No, I didn't just use that title for the clever alliteration.
Today I received an intra-office email.
Do you know what that word means? It's when you get an email to your office email address from a party within your office.
I'm so glad I went to college and got a bachelor's degree. I would have never been able to use such a word.
Anyway, I digress. I opened my inbox yesterday to discover that I was wanted--for participation in an online course about our company's code of conduct. Apparently, someone had gotten wind of my lewd comments and penchant for sharing company secrets.
I jest.
I don't even know what my company does.
All employees were required to take the online training course, which was scheduled to take approximately 40 minutes.
W. T. F?!
Why in the world should it take 40 minutes for me to take a computer course to learn not to hire family members and/or grab the mail guy's ass? Mama didn't raise no fool!
After my anger subsided, I decided to alter my perspective--look on the bright side, as the therapist says. This was not simply THE MAN, forcing his will upon me. This was 40 minutes of company-sanctioned procrastination!
I clicked the link wholeheartedly, and prepared to tuck in for a hearty helping of repetitive information fitting a mentally disabled foreign child.
I was not disappointed.
I had to read through 5 scenarios, and then take a quiz at the end. I thought I'd beat the system by clicking straight through to the NEXT button at the end of each scenarios, but the company was ready for my laziness and disrespect. A giant pop-up window came up when I clicked the button prematurely.
The computer, it's thinking.
This is how the movie "I, ROBOT" started--only I'm no Will Smith.
I put on my headphones and began to read the scenarios.
What I immediately discovered shocked me unlike any realization I'd ever had: I think our Code of Conduct "training course" was written by Carrot Top.
Here's an excerpt from a scenario titled "Pam Gets an Eyeful"-- needless to say, it has to do with lewdness:
GlobeCo's Business Development Department had a different culture than the rest of the company. Many people who worked there enjoyed telling dirty jokes, and one employee, Ken, often downloaded new screensavers from lingerie catalogs.
[Um, what? What kind of "culture" does the Development Department have that would lead someone to tell a dirty joke and/or download a screensaver from a lingerie catalog? I didn't know Business Development was such a raunchy area of major corporations--what was I think entering a creative field?
Oh, and PS-- when did lingerie catalogs start making screensavers?]
Ken is about to show the newest pictures to his coworker, Tim, and they're about to be interrupted by another employee, Pam, who doesn't find the pictures funny.
Ken: Hey, Tim, check out this new screensaver! These things get better every week.
[Do they really get better, Ken? Do they? Who is this guy? He sounds lame. This is the second hole in this "story" for me. There's no way this guy--who is clearly socially awkward and flirts inappropriately with the interns--would still be employed at GlobeCo, or even have an office friend who'd want to "check out his new screensaver."]
Tim: What's the theme this time?
Ken: I think it's Nations of the World. See the little flag?
[Who added this touch of color? I think this is my favorite line]
Tim: Oh yeah, I see it now. And on the other girl, too. You know, that is probably the tiniest flag I've ever seen! (they both laugh)
Pam: Hey Ken, hey Tim. So I've been going over the—Oh, no. Those screensavers again?
[I don't have a picture of Pam, but I don't think she's cool like Pam from "The Office." I imagine her to be bloated and whiny, and probably eats Lean Cuisines while looking longingly at Tim's sandwiches from SUBWAY. ]
Ken: No, Pam, it's not what you think! Tim and I are studying...uh...engineering! You know, things like wind resistance.
[Now, if Ken really is this pervy, wouldn't you think he would have a better cover line than that? I mean, this can't be the first time he's been caught with his pants down and his fingers on a mouse]
Tim: Yeah, and maximum fabric load. See, this fabric right here has just about hit its breaking point. (laughs)
Ken: Luckily yours is well within its safety margin, Pam, if you know what I mean... (laughs)
[By that, he means that she is wearing more clothes than the lingerie model. Get it?]
Pam: Look, I've told you guys before to knock it off. These screensavers are really offensive. And I'm tired of overhearing your dirty jokes.
Ken: Oh, you're just jealous.
[Yes, yes she is.]
Ken and Tim's comments to Pam are offensive and violate GlobeCo's Code of Conduct, as do the screensavers they're displaying. Unfortunately, it sounds like this kind of behavior has been going on for a while, despite Kim's complaints. Kim should discuss the situation with her manager or HR immediately.
AND SCENE.
Why did they assume this would take me 40 minutes?
And why did they make me take a quiz afterwards?
What I learned from this Code of Conduct training is threefold:
1. The Business Development Department at the imaginary GlobeCo is really effed up.
2. Pornographic screensavers are not okay.
3. Working in a cubicle the size of a veal pen makes you do dirty things on company time.
Showing posts with label Work Ethics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Work Ethics. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Mondays With Artists
As you know, I work for a major publication. This comes with many risks, such as: people assuming you know about art, geriatrics seeking your support for their cockamamie schemes (hello, plasticize board, anyone?!), crazy artists thinking you have some sort of control over their failing careers and marriages.
Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.
Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):
What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?
Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.
I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.
Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.
This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.
Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????
I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:
Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.
My fear is mounting.
You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”
Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?
These artists are really starting to freak me out.
Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.
Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):
Can you read that? It says "I draw sock monkeys"
What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?
Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.
I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.
Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.
This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.
Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????
I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:
Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.
My fear is mounting.
You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”
Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?
These artists are really starting to freak me out.
Friday, February 22, 2008
A Conversation Among Heteros II
L: the virgin asked if i was going to have a last hurrah and if it could be with him!!!
me: WHAT??
men are so rude
L: i was like, NO not with you at least because i need someone who's not going to be emo
me: oh god!
why do they have such audacity?
L: i dont know
i fucking hate men
i think we are just a bunch of vag holes to them, who might feed them
me: hahahahhaha
L: say it, we're just all walking holes to them.
holes with the ability to cook dinner
and with better apartment amenities, so its like a hotel stay
me: hahaha
like a fancy brothel
with only one whore
.... We then move on to the Australian, who I am back to crushing on. He's allegedly returning to this hemisphere in May, and I'm already getting hot and bothered thinking about it.
me: WHAT??
men are so rude
L: i was like, NO not with you at least because i need someone who's not going to be emo
me: oh god!
why do they have such audacity?
L: i dont know
i fucking hate men
i think we are just a bunch of vag holes to them, who might feed them
me: hahahahhaha
L: say it, we're just all walking holes to them.
holes with the ability to cook dinner
and with better apartment amenities, so its like a hotel stay
me: hahaha
like a fancy brothel
with only one whore
.... We then move on to the Australian, who I am back to crushing on. He's allegedly returning to this hemisphere in May, and I'm already getting hot and bothered thinking about it.
me: I hate liking the Australian because even though he’s a big deal to me, the minute he wants a woman, he can get one.
L: i know! all girls are willing thats why it fucking sucks
decent men who don't think you are a walking vagina are a COMMODITY
Ain't that the (sojourner) truth?
Oh, by the by-- i attempted to include an image with this post, but when i looked up "walking vag holes," "vag holes" and "one-woman brothels," the images were not appropriate for children, pregnant women, or a blacktress.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
2008: The Year of Boo-ification
My procrastination has continued into the afternoon. Here is an excerpt from a conversation I had with my gay husband. I think one read will show you why I think everything is better with gay men.
