What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

I am Kevin Bacon.

These recent months of travel have further solidified what I already knew to be true: the world is getting smaller and smaller by the day. With Facebook taking over the world, and people twittering and flitting about, maintaining relationships is easier than ever before.

It also makes it damn near impossible to erase someone from your memory. I've found that the people I want to keep in touch with seem to not understand how to respond to emails and don't want to use skype (::cough::REDHEAD::cough::), but the dude you drunk pashed a month ago conveniently remembers your last name, how to spell it, and makes sure to get enough internet time to friend you on the ol' facebook.

I was first caught off guard a week ago, when I got a friend request from the 21-year-old Canadian I met in Darwin. You know, the one I made out with simply because I was bored and wanted to get the Weasley twin out of my system (it didn't work). He was a nice enough fellow, but there was no point in getting attached, and there didn't seem to be much going on upstairs, so I walked away with no dramas, and expected him to disappear into the ether. He'd asked for my last name and plugged it into his mate's phone, but what are the odds that a barely legal random you'd interacted with for a total of 4 hours would actually follow through?

Apparently, quite high. I believe his first wall post was: "hey, didn't think i'd ever find u, ty took your last name out of the phone, dumb ass. but then i remember u did comedy and i u tubed you, funny story. where are u now?"

The internet will be the death of me!!! I keep forgetting that in some circles, telling someone you're a "blacktress" is quite memorable--especially when that person is from Saskatchewan.

Just when I was done marveling at the spinning tea cups that are our small world, I was dealt another shocking blow of connections this very morning. Here's the go:
As you know, I was in St. Croix last week and met a random--the one who looked like Duane 'The Rock' Johnson. Last night I put up a few photos on f-book--you know, to incite jealousy in friends. In the background of a few of these photos was The Rock. This morning I get the following message:

Hi Blacktress

I'm a friend of one of your friends, and when she asked me to view your comedy video in AUS I added you as a friend. Just happened to open my FB home page and in your vacation pics saw a picture of my brother THE ROCK--he lives and works in St. Croix.. hes visiting NY now, just had a laugh about how small the world is. When he gets back from visiting friends I'll have to tell him. He'll laugh.

Hope you enjoyed your vacation! - Belle

Oh. my. god. I am the black female Kevin Bacon.

So, I immediately logged on to facebook (a nasty habit that began when I living on the other side of the world), and Belle happens to be online. We immediately start chatting, and I tell her about the drunk kiss and the fact that her bro was blowing up my celly this weekend, even asking to come to the stand-up show I had Saturday night. I am hesitant to tell her that he seems like a total toolbox and completely not good for me....until she brings it up.
Our convo went something like this:

Belle: Oh my god, this is too funny. I wish I could tell [our mutual friend] right now. I'm always telling her what a loser my brother is.
Me: hahahhaa, oh no! oh sweet jesus, i am starting off my nyc single life on the wrong foot.
Belle: Seriously. They should put up flyers around St. Croix, "do not kiss this man."
Me: I will do it. I will return to Pirate Island and warn other wenches.

[later, after more man-related banter, including her venting about her bro, I break out the TRUTH]

Me: Your brother is--no offense, I say this as an astute woman of color and writer who has kissed him on the mouth--a selfish man-boy who thinks of no one but himself.
Belle: you are my new best friend, lol.
Because it takes people years to see that about him.

Okay, guys, let's break this down: when a dude's own sister not only tells you he sucks, but then allows you to talk shit about him, you know you've dodged a bullet. I mean, this is out of control.
But also wonderful.
I'm going to start putting up pics of every potential suitor on my facebook page nad see which of my internet friends knows the clown. I'm sure one of them is bound to have some inside information, corroborating or debunking my beliefs. So far, I'm glad I trusted my gut and didn't return The Rock's phone calls. If he can't even be nice enough to his sister so that she at least lies for him, then you know he wasn't going to bring a damn thing to the blacktress' potluck.

