Picture Day and Randoms

Today is Picture Day on the plantation.
I kid you not.

For some reason, these people won’t just let me leave in peace. I was hoping to slip out, undetected and escape with several padded envelopes and letterhead. Instead, they want us to take some big group photo or something.

I've been scoffing at the youth as they return to school this week, but it turns out it is the blacktress who is now a student! I thought my days of unflattering photos in poor lighting against a tacky backdrop ended when I left Catholic school—I was wrong. Here’s the email we got from boss man:
I would like to publish a group staff photograph, so I thought that before our meeting tomorrow I would take head-and-shoulders photos of each staff member near the window in my office and then a group photograph by the fireplace.

Please let your stylist know you will be photographed tomorrow.

Oh my god, this is going to be so awkward. Just to give you a sense of the setting, my boss’ offices is covered in dark-wood panel and over his inactive fireplace hang some landscape paintings he’s done himself. It’s got a sorta 1970s-Texan-oil-baron-meets-the-Elk-Lodge vibe.

My attempts to look picture-ready today failed, just I did in my youth. Even though I spent much time achieving a buoyant, adult, and professional anchorwoman hairdo, I forgot to put on my contact lenses, so I’m totes looking like the girl in She’s All That. I’m going to have to take them off for the photos, which will end up with me trying hard not to squint, looking blank-eyed and confused in the general direction of the camera.
Good times.

In other news: The Kiwi I dumped texted me yesterday!! Yesterday afternoon, I get a text from a number I didn’t recognize (cause you know his ass has been deleted!), which says the following:
“Lunch tomoro? We will do subway this time.”

Um, is he slower than Trig, the youngest Palin baby?
What part of “let’s stop this foolishness” didn’t he understand? I mean, I naturally assumed he was catching what I was throwing, seeing as I hadn’t heard from him in the TWO WEEKS since that conversation.
And even if he did want to talk about it or actually try to be friends, what sort of incentive is lunching at Subway? I have never once led him to believe I frequent or enjoy that establishment. I don’t want to sit there and watch him eat a $5 footlong on my off time! He’s so out of control, I can’t handle it.

Can you imagine if a woman did that after a guy had dumped her? What if I just called up The Teacher fellow and was like, “Hey, I got two tickets to a UCB show that I you said you wanted to go to back when we were boning. Meet me outside the theater at 7:30?” I would be instantly branded as a PSYCHO CHICK, and the world would know. It would just NOT be acceptable.

I swear to you, the men have gone mad. This also comes on the heels of the IM I received from the texter. It went something like this:
HIM: Are you ignoring me now?
ME: Your text messages weren’t appropriate, and certainly not worth responding to.
HIM: What, you wanted more romance?

Um, if by “romance” he means “respect,” then yes! I love how my lack of a response to the query “why haven’t I fingered you yet?” somehow implies that I’m high-maintenance, or a romantic.

Between these fools and BabyGate ’08, I may never return from Down Under.

You Don't Own Me!

I think facebook is trying to bring slavery back, much in the way that JT tried to bring back sexy.

I, as a blacktress, am offended by this.

Today I went in to the good ol' f-book to see who wanted to be friends, who had a new special friend, and who was kicking my butt in Scrabulous. I haven't really been into facebook since they decided to add more applications than an Ivy League school, but I go along for the ride because seeing the number of internet friends I have gives me a boost on really rough days. Usually I ignore the applications people ask me to add, knowing that this will do nothing but clutter up my page full of hilarious, wry quotes, and clever inside jokes that friends write on my wall--you know, just to see if you remember that time that really funny thing happened a couple years ago.
Today a particular application caught my eye. Invited by a dude from Denmark who I met at a hostel in New Orleans 3 years ago (I kid you not, you know how random f-book gets), it read:

M- L sent a request using Owned!:

Hey , I just bought you. Find out how much I think you're worth!

Block This Application | Ignore All Invites From This Friend

Um, excuse me. Did he just say he bought a blacktress? In the words of Whitney--hell to the no!!!

Is facebook trying to put me back on the auction block? I think it's quite humorous that only two people have asked me to add this application, and they are both men who are whiter than a monster truck rally held in a ski resort.* One of them was a dude I made out with who then had no love for a blacktress--he most certainly doesn't get to buy me when he already got some chocolate milk for free!!!

I'm sorry, but this application is just too much. When it was pink ribbons and vampires, I was okay with it. I even went along with a good game of Oregon Trail (always caulk the wagon) and some Scrabulous (even though it takes 12 weeks to finish a game). Then bitches started asking me to take a quiz to determine "what kind of American accent I have." I thought facebook was being run by a monkey with Down's Syndrome.

Now I'm starting to believe it's being run by my former Massa John Nealy (who was straight trippin' on me cause I spoke Dutch and not English--um, just be glad someone let me learn one language!). I haven't even clicked the link that that says "what's my price?" cause I'm sure it'll put me on some sneaky government list of people to re-slave. Besides, if I'm worth less than Beyonce, I'll just be really pissed.



*could that even happen? I don't know, but it sounds like two things that are stereotypically Caucasian. Maybe I should ask that guy who does Stuff White People Like before I go throwing these terms around. Next thing you know, Aliza Shvarts will come after me with some blood in a cup, saying it's her unborn biracial baby.