Me: i'm hornier than a boy scout at camp after lights-out
like, wtf
JJSiii: HA
Me: that's my new line
i think i should copyright it
JJSiii: It seems to be a common problem these days
the terrorists done dropped a horny bomb on the US
Me: HAHAHAHAH.
JJSiii: it'd make sense
I mean, every gay man I know keeps talking about how they get boners all over the place
And they are not alone.
….. There was an hour of time when I psychoanalyzed text messages from the photographer and had to be talked down—it’s not particularly interesting.
Me: my luck with men in the past year (i mean, you know) has been rough.
JJSiii: it's 2008
I decided that this is the year of boo-ification
I was convinced it was going to be with one dude
and out of nowhere, there was a boo in my face
This is THE YEAR OF BOOIFICATION.
Remember that.
I will, JJ. I will NEVER FORGET.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm just being pessimistic and things are going well with the Photographer. He did seem to like the fresh-baked apple pie I brought out on Saturday night.
And the sex I gave him.
Me: i'm hornier than a boy scout at camp after lights-out
like, wtf
JJSiii: HA
Me: that's my new line
i think i should copyright it
JJSiii: It seems to be a common problem these days
the terrorists done dropped a horny bomb on the US
Me: HAHAHAHAH.
JJSiii: it'd make sense
I mean, every gay man I know keeps talking about how they get boners all over the place
And they are not alone.
….. There was an hour of time when I psychoanalyzed text messages from the photographer and had to be talked down—it’s not particularly interesting.
Me: my luck with men in the past year (i mean, you know) has been rough.
JJSiii: it's 2008
I decided that this is the year of boo-ification
I was convinced it was going to be with one dude
and out of nowhere, there was a boo in my face
This is THE YEAR OF BOOIFICATION.
Remember that.
I will, JJ. I will NEVER FORGET.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm just being pessimistic and things are going well with the Photographer. He did seem to like the fresh-baked apple pie I brought out on Saturday night.
And the sex I gave him.
Is This Appropriate?
Hey there gang,
I've taken procrastination to a new level this morning: I am looking on my magazine's website and reading comments on old articles I wrote. The purpose this activity serves is twofold: I get to avoid listening to my voice mail messages AND I get to feed my ego. While my own self-absorption is nothing new (hello, this is my blog!), I thought I would write because I just saw the best comment ever and had to share it with you.
So, I write a feature where I interview a different artist each month and bring them to interweb fame by posting their work and writing about their "process." One of my favorite guys was a cattle rancher who does portraits of cows and bulls--clearly he is a man of many talents. I was just re-reading his piece for old time's sake and saw that someone posted the following comment:
Love the article. It's beautiful. I remember all the great times we had together. Especially the cow we skinned. I didn't know you exercised racehorses!!!!! Wish we could go back and do all the great things at the ranch one more time.
Please tell me you caught that third sentence!!! "Especially the cow we skinned."
Now, I don't know what kind of shady dealings this artist/cattle-rancher is up to, but I didn't think skinning cows was part of the job description. In fact, I think part of ranching means you help cows grow and give them tons of grass--and then later make them hamburgers at Johnny Rocket's.
Okay, you may be thinking, "Sojourner, maybe this is a private joke between two friends; after all, skinning cows is a little too gross." Initially, I was tempted to agree, as this was the only way my brain could process such weirdness. But upon closer inspection (cause I have that kind of time), it's clear from the sentence structure that the author doesn't think such a statement is strange. It's sandwiched between two compliments, and there's no dash, italics, or funky font--or even a smiley face icon or "haha!"-- to imply that this is meant to be humorous. The person is clearly referring factually to an event in the past that was good times.
Either way, I think it's completely unprofessional for this "friend" to post about such activities on a major art publication's website. This is supposed to be the artist's moment of glory and it's being overshadowed by the fact that he skins cows with friends for fun--and whatever else would make this person want to "go back and do all the great things at the ranch one more time."
Okay, is it just me, or does that last sentence make you think there may have been some sort of Brokeback Mountain-style orgies taking place on the ranch?
I've taken procrastination to a new level this morning: I am looking on my magazine's website and reading comments on old articles I wrote. The purpose this activity serves is twofold: I get to avoid listening to my voice mail messages AND I get to feed my ego. While my own self-absorption is nothing new (hello, this is my blog!), I thought I would write because I just saw the best comment ever and had to share it with you.
So, I write a feature where I interview a different artist each month and bring them to interweb fame by posting their work and writing about their "process." One of my favorite guys was a cattle rancher who does portraits of cows and bulls--clearly he is a man of many talents. I was just re-reading his piece for old time's sake and saw that someone posted the following comment:
Love the article. It's beautiful. I remember all the great times we had together. Especially the cow we skinned. I didn't know you exercised racehorses!!!!! Wish we could go back and do all the great things at the ranch one more time.
Please tell me you caught that third sentence!!! "Especially the cow we skinned."
Now, I don't know what kind of shady dealings this artist/cattle-rancher is up to, but I didn't think skinning cows was part of the job description. In fact, I think part of ranching means you help cows grow and give them tons of grass--and then later make them hamburgers at Johnny Rocket's.
Okay, you may be thinking, "Sojourner, maybe this is a private joke between two friends; after all, skinning cows is a little too gross." Initially, I was tempted to agree, as this was the only way my brain could process such weirdness. But upon closer inspection (cause I have that kind of time), it's clear from the sentence structure that the author doesn't think such a statement is strange. It's sandwiched between two compliments, and there's no dash, italics, or funky font--or even a smiley face icon or "haha!"-- to imply that this is meant to be humorous. The person is clearly referring factually to an event in the past that was good times.
Either way, I think it's completely unprofessional for this "friend" to post about such activities on a major art publication's website. This is supposed to be the artist's moment of glory and it's being overshadowed by the fact that he skins cows with friends for fun--and whatever else would make this person want to "go back and do all the great things at the ranch one more time."
Okay, is it just me, or does that last sentence make you think there may have been some sort of Brokeback Mountain-style orgies taking place on the ranch?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Charming? Or Alarming?
i just sent the following ecard to the Photographer:
Too much?
Would you go on a date with me again if you got this?
Oh, I should mention that I wrote:
Too much?Would you go on a date with me again if you got this?
Oh, I should mention that I wrote:
We need a do-over. Saturday? I owe you an apple pie. -naomi Can you tell I'm totally bored on the plantation? |
Monday, January 7, 2008
Mondays With Artists
And it's actually Monday, guys!!
Below is a copy of a letter I received in the mail today. It has been re-typed for your reading pleasure/confusion. I have left in all punctuation, grammar, and misspellings, making no effort to make this man's words intelligible--since clearly, that was not his priority, either.
This letter leaves me scared, confused, and hungry. It's time for lunch now. Read and enjoy
Dear Art Magazine,
This letter is an inquirey. My material is based on this question. How do you turn all the people on this earth to go the other way? The answer is to bring all the people to learn the Circle Language. The Circle Language will bring all the people to be of one mind. The circle is a universal symbol. The Circle Language is a communication with the entire creation.
