlike your still-beating heart--only way less gross.

To this day, nothing proves you're into a guy like rolling up to him slowly and whispering in his ear, "Damn boy, you so fine I wanna make you a mix tape."
Go ahead, try it on your next crush.

He's going to judge me based on my musical taste! What if he listens to it and is like, "oh em gee, she sucks balls. but not mine. no sir, not mine." ?!?!??! This is very stressful. He will be listening to these tunes as he backpacks the Canadian wilderness. I will use these tunes to keep myself on his mind even when we are separated by thousands of miles. I can NOT have him remembering that I'm kind of lame.

As you can see, I'm really into him. So into him that I did not blog about him for a week and refuse to talk about our actual interactions because the only comedic fodder comes from my giddiness, not his foolishness. So into him that he left his man-deodorant at my place before his flight, saying that I should hold on to it cause he can't take an aerosol can on the plane, but I'm pretty sure he's leaving it here because he wants me to sniff it and think of him.
So into him that I almost told his brother how I felt.
I IM'd the friend of mine who got me in touch with him, and our conversation would have gone something like this:
me: HEY GIRL
HOW DO I GET [FRED WEASLEY] TO MARRY ME?! IT'LL BE LIKE IN HARRY POTTER BOOK 5 WHEN THEY ALL NEED DATES FOR THE YULE BALL AND FRED ASKS OUT ANGELINA, THE BLACK GIRL!!!
my friend: roofies. [i think she would have said this]

Instead, it went like this:
me: HEY GIRL
then, for some reason unbeknownst* to me, I paused and waited for her to respond. I never do this, seeing as I have a lot to say at all times.
my friend: hey Sojourner, this is her boyfriend [and my Weasley twin's brother!!!]. she's out right now.
me: oh, hey, sorry about that.
her boyfriend: no dramas.

AAHHHH! Can you imagine how that would have gone if I'd kept talking?! I'd be the mayor of Awkward City!!!

So I'm sitting here at 11:30 am on Australia Day trying to get some cruisey tunes. I made one sure-fire winner only to discover that the disc won't play in a CD player. I AM BEING FOILED BY TECHNOLOGY!!

I now have to go buy new blank CDs that are more versatile. This is way hard, guys.

As I wipe the sweat off of my brow, I try to remember that this is just a nice thing, and he'll appreciate my follow-through-- even if he thinks I have the musical taste of an emo 14 year old.

But, um, seriously, how do you record music so that it plays a subliminal message that makes him want to wed me in a rushed Canadian ceremony?

Whoever's got the answer gets to be the flowergirl.


* I'm trying to bring this word back into the general lexicon. What do we think?

Tailor-Made...for ME?!

Y'all, I am on the plantation on Christmas Eve? I don't think this is what the baby Jesus would have wanted.

Luckily, I'm the only one here, so I can blog with abandon. It's funny how I tend to handle more personal biz-nass on office time than I do when I'm not here. I actually plan to come back later in the week to get some essential photocopying done. Is that wrong?

Anyway, I'm sure you're all wondering about the status of THE GIVER. Unfortch, I may be briefly silenced, for it turns out he is indeed a savvy internet stalker. Apparently, a name like Sojourner "you can't handle the" Truth is very "funny and interesting," and something, "you don't forget when told of it in passing." The Giver has found the blog. He has read the tales (luckily, not the the tale of how he earned his nickname), and I think the blacktress may have to silence her voice. It's just like a white male to keep me down.

Here's what I can let you know: the date went well....I think. It began with me getting him good and tipsy at Butai, where Special K pours dranks with abandon. Butai is my Saturday tradition, beginning around 5pm and ending whenever I have a good enough reason to leave. During our idle chat, I received a text about a party in Brooklyn. While this was not planned, I was thankful for it, as it made me out to be very popular and important.

We then went to try and see Juno, because nothing sets the mood like a story of teen pregnancy. Surprisingly, other people had the same idea, because it was too crowded and we had to see a later show. As we walked out, I explained how awkward I was (this was during one of my many ramblings that began due to nervousness), and he said, "I know.... I read your blog."
As Scooby Doo would say, "Ruh-Roh!" He found me out! He knows I'm slightly insane, mildly militant, and have gone out with randoms!

Cue more incessant babbling. I swear, he made a black girl blush several times-- which you know is tough with this blacktress.

We then went to Crocodile Lounge (I think you all know my feelings on pizza and skee ball), where I drank red wine (cause I'm classy) and flirted like the shameless schoolgirl I am. It seemed for some strange reason he was still drawn to me, so I figured I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. We found seats in the theater, trying to avoid sitting next to unattractive people (you know ugly is contagious!), and I made my smooch move. I mean, I was thinking about it and I figured if I just got in there I'd feel slightly less cray.
It worked.

We then tucked in to watch the movie, which ended up being the bestest thing ever. Actually, while I'm singing male praises, let me address one man in particular:
Dear Michael Cera, you awkward, gangly teen-- I am so drawn to your confusion. I identify with your loss for words and statement of the obvious. You ask if you can makeout with people, much in the way I do. You wear short-shorts, and I can almost see your junk, but I try not to look because you're too young for me...and because I'm waiting for Harry Potter to cross these shores. If, for some reason, HP and I end up having trouble with immigration services, it's you and me, boo.

Anyway, The Giver gave me a little hand-on-leg action during the film, which I turned into hand-holding action, and for the next 90 minutes I was totally swooning over the romantic subplot, my girl-crush Jennifer Garner, and the Giver beside me. We then hit up Chickpea for some vegemetarianish* delights. He got me some hummus-- holla at a middle-eastern playa-- and we chatted as he enjoyed his first falafel! Tenderness! You know blacktresses just bring out the "adventurous side" in white men.

We hit up another random bar--where I just had water!-- and talked a bit. While shooting the shit, he said, "Yeah, I tried dating two girls at once, but that was drama. I'm all about monogamous relationships."

He dropped the M-bomb. Granted, it was in no way connected to me, and probably means he's missing his ex-GF or something else unsavory, but the word itself just makes me tingly....down there. I mean, drop an M-bomb, and I am done and done. If this blog has shown one thing, it's that it's not only hard out there for a pimp, but it's hard out there for a blacktress trying to find a winter spoon! It's been a rough 007, and it's time shit stopped being cray and started getting real. This body ain't getting any younger, people!!!

Anyway, I clearly went back to his house, to get in the spirit of giving--holla! And I think he had me at morning eggs and bagels. I mean, a can-do man who will hook up some protein on a chilly winter's morning is one to callback, you know?

He is now off in his homeland for the holidays....where one can only hope the white fields of Ohio (in more ways than one) make him long for the blacktress. Until then, I will just have to entertain myself with my gays and my gals.

Um, guys, if I don't hear from him while he's gone does this mean the whole thing was in my head?

* I know that's not a word.