2009: The Year of the Hot Ass Mess?

I don't know if this is going to be my year, gang. I currently write this post in bed with my right foot elevated and in serious pain. I am also fighting the urge to obsessively check the facebook status of a certain Swedish zoo-friend because, you know, that would be stalkerish.

This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.

Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.

We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.

Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.

At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.

So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.

Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.

He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."

Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!

Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.

We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.

With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.

Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....

There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.

So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?

The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.

After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.

I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.

At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.

So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.

Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)

So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.

Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.

Homeless Blacktress?

Hey gang,

I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.

I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.

Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.

I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.

Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.

Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.

I Am Blanche Dubois

For, like, Blanche, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

It’s day 2 in Sydney, about 11am on Tuesday morning, and it’s raining. I don’t really mind this because it gives me an excuse to be lazy and prevents me from being touristy. Yesterday took a positive turn, and gave me the boost I needed to keep my head up.

I first got a text from my Ozzie friend who was supposed to meet me, saying that she couldn’t come after work because of an event. I immediately got stressed and upset, wondering when I’d get my massive bags out of the hostel (seriously, the room is so tiny, there’s not even room for all my crap. I’m feeling very “Troop Beverly Hills,” compared to the other three girls’ “Outback Jack” vibe). I then realized I’d have no one to hang out with. I texted a friend of a friend who also lives in Sydney, and he said he wouldn’t be able to meet until Wednesday. Boo. Hiss.

I then went to the IEP office, where yesterday’s post was created, and then came back to the hostel, where I tried to look breezy and social while reading David Sedaris in the lounge area (which is huge—this hostel is hard core!). My eyes started to droop, but being only 2pm, I knew I couldn’t give in. My energy briefly peaked when I noticed a scruffy-faced bald man sitting on the couch. We made eyes a couple of times, but it was unclear whether he was looking simply because I was looking, or because he was feeling a blacktress’ sleep-deprived flava.

I worked up the nerve to chat up the foreign hottie as we waited for the elevator (my opening line: "Is it good?" I asked, as he ate an ice cream cone. For serious. I've got more game than Milton-Bradley). I learned that he was German, and actually working on building some big... building not too far from the hostel. I still, however, don’t know his name.

I simply planned to put my book down and take another walk, but all hope for beating jet lag went out the door when I went back to my room and saw that no one else was in there. I instantly went into freshman-year-of-college mode, where you immediately do something you hadn’t planned on doing simply because you now have the privacy to do it.* I went to lay down, and I was out. I figured sleeping was better than lamenting being lonely and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Soon, though, I received a call from my Ozzie friend, just checking on me. This instantly warmed my heart, and I felt like someone did care whether or not I was dead in a ditch.

Shortly after that (time is unclear when one is half asleep), I received a call from a young man I’ll call “J-Date.” I will call him this because he’s Jewish, we discussed J-Date at one point, and he said he really didn’t want his name on the blog.

A friend I haven’t seen in years put us in touch before I left, because J-Date was coming to Sydney on business for a couple weeks and would gladly hang out with me. We’d exchanged some emails, and I gave him my Aussie number, but was unsure whether or not he’d use it. One of the benefits—or downfalls, depending on how proactive you are—of my new Aussie pay-as-you-go phone is that incoming calls are free, so I’m pretty much waiting for everyone else to make the first move for financial reasons.

J-Date asked if I wanted to hang out, and noticed I sounded groggy. He urged me to wake up and fight jet lag, and said he knew exactly what I needed to see on my first night. I immediately woke up, put on something half-decent, and chatted with roommate Sonya, who I discovered is not Dutch, but German.

“I met a really hot German boy in the lounge,” I said, to connect with her culture.

“Did you?” She said.

“YES!”

She laughed. This could be because she didn’t know what else to say, or because she actually could handle Sojourner’s truth.

J-Date arrived 20 minutes later. He immediately ushered us into a cab, and told the driver “Opera Bar.” It was very bad-ass and James Bond-esque. He’d explained that he’d been to Sydney several times on business, and knew what was what, and “we’ve got to get there before sunset.” I mean, of course gut reaction was, “Will J-Date propose me? He is moneyed, and lives an international lifestyle. Granted, I’ve only known him 4 minutes, but we could make this work.”

We got out of the cab and there I was, in front of the Sydney Opera House. It was gorgeous. It was the icon. We managed to catch the final minutes of sunset, and the Harbour Bridge looked all magical and dynamic as the sky turned.


It finally hit me that I was actually in Australia. I got excited. It felt good.

We got drinks at the opera bar, which has a beautiful view, and J-Date and I chatted. I could tell I was pushing his boundaries, making him refer to me as “blacktress” at all times, and telling him I wanted to become an Oprah-like figure, but he rolled with the punches. He even revealed to me that he secretly watched “I Love New York,” and he agreed with me when I called her a tranny hot mess. He’d only arrived the day before, so we were equally tired, but managed to entertain each other and find a random outdoor burger place for dinner. As he asked me about “my plan,” he assured me that I’d be okay, and at times even told me I could probably be a stripper or turn tricks if things ever got really dire. I appreciated the vote of confidence.
I headed back to the hostel at 10:00pm, proud to have made it through my first Aussie day, and not having to go it entirely alone. I managed to sleep pretty well, although I was woken up by another vagabond who’d taken the bed below me and seemed to just be crumpling plastic bags, for, like, half an hour.
Today is looking up, and I’m feeling energetic enough to try and make out with a foreign stranger. The hot German guy is sitting next to me, using his computer. Wish me luck……teeehee.



Here's me. The direction from J-Date was, "Japanese Tourist."



*No, I don’t mean masturbating—but, whatever tickles your pickle (in this case, it would be you).

Sidebar: as I write this post, the radio in the lounge is blasting Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.” If that’s not a sign that I’m a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.