I have been in communication with the Life beyond this Earth for more than 30 years in secret. The communication came in anger because there has been an insult to the continuing mind around this Earth. I met the Great Spirit of the Indian Nation. The Great Spirit proved to me that the Spirit is a funnel spout revealing the Knowledge of God. The Great Spirit proved to me that the Holy Spirit on the other side of this Earth is the same Spirit as the Great Spirit. This Earth turns about its axis bringing the funnel spout to reveal the same answers as the Knowledge of God to both sides of this Earth.
(he then goes on to say something about ‘conquering the native being a “waist of time”’ which I don’t really understand—but as a freed slave, probably agree with)
The word language comes from the two words land and guage.
(um, call me crazy, but I think those are just misspelled versions of the syllables of the word)
The mind of God can be recognized by the formula 2 in 1. The Life beyond this Earth told me that the Christ Jesus used this formula to coin the word Love. The Word Love comes from the word Low and the letter V. The low V is the cycle of this Earth as this Earth turns around the sun. The point V is the law. High V is the cycle of this Universe every 2,000 years....
(What is he talking about?)
The Life beyond tells me that the people on this earth became confused because the man who wrote the New Testament Revelation was on heavy drugs (much like yourself, I say to the paper in my hand). He wrote in the beginning of the New Testament that he was in the Spirit. The only way to be in the Spirit is on heavy drugs. I was drug free and alcohol free when I met the Great Spirit. I let the Spirit do the identity bringing the Spirit to become a funnel spout.
(What does that sentence mean?)
I am told that the United States of America was built on drugs. The next step to the United States American Government will have to be built on drugs or the United States Government has come it its End Time…….
(Then some more gobledy-gook about “the end time” and “the good god,” which I have chosen to omit because I have real work to do.)
The End Time is a Harvest Time. The End Time of the year is a Harvest Time. The End Time of the World is a Harvest Time. The cycle of this Universe everything 2,000 years is one World….Jesus told the people in the New Testament to bring the message public. Public ment different in the time of Jesus than the word public means today. The Life beyond this Earth brought me to recognize the New Testament Revelation put public brings the formulas for the Holy Thoughts 6, 6-66, 666 through 12.
(Again, I ask: WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT?????)
This earth is the 3rd planet in this Solar System in the light of the day time. The Earth is the 3rd planet in this Solar System in the darkness of the night time. The 6 is the number for this entire Earth. There are 9 planets in the solar system. The 9 planets and the Sun become the bases for the mathematic system to the base 10. The Knowledge of God comes first in numbers….
The Christ Jesus appeared to my mind after I met the Great Spirit. Jesus put me to paint a picture provide Jesus appered to me telling me the answers to build the River of Life on this Earth. The Christ Jesus told me that He went back to where God came from to bring the Crop Circles to be put in the fields of England beginning in the year 1957. Jesus and the Life beyond this Earth have brought me to develop the Circle Language from the Crop Circles. The Circle Language brings the answers to build the World of God on this Earth in these days and nights as it is in Heaven.
If you are interested in publishing my material, please contact…
He then enclosed color photocopies of his "Art"-- what can best be described as what would happen if a kindergarten student vomited onto their paper during a fingerpainting lesson. For legal reasons, I cannot scan these images and present them to you, though I am dying to. Just trust that they are doozies.
Below is a copy of a letter I received in the mail today. It has been re-typed for your reading pleasure/confusion. I have left in all punctuation, grammar, and misspellings, making no effort to make this man's words intelligible--since clearly, that was not his priority, either.
This letter leaves me scared, confused, and hungry. It's time for lunch now. Read and enjoy
Dear Art Magazine,
This letter is an inquirey. My material is based on this question. How do you turn all the people on this earth to go the other way? The answer is to bring all the people to learn the Circle Language. The Circle Language will bring all the people to be of one mind. The circle is a universal symbol. The Circle Language is a communication with the entire creation.
I have been in communication with the Life beyond this Earth for more than 30 years in secret. The communication came in anger because there has been an insult to the continuing mind around this Earth. I met the Great Spirit of the Indian Nation. The Great Spirit proved to me that the Spirit is a funnel spout revealing the Knowledge of God. The Great Spirit proved to me that the Holy Spirit on the other side of this Earth is the same Spirit as the Great Spirit. This Earth turns about its axis bringing the funnel spout to reveal the same answers as the Knowledge of God to both sides of this Earth.
(he then goes on to say something about ‘conquering the native being a “waist of time”’ which I don’t really understand—but as a freed slave, probably agree with)
The word language comes from the two words land and guage.
(um, call me crazy, but I think those are just misspelled versions of the syllables of the word)
The mind of God can be recognized by the formula 2 in 1. The Life beyond this Earth told me that the Christ Jesus used this formula to coin the word Love. The Word Love comes from the word Low and the letter V. The low V is the cycle of this Earth as this Earth turns around the sun. The point V is the law. High V is the cycle of this Universe every 2,000 years....
(What is he talking about?)
The Life beyond tells me that the people on this earth became confused because the man who wrote the New Testament Revelation was on heavy drugs (much like yourself, I say to the paper in my hand). He wrote in the beginning of the New Testament that he was in the Spirit. The only way to be in the Spirit is on heavy drugs. I was drug free and alcohol free when I met the Great Spirit. I let the Spirit do the identity bringing the Spirit to become a funnel spout.
(What does that sentence mean?)
I am told that the United States of America was built on drugs. The next step to the United States American Government will have to be built on drugs or the United States Government has come it its End Time…….
(Then some more gobledy-gook about “the end time” and “the good god,” which I have chosen to omit because I have real work to do.)
The End Time is a Harvest Time. The End Time of the year is a Harvest Time. The End Time of the World is a Harvest Time. The cycle of this Universe everything 2,000 years is one World….Jesus told the people in the New Testament to bring the message public. Public ment different in the time of Jesus than the word public means today. The Life beyond this Earth brought me to recognize the New Testament Revelation put public brings the formulas for the Holy Thoughts 6, 6-66, 666 through 12.
(Again, I ask: WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT?????)
This earth is the 3rd planet in this Solar System in the light of the day time. The Earth is the 3rd planet in this Solar System in the darkness of the night time. The 6 is the number for this entire Earth. There are 9 planets in the solar system. The 9 planets and the Sun become the bases for the mathematic system to the base 10. The Knowledge of God comes first in numbers….
The Christ Jesus appeared to my mind after I met the Great Spirit. Jesus put me to paint a picture provide Jesus appered to me telling me the answers to build the River of Life on this Earth. The Christ Jesus told me that He went back to where God came from to bring the Crop Circles to be put in the fields of England beginning in the year 1957. Jesus and the Life beyond this Earth have brought me to develop the Circle Language from the Crop Circles. The Circle Language brings the answers to build the World of God on this Earth in these days and nights as it is in Heaven.
If you are interested in publishing my material, please contact…
He then enclosed color photocopies of his "Art"-- what can best be described as what would happen if a kindergarten student vomited onto their paper during a fingerpainting lesson. For legal reasons, I cannot scan these images and present them to you, though I am dying to. Just trust that they are doozies.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
2007: A Blacktress Looks Back
Hello there gentle readers,
Welcome to 2008! As you can see, we are not as far along as we should be as a people. To my dismay, I awoke in Brooklyn on the 1st day of 2008 and stepped outside to see NO flying cars, and discovered that I hadn’t become an omnipotent robot. I expected way more from us this far along in the aughts (this is what we call the first decade. Yeah, look it up. The blacktress teaches).
