The Blacktress is Pissed

I have not felt this much anger and oppression on the plantation since my slave days.

I will call this Reason #248 that I need to go to Australia.

Yesterday, Sojourner was ravaged by stomach illness. With sharp pains and an exploding buttocks (sorry, but you know I tell the TRUTH), I sat in my veal pen—aka cubicle—until about 1pm, when I could no longer take the pain. On my way out of the building, I managed to take the elevator one flight before running off to the nearest bathroom, where I puked like a drunken college student after doing a keg stand.

I had a fever, chills, and was fearful I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. I hopped in a cab home, and laid down for the remainder of the day, waking up only to run to the toilet.
By the day’s end, I showed little signs of improvement, so I sent my massa an email, letting him know I wouldn’t be in the next day (today). In my email, I offered to work from home, seeing as my priority for the next day was to do work on our publication’s website—which only requires an internet connection and the ability to double-click. I was of sound mind and body, but I knew I’d need to be no more than 4 feet from a bathroom all day, and it made no sense to come in and stink up the office space when I could do bad all by my damn self.

I awoke early this morning, prompted by dehydration, nausea, and stomach pain. I fought the urge to roll over and decided to check my email, just to see what, if anything, Massa had to say about my request to work from home.
I found this message in my inbox:
Sojourner,

Sorry you are still sick. If you can make it into the office we could use another pair of eyes looking at the remaining articles. B_____ has gone out of town and I have to rush to write two articles and get them designed and edited by Thursday evening.

Thanks,
Massa

Um, w.t.f?!! I have never once been denied a sick day, and I even offered to work from home—which I fully planned to do! I wasn’t trying to shirk duties, but I couldn’t keep my butt in check long enough to sleep through the night, let alone pick cotton on the plantation!!! I assumed this email was not a request, but a demand from a passive-aggressive massa.
So here I am. Writing this post from the plantation.

Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom now.
*******************************************

Okay, I’m back.

You know, sometimes I wish the days of open racism and whippings were still here—at least then I’d know who I was dealing with. I can’t tell if he didn’t believe I was sick, is angry that I’ve taken some time off recently, or is just really in need of my “extra eyes”—I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red-pen marks on the article drafts wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and my constant gassiness may induce nausea in my coworkers.

So, here I sit, epitomizing the phrase “hot mess” and wishing I was somewhere else. Add to this the recent comment left on my blog by a fellow blacktress from Down Under, and I just know I need to head for freedom. She wrote:
“You definitely have to come down under. I'm an afro-princess in Brisbane, who came here 7 years ago and never left. There's no place to get your hair did but even if you leave the house with a bird’s nest on your head (which I do, every so often) someone will say, "wow, I wish my hair could do that", the hot dudes are everywhere (I married one) and it’s sun, sand and surf most of the time…I’d absolutely be your friend…”
1. First of all, any woman who refers to herself as an afro-princess is down with Sojo.
2. She even married a hot dude, so clearly I need to get on her program.
3. AND SHE SAYS SHE’LL BE MY FRIEND!!! -- maybe we can braid each other's hair!

I just need to find out how her massa treats her on the plantation. When she’s running to the bathroom so much that they start delivering her mail there, do they still make her come to work? When she offers to complete her tasks from the comfort of her home and her own bathroom, do they ask her to come in anyway cause the massa can’t handle his own deadline-scandals?!

Please pray for a blacktress. I think I may start trippin' on these fools today.

Mating Season

I know how boring it is to talk about the weather, guys, but this time I really think its important. As you all know by the brisk night air, fall is finally approaching—and it is indeed an inconvenient truth. Why? Because now it’s time for me to get a damn man!

See, in the summer, I could be single and free, wearing my tank tops and flip flops, and still keep it grown and sexy. Now, it’s time for tall socks, unflattering winter hats, and layers of clothing. And nothing kills the damn mood like layers of clothing. Have you ever tried to act on your sexual impulses when you’re wearing tights under your pants?! By the time you get undressed, it’s time to put the clothes back on again!

I like to have a man from Thanksgiving to Arbor Day. That way, I can get holiday loving and cuddle while it’s too cold to go out. Not only will I be able to celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah and KWANZAA with a special someone, but my birthday (December 7—mark it!) is also a time where a man pillow is in order. As the Christmas song goes: Oh the weather outside is frightful/but the coitus is so delightful/and since we’ve no place to go/let it snow, let it snow, let it snow…

After a stand up show last night, I was talking to intern about this phenomenon. Intern is a tall glass of milk who works in my office—but not for my company. I call him “intern” not only to protect his fragile undergraduate identity but to make him feel like he has a role. He is more than a cog in the wheel who sorts packages in the mailroom.

Anyway, intern said that he and his guy friends call this time of year “Wife Season.” I didn’t know men could be so practical! They know that people stop going out—and put on winter weight—around the holidays, and the likelihood of finding a fine piece of ace after the new year is slim to none. It’s completely acceptable to find someone attractive in October and stay with them until the leaves re-(Orlando)bloom, even if you don’t like them all that much. I completely agree with this strategy, as I’ve learned that there is no such thing as “the one” or “destiny”—people come into your life for a reason…. or a season. And for me, that season is winter.

This came up during an image search for "wife season." They don't look very happy.

If you have any eligible bachelors who appreciate a good spooning and like a cup of hot chocolate on a winter’s night, holla at a freed slave playa!

I'm currently working on this "winter wife" concept by releasing pure pheromones.

Seriously, this is the only way I can explain the fact that, last weekend, I attracted the attention of three different males. I think I may have mono—you know, the kissing disease.

Friday night started out innocently enough-- though I was worried things would get out of control. I was wearing the same outfit I’d worn during the Blackout of 2007, so I thought that I’d somehow recreate the night of horrors. I went out with a motley crew of theater friends, internet lovers, and college pals. The night began as it should: with wine at the Bourgeois Pig, then a trip to St. Dymphna's to find foreign men. Somehow, Uncle Ming's (my haven of debauchery) became involved, and I met a tall bald man. He became quite smitten with the blacktress, and insisted that Sojo (and her friends) attend HOME, a fancy meatpacking district bar. This is not usually my scene, but, needing something to blog about, I went.

Cut to us dancing in our private table with bottle service as the banker boy smooches Sojo.... and I smooch back!

Saturday involved a trip to Queens to see the Greek (who I know call ZEUS), and then a trip to Brooklyn for a b-day party. Somehow, I met another tall glass of skim and just told him, "I wanna make out with you."

What can I say? Oh, I know: "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the discovery channel."

That's Zeus, and that's a white version of me begging for his winter lovin'.