And That's Why They Call Me Sojourner TRUTH.

Sunday night's Christmas party was, indeed, a shit show.

We all met--hostel staff and bar staff--at the bar, where we had free beer and wine for about an hour. We then got into a rented bus, which took us to a nearby Lebanese restaurant. Our managers had arranged for all the wine and beer to be dropped off beforehand, so bottles were ready and waiting when we arrived. The drinking continued as everyone opened their secret santa presents.

It seems that the theme of dirtiness is really among the bar staff, as the "reception crew" (as we call those who work above ground in the hostel) tended towards more appropriate gifts. I, for instance, got a little box of cards that listed the 50 places to see before you die. Sweet. Appropriate for a traveler like myself.

One of the managers, on the other hand, got a whistle shaped like a vagina that he wore around his neck all night.
Joe, in reception, received porno magazines. The subject: women over 60.
Mai, who also works in reception, got a glow-in-the-dark water bottle shaped like a penis, which she promptly filled with red wine.
Lena, one of my coworkers got the best gift of all--a vibrator.

So, as you can see, my cock ring fit right in. My recipient loved it, and was quite excited. So excited, that later in the night he told me broke it by trying to fit it on his wrist.
What a waste of a good cock ring.

Here are some pics from the dinner, just to corroborate my story.

These are my managers.

One girl was given a box of pads as her gift (I kid you not). Staff members immediately took great fun in opening them, soaking them with red wine, and affixing them to their body.
Clearly this was a heavy-flow day.




The glow-in-the-dark penis water bottle I mentioned earlier.
Note: the person holding this is not the actual recipient of the gift. Penises all around!


Um, I could show you more, but I think this is all you need. Imagine how the other patrons in the restaurant must have felt?

Tell-tale Signs

So, I'm not much of a photographer. I don't like having my picture taken, and traveling solo, I find it awkward to ask a stranger to take my picture in front of a building. Whenever I am around someone, I make them take my photo just so I can send something to my mother and show her I'm alive.

However, I do really enjoy taking photographs of random humorous things. Luckily, Australia is chock full of them! Take, for instance, the snapshots below.

This sign, which I saw while driving through Kiama with my Aussie mum, means Brake for Wombats.

This sign was spotted in Surry Hills, where I was crashing with BCB. Remember all the ladies of the night I was telling you about? Well, apparently, they've got a union!
(What do you think I'd have to do to become part of the $carlet Alliance? Could I transfer credits from my NYC escapades?)

This sign was spotted in the Hunter Valley. I mean, I don't know who this Lindeman character is, but he's a doctor, so I don't doubt him.

"Children Left Unattended Will be Sold as Slaves"
This was in the beer garden at a pub in a town called Jamberoo.

Okay y'all, this next one isn't a sign-- it's actually the cover and a single page from a book I found while wandering through the Rozelle Markets this afternoon. Sydney neighborhoods are big on flea markets, where people mostly sell clothing and used books and dvds. I wandered over to one woman's table and lost my mind when I saw this:

I kid you not, gentle readers. This is for real!!! It basically teaches kids to count to 10 and learn the alphabet using the shenanigans of 10 black children. I really wanted to take pictures of each page--hell, I wanted to buy the book!--but the $20 price tag and the woman's growing suspicion of me meant I could only take one more snapshot. After learning to count to 10 ("ONE went to Africa and then there were NONE") it went on to teach the alphabet.

Does this make your heart hurt a little bit? This book was published in London, by a British company. Who do you think was the target audience?

English: The Language of Love

I´m sure many of you are wondering about Sojourner´s romantic life abroad. After all, what is this blog other than sordid stories of awkward pseudo-romantic and pseudo-sexual interactions? I promise I will not disappoint the pervy ones who enjoy hearing about my "dating." There´s a lot to tell, so you may want to read this in bits.

In summation: The Brits like the blacktress-- especially the American ones.