Oh yeah, and there’s still oppression everywhere.
As we look to this new year, and as the decade draws to a close, I would like to share some of the lessons I have learned this long, hard year. Perhaps you, too, will gain something from my strife. After all, what good is the struggle if you can’t help someone out?
Sometimes, the only lesson to be learned from something is to not do it again.
Yeah, I said it. I’m so done with all these people telling me that “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” (yeah, Kanye, I’m talking to you). I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes rough shit happens and it just sucks. And when it’s all said and done, you learn not to go down that road again. In the words of the wise musician Rick, “Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you wanted.” Yes, true that.
Don’t Buy Him A Drank (Shawty TRIPPIN’!)
Did I ever tell you about the hot mess I met back in November? We locked eyes at the Bourgie Pig (my jam and my jump-off), and, inspired by T-Pain and my liberal need to shirk the gender binary, I decided to buy HIM a drank. I was nervous as the waiter walked over with his beer (that’s what dudes drank, right?). I was pleasantly surprised when he came over and started chatting and then asked for my number. I had high hopes for this 30-year-old IT guy with the bald head and stubble I’ve come to realize is my type.
I was sorely let down when my interactions with Dave became a series of late-night text messages that amounted to nothing. He fell off the face of the earth in the month of December, citing “too much schoolwork” (um, I’m not impressed! Even ancient man knew to holla at a cavewoman after chasing mastadons). I clearly kicked him to the curb—one of the many lessons learned this year—and decided he was dead to me, much like Michael Jackson and Boyz II Men (where are you????).
You can imagine my shock when I received a text message from him at 2 AM this past Friday night!!! I believe the exact words were: “Wadd up…2 am winter spoon?”
No that fool did NOT use my words to woo me! And no he didn’t think he could call me up at 2am like I’m some common woman and expect his needs to be met. That is just like a damn white man to lose his good-goddamn mind and think he can play. I said I was a blacktress—NOT a wack-tress!
White People Have Too Much Money, and it Makes Them Stupid
Yeah, I said it. The paparazzi have shown us what Biggie was saying all along: Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems. From crazy Britney (Tears for Spears, ’08—courtesy Leila Estes!!!) to that Wicked Leona Helmsley, clearly, when white folks get money, they go a little nuts. The green makes them a hot mess, and they don’t know what to do with themselves. Leaving a damn dog money?! Shaving your head, showing your bare vajayjay, and getting into more baby mama drama than a Jerry Springer guest?! I mean, come on, people!
Get an Office Wife and an Office Husband—Preferably Gay-- and the Plantation Will Be Less Oppressive.
My first full-fledged non-temporary office job has taught me that there really is no such thing as sexual harassment if your coworkers like you. I mean, my tender office wife brings nothing but good cheer and laughter, even when I say things that don’t make sense. AND she’s even into Jesus and finds my offensive humor hilARious! Getting an office wife turns the mundane task of sitting at a desk into your very own slumber party, complete with giggling, snacks, and pillow fights (with rulers instead of pillows). Today’s gem from wifey proves it. When discussing our resolutions to eat healthier (I’m on Fatkins, not Atkins), she said to me, “Girl, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. You can eat whatever you want. I think if you trace back to your ancestry, you’ll find you were, like, a cougar in the Egyptian wilderness.”
AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!! Wifey is sooo cray! God bless her.
(We’re both probably getting fired soon.)
Gchat IS LIFE.
I don’t think anything could have gotten through this sedentary year of 9-to-5’in’ quite like Gmail and its chatting capabilities. It’s like I can talk to people for 8 hours straight and make money at the same time. I’m never out of the gossip loop, I’ve got youtube links coming out of my arse, and every puny thought that runs through my brain can be shared with 12 people in an instant. I mean, how did the world exist before the interweb? What, people interacted face to face? What about ugly people? I think not.
Everyone Needs A Litsa.
Seriously, she came into my life in the summer like a heat wave—only without the sticky sweat or bad smell. She warmed my heart and soul, and I wouldn’t have survived the blackout of 2007 if it wasn’t for her ability to keep a sober head while nearly blind-drunk. She is my Harlem girl with lesbian dogs, who has hosted me, fed me, given me her bed (in more ways than one), and acted as a sex-cellent partner in crime. Unfortunately for me, her winter spoon has returned, so she’s gone all domestic, but discovering this tame side has only made me appreciate her more. Without our daily gchats, her distrust of unattractive people, and her love of yellowtail Shiraz, I don’t know how I would have made it into 2008.
Foreign Men Are Evil.
Ugh, George Bush would be too proud to hear me say this (lord knows he wouldn’t be able to read it). However, I cannot let that stop me from speaking my truth. I have learned that from Australia to Astoria, from Greece to London, these fools have as many emotional barriers as language barriers, and treat each kiss like another stamp on their passport: makes for a great story, but ain’t nothing much besides that. Like the long transcontinental flights on which they embark, they arrive on our shores with excess baggage, ready to unload on the first brown woman they see. They will leave you with nothing besides a broken heart, a confused mind, perhaps a Facebook friendship, and a fur shrug. You have been warned. Enter the foreign man’s hostel at your own risk.
Everything is Better With Gay Men.
This past year I have made many important friendships, many of which were with gay men. Some of whom I knew in previous years, our love strengthened and deepened with the dawning of the spring and the sunshine of the summer. I spent many lazy afternoons sitting in Central Park with the Boys, ogling shirtless hotties and drinking white trash sangria. We laughed, we cried, we developed blogs and I developed crushes. I’m prepared to lend my womb, heart, and soul to these men as our lives continue forward. I must name the best of the best, just so they know who they are:
Mr. Casey: you taught me about politics, life, and laughter…and I love your mom.
Vince Vaughn: I think you know who you are. You are the counterpart to Mr. Casey, and by far the most surprising love affair I’ve had this year. You make me wanna be a strong black woman.
JJS iii: Your Photoshop is too bootylicious for me, your rhymes are like whoa, and you support my love of HP. Without your support, this blacktress blog would not exist. You may be involved with a D-list, but you’re A-list to me!
Nick Cearley: Sweet god in heaven, you are it. If I had to be trapped in a closet, I hope it would be with you…and some showtunes. Billy Jean may not be your lover, but I think I am!
Tumbles: You cartwheeled your way into my heart, and being fellow Sagittarians, I knew our bond would deepen. We should go on more dates where other people come along.
Ronnie: I have a crush on you. There, I said it. Imagine how hot our mixie would be.
Jeff Hiller: Our love has only just begun. You are my brother from another mother, and I can’t wait to improvise with you.
Katie Walsh: You are a 35-year-old gay man trapped in a woman’s body. You publicly relate to my soul.
Artists and Serious Art Hobbyists Are Cray.
Since working at this art magazine, I have come in contact with more weirdos than I do on NYC transit. Apparently, acrylic painters are oppressed, anything in life can be cured with plasticize board, and “artists are lower than whale shit.” It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to answer my phone.
I LOVE NEW YORK….WHEN SHE COONS IT UP.
I’ve given her way too much blog time to not acknowledge the force New York has been in my life. She’s a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania (aka, Utica, NY—not even the city, y’all!), and she has about as much class as a kid at summer camp, I know. But she entertains me. She makes me feel better about myself, and reminds me why black people can’t have nice things sometimes. She is currently boo-ed up with Tailor Made—aka GEORGE WEISGERBER. Um, I don’t know about y’all, but I would die of happiness if New York came to introduce herself as Mrs. Weisgerber. Can. You. Imagine like John Lennon?!
When it comes to New York, I have one word for you: TOOKEN.
Anyone Can Be A Strong Black Woman!
I know this statement may seem shocking and bold, but I hold it to be the TRUTH. As I have shared stories with my ladies and my fellas, I’ve found that strength, courage, and wisdom rest not only with India.Arie. Clearly White in their own right, Karisa, Katie, Litsa, and even Edith Zimmerman have shown themselves to also be strong black women. With their heads held high, their pockets fat like Tony Soprano, and their chinchillas, they can handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Everyone Comes Into Your Life For A Reason—Or A Season.
As you know, much of my bloggery has been devoted to the quest for a “winter spoon.” But most of the people I have met (electronically and organically) have not been worth their weight in gold dubloons. I have kissed frogs, dogs, and stayed in shit way too long just for the idea of what I wanted. I have learned that I need to let that go. Besides, this global warming may work in my favor, as half the season has been warm enough to forgo spooning altogether. I am done dealing with fools and consoling myself with the thought that they’ll at least make a good blog post. It is time to stand up as the strong black woman I am and stop cleaning up after other people’s hot messes.
That is all dear Reader. If you have made it this far along, I thank you for supporting Sojourner yet again. Look forward to a year of truth, justice, and the African-American way.
Welcome to 2008! As you can see, we are not as far along as we should be as a people. To my dismay, I awoke in Brooklyn on the 1st day of 2008 and stepped outside to see NO flying cars, and discovered that I hadn’t become an omnipotent robot. I expected way more from us this far along in the aughts (this is what we call the first decade. Yeah, look it up. The blacktress teaches).
Oh yeah, and there’s still oppression everywhere.
As we look to this new year, and as the decade draws to a close, I would like to share some of the lessons I have learned this long, hard year. Perhaps you, too, will gain something from my strife. After all, what good is the struggle if you can’t help someone out?
Sometimes, the only lesson to be learned from something is to not do it again.
Yeah, I said it. I’m so done with all these people telling me that “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger” (yeah, Kanye, I’m talking to you). I don’t think that’s true. Sometimes rough shit happens and it just sucks. And when it’s all said and done, you learn not to go down that road again. In the words of the wise musician Rick, “Experience is what you get when you don’t get what you wanted.” Yes, true that.
Don’t Buy Him A Drank (Shawty TRIPPIN’!)
Did I ever tell you about the hot mess I met back in November? We locked eyes at the Bourgie Pig (my jam and my jump-off), and, inspired by T-Pain and my liberal need to shirk the gender binary, I decided to buy HIM a drank. I was nervous as the waiter walked over with his beer (that’s what dudes drank, right?). I was pleasantly surprised when he came over and started chatting and then asked for my number. I had high hopes for this 30-year-old IT guy with the bald head and stubble I’ve come to realize is my type.
I was sorely let down when my interactions with Dave became a series of late-night text messages that amounted to nothing. He fell off the face of the earth in the month of December, citing “too much schoolwork” (um, I’m not impressed! Even ancient man knew to holla at a cavewoman after chasing mastadons). I clearly kicked him to the curb—one of the many lessons learned this year—and decided he was dead to me, much like Michael Jackson and Boyz II Men (where are you????).
You can imagine my shock when I received a text message from him at 2 AM this past Friday night!!! I believe the exact words were: “Wadd up…2 am winter spoon?”
No that fool did NOT use my words to woo me! And no he didn’t think he could call me up at 2am like I’m some common woman and expect his needs to be met. That is just like a damn white man to lose his good-goddamn mind and think he can play. I said I was a blacktress—NOT a wack-tress!
White People Have Too Much Money, and it Makes Them Stupid
Yeah, I said it. The paparazzi have shown us what Biggie was saying all along: Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems. From crazy Britney (Tears for Spears, ’08—courtesy Leila Estes!!!) to that Wicked Leona Helmsley, clearly, when white folks get money, they go a little nuts. The green makes them a hot mess, and they don’t know what to do with themselves. Leaving a damn dog money?! Shaving your head, showing your bare vajayjay, and getting into more baby mama drama than a Jerry Springer guest?! I mean, come on, people!
Get an Office Wife and an Office Husband—Preferably Gay-- and the Plantation Will Be Less Oppressive.
My first full-fledged non-temporary office job has taught me that there really is no such thing as sexual harassment if your coworkers like you. I mean, my tender office wife brings nothing but good cheer and laughter, even when I say things that don’t make sense. AND she’s even into Jesus and finds my offensive humor hilARious! Getting an office wife turns the mundane task of sitting at a desk into your very own slumber party, complete with giggling, snacks, and pillow fights (with rulers instead of pillows). Today’s gem from wifey proves it. When discussing our resolutions to eat healthier (I’m on Fatkins, not Atkins), she said to me, “Girl, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. You can eat whatever you want. I think if you trace back to your ancestry, you’ll find you were, like, a cougar in the Egyptian wilderness.”
AAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!! Wifey is sooo cray! God bless her.
(We’re both probably getting fired soon.)
Gchat IS LIFE.
I don’t think anything could have gotten through this sedentary year of 9-to-5’in’ quite like Gmail and its chatting capabilities. It’s like I can talk to people for 8 hours straight and make money at the same time. I’m never out of the gossip loop, I’ve got youtube links coming out of my arse, and every puny thought that runs through my brain can be shared with 12 people in an instant. I mean, how did the world exist before the interweb? What, people interacted face to face? What about ugly people? I think not.
Everyone Needs A Litsa.
Seriously, she came into my life in the summer like a heat wave—only without the sticky sweat or bad smell. She warmed my heart and soul, and I wouldn’t have survived the blackout of 2007 if it wasn’t for her ability to keep a sober head while nearly blind-drunk. She is my Harlem girl with lesbian dogs, who has hosted me, fed me, given me her bed (in more ways than one), and acted as a sex-cellent partner in crime. Unfortunately for me, her winter spoon has returned, so she’s gone all domestic, but discovering this tame side has only made me appreciate her more. Without our daily gchats, her distrust of unattractive people, and her love of yellowtail Shiraz, I don’t know how I would have made it into 2008.
Foreign Men Are Evil.
Ugh, George Bush would be too proud to hear me say this (lord knows he wouldn’t be able to read it). However, I cannot let that stop me from speaking my truth. I have learned that from Australia to Astoria, from Greece to London, these fools have as many emotional barriers as language barriers, and treat each kiss like another stamp on their passport: makes for a great story, but ain’t nothing much besides that. Like the long transcontinental flights on which they embark, they arrive on our shores with excess baggage, ready to unload on the first brown woman they see. They will leave you with nothing besides a broken heart, a confused mind, perhaps a Facebook friendship, and a fur shrug. You have been warned. Enter the foreign man’s hostel at your own risk.
Everything is Better With Gay Men.