My first night, my lovely hostess Aditi took me to an Australian bar called THE WALKABOUT. Now, many of you know how much I love a good theme, and this establishment took theirs to the max. The tvs on the wall played loops of tanned people surfing, they had all the local beers on tap, and they even had a ´down under bar´which was downstairs and had kangaroos on the walls.

We showed up (fully pre-gamed, cause the pound ain´t no joke) and took in the multi-culti scene. They were closing early, unfortch, but we were directed to the sister location in Leicester Square (by the way, that word is pronounced ´lester´-- why, i don´t know). We ordered a pitcher and I noticed a random wearing a Yankees hat. I called him over and asked him why he was repping my homeland (the sweater tied around his waist was a dead giveaway that he wasn´t American). Turned out he was from Chile, and we got to practice our Spanish as 10 people-- clearly towards the tail end of a drunken office party-- got crunked on dranks and danced to early 90s American pop hits.

As Aditi and I headed to the bar to contemplate ordering something else toxic and delicious, the dudes in front of us were ordering. Overhearing our American accents, they turned and said, ¨Do you want a shot?" Clearly, I took this shot with eagerness and we ended up chilling with the office crowd, a mix of Brits and Aussies. Before I know it, a 6´4" tall glass of English milk starts dancing with me-- he had a Hugh Grant vibe, with spectacles and paleness. His name was Tristan and he was a barister--aka lawyer. He immediately asks if I want to go outside with him. HAHAHA! I may have been foreign, but I wasn´t born yesterday, Hugh.

After more dancing, we left the dance floor so I could get my English makeout. It was decent. He kept being verbose and English, asking me before he did anything, and kept referring to me as "delectable." He was even asking me to go home with him! eep! I explained to Tristan that in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, Hugh was far more bumbling and awkward with Andie McDowell, and I expected less masculinity from him-- and I´d just gotten here and was no way in hell going to the random beaudoir of a strange man, no matter how close to Piccadilly Circus he lives.

More making out occurred and then Aditi and I left. While Hugh and I did the requisite cell number exchange and he told me I "meant a lot to him," I left it as the one-time thing it was meant to be. You can imagine my surprise when, while on my "magical pub discovery journey" with my English husband (more on him later) Hugh/Tristan called me to tell me what a great time he had and asked if I was available for tonight. As much as I was flattered and shocked by his follow-through, I´d much rather chill with my friends than go running after a random Hugh Grant-- it was my vacay, after all; I spend enough time running after dudes in America.

Cut to Saturday night: Celebrating my last night in London, I figured that the best thing to do would be to go out all night, seeing as I had such an early flight to catch to get to Spain. Aditi and I head went out in her neighborhood, first heading to a cocktail bar to just check out the scene. While in the loo, I met this great girl named Michelle, who said she´d help me get my British kiss on my last night. Clearly, we became new best friends, and we ended up going out with her and her crew, which included two random dudes and a woman who Aditi and I called ROCKSTAR. She had short platinum blond hair, wore shiny patent leather pants with converse high tops, and a black wife beater. She was rock n roll personified.

And, in true rock n roll fashion, she directed us to a bar called THE FUNKY MUNKY. I kid you not. At the entrance, I saw a tall, strapping gentleman having his cigarette. I thought nothing of it (other than "holla at an international playa!") and went inside to dance and be debaucherous. Another bathroom run led me to two British girls who wanted to take a photo with me because I was from New York City. This was the second time this had happened to me on my journey, so I was less surprised. Sojourner´s face will be featured in an Australian birthday album, an English office party website, and now probably on two random chicks´MySpace profiles.

Anyway, somehow I end up talking to the tall British man once inside and he bought me a DRANK. We end up smooching, I explain that I´m heading to Spain the next day. He then says he will come to Barcelona and stay with me. HA! Can you imagine?! He swears he´s serious, we exchange contact info, and I head out.

So, that´s that. Fun times, right? There was also the 39 year old Irishman who kept telling me I was very curvy and had a hot body. He looked kinda like Shrek´s half brother, so we won´t discuss that.