This past year I have made many important friendships, many of which were with gay men. Some of whom I knew in previous years, our love strengthened and deepened with the dawning of the spring and the sunshine of the summer. I spent many lazy afternoons sitting in Central Park with the Boys, ogling shirtless hotties and drinking white trash sangria. We laughed, we cried, we developed blogs and I developed crushes. I’m prepared to lend my womb, heart, and soul to these men as our lives continue forward. I must name the best of the best, just so they know who they are:
Mr. Casey: you taught me about politics, life, and laughter…and I love your mom.
Vince Vaughn: I think you know who you are. You are the counterpart to Mr. Casey, and by far the most surprising love affair I’ve had this year. You make me wanna be a strong black woman.
JJS iii: Your Photoshop is too bootylicious for me, your rhymes are like whoa, and you support my love of HP. Without your support, this blacktress blog would not exist. You may be involved with a D-list, but you’re A-list to me!
Nick Cearley: Sweet god in heaven, you are it. If I had to be trapped in a closet, I hope it would be with you…and some showtunes. Billy Jean may not be your lover, but I think I am!
Tumbles: You cartwheeled your way into my heart, and being fellow Sagittarians, I knew our bond would deepen. We should go on more dates where other people come along.
Ronnie: I have a crush on you. There, I said it. Imagine how hot our mixie would be.
Jeff Hiller: Our love has only just begun. You are my brother from another mother, and I can’t wait to improvise with you.
Katie Walsh: You are a 35-year-old gay man trapped in a woman’s body. You publicly relate to my soul.
Artists and Serious Art Hobbyists Are Cray.
Since working at this art magazine, I have come in contact with more weirdos than I do on NYC transit. Apparently, acrylic painters are oppressed, anything in life can be cured with plasticize board, and “artists are lower than whale shit.” It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to answer my phone.
I LOVE NEW YORK….WHEN SHE COONS IT UP.
I’ve given her way too much blog time to not acknowledge the force New York has been in my life. She’s a sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania (aka, Utica, NY—not even the city, y’all!), and she has about as much class as a kid at summer camp, I know. But she entertains me. She makes me feel better about myself, and reminds me why black people can’t have nice things sometimes. She is currently boo-ed up with Tailor Made—aka GEORGE WEISGERBER. Um, I don’t know about y’all, but I would die of happiness if New York came to introduce herself as Mrs. Weisgerber. Can. You. Imagine like John Lennon?!
When it comes to New York, I have one word for you: TOOKEN.
Anyone Can Be A Strong Black Woman!
I know this statement may seem shocking and bold, but I hold it to be the TRUTH. As I have shared stories with my ladies and my fellas, I’ve found that strength, courage, and wisdom rest not only with India.Arie. Clearly White in their own right, Karisa, Katie, Litsa, and even Edith Zimmerman have shown themselves to also be strong black women. With their heads held high, their pockets fat like Tony Soprano, and their chinchillas, they can handle the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Everyone Comes Into Your Life For A Reason—Or A Season.
As you know, much of my bloggery has been devoted to the quest for a “winter spoon.” But most of the people I have met (electronically and organically) have not been worth their weight in gold dubloons. I have kissed frogs, dogs, and stayed in shit way too long just for the idea of what I wanted. I have learned that I need to let that go. Besides, this global warming may work in my favor, as half the season has been warm enough to forgo spooning altogether. I am done dealing with fools and consoling myself with the thought that they’ll at least make a good blog post. It is time to stand up as the strong black woman I am and stop cleaning up after other people’s hot messes.
That is all dear Reader. If you have made it this far along, I thank you for supporting Sojourner yet again. Look forward to a year of truth, justice, and the African-American way.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
DRANKS FOR 2007!
So, this just in:
The top 10 lists for 2007 have made their way to my desk. From TVs, to movies, to downloads, to websites, I've got the pdf file of what was hot and what was not.
While many of the titles were to be expected, my heart actually leapt at one chart-topper:
List of Top 10 Most Digitally Downloaded Songs
10----Something
9-----Something
8-----Something
7-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!
List of Top 10 Most Played Songs on the Radio
1-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!
YES! I'm just so happy that T-Pain's misspelling behind is finally getting the attention he deserves. Not only is drank my favorite word (closely followed by tooken), but this man has given more hope to ugly fools the world over. I mean, look at him:
He is not a looker. He might even qualify as a hot mess. But he buys DRANKS. These, for those of you who don't know, are even more potent than regular alcoholic beverages, and often inspire pole-dancing. He even says that he wants you to "get drunk and forget what we did"-- something that only a potent drank can cause.
The top 10 lists for 2007 have made their way to my desk. From TVs, to movies, to downloads, to websites, I've got the pdf file of what was hot and what was not.
While many of the titles were to be expected, my heart actually leapt at one chart-topper:
List of Top 10 Most Digitally Downloaded Songs
10----Something
9-----Something
8-----Something
7-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!
List of Top 10 Most Played Songs on the Radio
1-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!
YES! I'm just so happy that T-Pain's misspelling behind is finally getting the attention he deserves. Not only is drank my favorite word (closely followed by tooken), but this man has given more hope to ugly fools the world over. I mean, look at him:
He is not a looker. He might even qualify as a hot mess. But he buys DRANKS. These, for those of you who don't know, are even more potent than regular alcoholic beverages, and often inspire pole-dancing. He even says that he wants you to "get drunk and forget what we did"-- something that only a potent drank can cause.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Mondays With Artists
Yeah, it's Wednesday, whatever.
But I had to share this ridiculous press release that came to my attention this morning. I won't use the artist's name, but this is at the very top of her press release:
Are you passionate about cutlery? What about when it.... glows?
But I had to share this ridiculous press release that came to my attention this morning. I won't use the artist's name, but this is at the very top of her press release:
Ms. Anderson is a passionate woman. She's passionate about life, she's passionate about family--and she's really, really passionate about cutlery.
That's right, cutlery: forks, knives, and spoons.
They are, according to Anderson, so much more than they appear.
What? What the hell does this mean? I love that cutlery trumps family and life. Cutlery IS life.
Clearly, this woman has no one to love and nothing else to do, and she's surrounded by people who lead her to believe her love for cutlery qualifies as "Art" and not "Mental Illness."
The end of the press release says she's available for interviews; I may have to call her up. I think she may need the Sojourner Truth.
I should also mention that this quote is from an excerpt from a longer article in the "Costco Connection 2007" Has anyone heard of this publication? I assume you receive it with your bulk items. Why haven't I been writing for this magazine? Clearly, they'll take anything.
That's right, cutlery: forks, knives, and spoons.
They are, according to Anderson, so much more than they appear.
What? What the hell does this mean? I love that cutlery trumps family and life. Cutlery IS life.
Clearly, this woman has no one to love and nothing else to do, and she's surrounded by people who lead her to believe her love for cutlery qualifies as "Art" and not "Mental Illness."
The end of the press release says she's available for interviews; I may have to call her up. I think she may need the Sojourner Truth.
I should also mention that this quote is from an excerpt from a longer article in the "Costco Connection 2007" Has anyone heard of this publication? I assume you receive it with your bulk items. Why haven't I been writing for this magazine? Clearly, they'll take anything.
Are you passionate about cutlery? What about when it.... glows?
Thursday, November 1, 2007
COTTON gin and tonics with Gay Visionaries-- aka HALLOWEEN
Happy Halloween Everybody!
The Greek went crazy. He began sending me angry emails, hurling insults at me much in the way the god Zeus hurled lightning bolts at mere mortals for sport. He also called me, utilizing his lack of a cell phone to give me attitude and force me to speak with him. He simply could not handle the truth of the fact that I DIDN'T WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM EVER AGAIN.
Whiteley never called. He’s dead to me. I should have known not to even holla at a man who sleeps on a mattress on a floor.
I’m meeting with the co-op board tonight to see if I get my apartment!!! This is the big moment guys. Sojo will finally be free from the shackles of the oppression of her mother and her latin lover Eduardo. Keep your fingers crossed (for me) and your legs crossed (for Jesus)!
(That's me and Massa Colin, remembering the good times.) “What?” I said.
“I said—where you gon’ lay your troubles down?”
“Oh, you mean my friend Kristin?”
SHUT THE FLIP UP! How could he just drop that
I wasn’t.
But I think I may have finally found my baby daddy.
Everyone who reads this should look Jeff up on MySpace and totally become his friend. Tell him Sojourner sent you. He’ll know what it means.
Okay, back to work on the plantation!
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Where Am I?
So, I'm sitting here, packaging artists' slides and listening to music, creating a cocoon of productivity, when the mail guy rolls by my cubicle/veal pen with his cart. Mail guy is middle aged, bald, and has about 2 good teeth-- hot mess. He likes to chat, and I try to be friendly, so we have a rapport (and sometimes I get free interoffice envelopes). However, I do like to maintain a certain distance-- not only due to his breath, but because he's a little too chatty for my taste.
And this time, he went a bit too far.
"Hey Naomi, I got something for you."
I turn around, as mail guy often says this-- and it's ALWAYS MAIL. I mean, what else would he have for me? Yet, he always says he's got "something," as though we have secret exchanges. Hmm... maybe he's referring to the same PACKAGE as R. Kelly.
Anyway, I look and see that mail guy is holding.... a giant plastic green bottle, filled with confetti, a copy of Parenting magazine (with Shrek on the cover), and other treats.
WHAT?!
"That is not for me, Mail Guy."
"Yes it is, look," he says, gesturing towards the bottles opening, where there is a large slit. "It's a piggy bank, too. I thought you could use it. It's a bottle and it's a piggy bank."
Again, I ask, WHAT?!
"Mail Guy, give that to whoever it belongs to."
He begins to roll away, laughing, "You know I take care of you, girl. I look out."
What is happening today?
The bottle was this big. Seriously. Wait, no-- it was BIGGER.
And this time, he went a bit too far.
"Hey Naomi, I got something for you."
I turn around, as mail guy often says this-- and it's ALWAYS MAIL. I mean, what else would he have for me? Yet, he always says he's got "something," as though we have secret exchanges. Hmm... maybe he's referring to the same PACKAGE as R. Kelly.
Anyway, I look and see that mail guy is holding.... a giant plastic green bottle, filled with confetti, a copy of Parenting magazine (with Shrek on the cover), and other treats.
WHAT?!
"That is not for me, Mail Guy."
"Yes it is, look," he says, gesturing towards the bottles opening, where there is a large slit. "It's a piggy bank, too. I thought you could use it. It's a bottle and it's a piggy bank."
Again, I ask, WHAT?!
"Mail Guy, give that to whoever it belongs to."
He begins to roll away, laughing, "You know I take care of you, girl. I look out."
What is happening today?
The bottle was this big. Seriously. Wait, no-- it was BIGGER.
Mondays With Artists....
Okay, I know that technically today is Thursday, but I like the idea of a theme of sorts, so I’ve decided to use the same title as before. For background, see my previous post on the crazies I encounter via telephone at my place of employment. The following conversation was much more brief than Ms. Tembly, but still managed to pack enough discomfort in 3 minutes that I felt the need to share it with you. Read on, gentle reader….
Sojourner: Hello Ms. Sharp, this is Sojourner Truth, returning your call.
Sharp: Oh, yes, hello. I spoke with your advertising office yesterday and got some information. See, I’d been confused about my ad placement. I had been advertising online, thinking it was affiliated with your magazine, but it’s actually another publication.
Sojo: I see, I see. Will you be placing an ad in our directory this year?
Sharp: Yes, I will. I’ve been out of the business for a while. (she then proceeds to tell me the following in a casual, almost offhand manner, as though she reciting her grocery list): My son was living with me for a while, then he got sick and died, and I lost a couple of years of my life, so I’m getting the business side of things in order.
Sojo: I’m sorry.
(I really didn’t know what to say. I was uncomfortable. This was much, much more than I needed to know—and had very little to do with the ad she was placing. )
Sharp: I love your magazine, but I live up in the sticks-- with a Nazi magazine retailer who doesn’t carry any of the publications I like.
(Harsh words—I see ‘Sharp’ isn’t just a clever surname. This woman is fierce.)
Sojo: We can start you on a subscription if you’d like.
(The attempt to see her the magazine is part of my new motto, ABC—Always Be Closing. You’ve gotta be workin’ it 24/7 365)
Sharp: Oh, I can’t do that. You see, Sojourner, on my social security income I can’t afford to subscribe to any magazines.
Uh-oh…I’ve just made things worse and more awkward.
Sharp: I’m living on basically $10- $15 per day, which comes out to roughly $3 per hour. And I’ve been calling my congressman to raise the social security so that it at least matches minimum wage, but it’s a losing battle.
Sojo: Oh, hell to the no, Ms. Sharp—that’s a hot mess!!!
Sharp: It is, Sojourner.
(We share a moment of silence, bonded over our oppression. Though, quite frankly, I made less than that as a slave, and I managed to still add some spice to my food.)
Sharp: Do you still write articles on artists.
(Um, yeah… that’s what we do.)
Sojo: Of course!
Sharp: Well, I’d love to submit my work for your review. I’ve been working on a 2008 calendar that I think shows great pieces.
Sojo: Great! I’ll send you our guidelines, all right?
I take down her e-mail address and mentally promise to donate some money to her life. It’s a hand up, not a hand out.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Office Wife
You may be surprised to learn that, in addition to being a woman of color, writer, and blacktress, I am also in a committed REAL-ationship with a woman.
She is my office wife. Her name is Allison, and she’s a semi-precious stone of Caucasian beauty.
Initially, I was nervous and awkward around Allison. She wears a lot of muted tones, sensible slacks, and has well-coiffed blonde hair. I figured she was not going to be able to handle Sojourner. I was worried that she’d be like, “aah, she’s black, I don’t know how to talk to her!” and she’d mistake my sassiness for negro anger. I was warned pre-meeting not to use profanity around Allison, lest her delicate ears burn.
Then, one day, I came in to work looking all done up. It’s a rare moment, when the contact lenses and cute top appear in tandem, and Allison noticed. Not only did she feed my ego, but she also said, “Oh, you got your hair did!”
YES! I got my hair DID!!!
Where Allison learned the incorrect verbiage used for black-tresses, I will never know! What are they teaching young people in the suburbs of Hoboken?! My shock was further compounded when, a few days later, I asked Alli for some hand lotion and she said, “Why, are your elbows ashy?”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!! Kind of offensive, yet kind of hilarious and subversive!
She can handle the truth!!
The best part is that she says these things with the wide-open eagerness of a child, not a hint of irony or self-awareness in her voice. Her words are pure and her love is true.
Since those moments, I’ve let it all hang out with Allison, even letting her read my blog. And she attended my comedic performance a few weeks back, and laughed at moments when others didn’t. I think this is why I love her most. No matter what I say to her, she cracks up. She allows my randomness to flow free, and makes our cubicles/veal pens feel like wide open meadows filled with flowers and unicorns.
Do you see how poetic this love makes me?!
And when she edits my articles, wielding her red pen like a sword, I know she’s doing it out of love. She is doing it so that, one day my blogs don’t contain so many typos and improper uses of commas. She does it because she cares.
We’re getting gay married in Ontario next week. Our registry is at pottery barn and Melissa Ethridge’s garage sale.
This is me and Alli. She's standing over me copyediting an article I wrote. She's kind of like a female Abe Lincoln, in her understanding of the brown people and desire for us to be equals.
She is my office wife. Her name is Allison, and she’s a semi-precious stone of Caucasian beauty.
Initially, I was nervous and awkward around Allison. She wears a lot of muted tones, sensible slacks, and has well-coiffed blonde hair. I figured she was not going to be able to handle Sojourner. I was worried that she’d be like, “aah, she’s black, I don’t know how to talk to her!” and she’d mistake my sassiness for negro anger. I was warned pre-meeting not to use profanity around Allison, lest her delicate ears burn.
Then, one day, I came in to work looking all done up. It’s a rare moment, when the contact lenses and cute top appear in tandem, and Allison noticed. Not only did she feed my ego, but she also said, “Oh, you got your hair did!”
YES! I got my hair DID!!!
Where Allison learned the incorrect verbiage used for black-tresses, I will never know! What are they teaching young people in the suburbs of Hoboken?! My shock was further compounded when, a few days later, I asked Alli for some hand lotion and she said, “Why, are your elbows ashy?”
HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!!!! Kind of offensive, yet kind of hilarious and subversive!
She can handle the truth!!
The best part is that she says these things with the wide-open eagerness of a child, not a hint of irony or self-awareness in her voice. Her words are pure and her love is true.
Since those moments, I’ve let it all hang out with Allison, even letting her read my blog. And she attended my comedic performance a few weeks back, and laughed at moments when others didn’t. I think this is why I love her most. No matter what I say to her, she cracks up. She allows my randomness to flow free, and makes our cubicles/veal pens feel like wide open meadows filled with flowers and unicorns.
Do you see how poetic this love makes me?!
And when she edits my articles, wielding her red pen like a sword, I know she’s doing it out of love. She is doing it so that, one day my blogs don’t contain so many typos and improper uses of commas. She does it because she cares.
We’re getting gay married in Ontario next week. Our registry is at pottery barn and Melissa Ethridge’s garage sale.
This is me and Alli. She's standing over me copyediting an article I wrote. She's kind of like a female Abe Lincoln, in her understanding of the brown people and desire for us to be equals.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Gross Moments
Oh my god.
I think I work in a crack den.
I went to the bathroom after having my mid-afternoon Oreo* cookies and milk and saw a GIANT COCKROACH.
It was huge! I swear, I thought I heard it talk.
I was in the individual/handicapped/differently abled bathroom and almost screamed in horror. The cockroach was clearly startled by my presence, and started to zoom around the room. I thought I was trapped until I remembered to turn the handle-- much like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park (they're thinking!!!!).
I left the stall and had to use the larger ladies room, which is very difficult for me, as I hate relieving myself publicly. Luckily, it was just a onesy, so I hightailed it out of there pretty quick.
Once I calmed down, I started to think of "Flavor of Love," cause I've always thought Flava Flav looks like a cockroach. LOOK:
EWWWW.... He is so terrifying. I think the flavor of his love is something nasty, like... urine.
When the world comes to an end, only Flava will survive.
Anyway, that, coupled with the recent consumption of Oreos had me thinking about how badly I want to be on that show. You know how he gives each girl a demeaning nickname? I think mine would be something ridiculous like "Brainy Bourgie," cause I can read, string coherent sentences together, and will not relieve myself publicly like many of them are wont to do.
I can hear him now in the confessional:
"Oh yeah, I'm feeling Brainy Bourgie, cause she classy. She always be recoilin' when I come close-- that sh** be sexy. Oh yeah, she makin' it to the next round. We could have some smarty-art babies, little Urkels runnin' around."
I would totally use my chance in the spotlight to call the truth left and right on that show. I'd show up with Toni Morrison books, GED exams, and get those sad women on the right track. I know their only aspiration is to be a video ho, but they should at the very least be able to count their earnings and tally up a bill.
*for the longest time I was called an Oreo due to my tendency to "talk White." It took me years before I'd put one of those delicious treats to my lips. By the way, I don't talk White, I talk right!
I think I work in a crack den.
I went to the bathroom after having my mid-afternoon Oreo* cookies and milk and saw a GIANT COCKROACH.
It was huge! I swear, I thought I heard it talk.
I was in the individual/handicapped/differently abled bathroom and almost screamed in horror. The cockroach was clearly startled by my presence, and started to zoom around the room. I thought I was trapped until I remembered to turn the handle-- much like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park (they're thinking!!!!).
I left the stall and had to use the larger ladies room, which is very difficult for me, as I hate relieving myself publicly. Luckily, it was just a onesy, so I hightailed it out of there pretty quick.
Once I calmed down, I started to think of "Flavor of Love," cause I've always thought Flava Flav looks like a cockroach. LOOK:
EWWWW.... He is so terrifying. I think the flavor of his love is something nasty, like... urine.When the world comes to an end, only Flava will survive.
Anyway, that, coupled with the recent consumption of Oreos had me thinking about how badly I want to be on that show. You know how he gives each girl a demeaning nickname? I think mine would be something ridiculous like "Brainy Bourgie," cause I can read, string coherent sentences together, and will not relieve myself publicly like many of them are wont to do.
I can hear him now in the confessional:
"Oh yeah, I'm feeling Brainy Bourgie, cause she classy. She always be recoilin' when I come close-- that sh** be sexy. Oh yeah, she makin' it to the next round. We could have some smarty-art babies, little Urkels runnin' around."
I would totally use my chance in the spotlight to call the truth left and right on that show. I'd show up with Toni Morrison books, GED exams, and get those sad women on the right track. I know their only aspiration is to be a video ho, but they should at the very least be able to count their earnings and tally up a bill.
*for the longest time I was called an Oreo due to my tendency to "talk White." It took me years before I'd put one of those delicious treats to my lips. By the way, I don't talk White, I talk right!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
A Conversation Among Heteros
Litsa: Where did he meet his boyfriend?
Me: At a bar.
Litsa: A bar? Wow. It's really so unfairly lucky to be a gay man.
Mind you, this conversation is taking place via g-chat as I read a catalog sent to me by accident by Godiva Chocolatier.
Me: At a bar.
Litsa: A bar? Wow. It's really so unfairly lucky to be a gay man.
Mind you, this conversation is taking place via g-chat as I read a catalog sent to me by accident by Godiva Chocolatier.
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