Marriage Material

Hey guys. What’s been going on? I feel so out of the loop. The last couple weeks have been totes cray cray, but I’m finally rejoining society—and by that, I mean, going straight home after work and hopping in bed by 10 (Sojo is old, y’all). The major stressor this past week was a friend’s bachelorette party, which somehow I got involved in planning many months ago. At that time, blacktress loved a good party, and with no job and plenty of free time, planning a bachelorette was quite appealing.
No, I’m not in the wedding party.
No, I’m not even that close with this girl. I see her roughly every four months, over a 90-minute dinner in which she often tells me I “seem so much better than last time we talked,” which I guess is supposed to be uplifting, but I don’t really pay attention because she often just gets the high (or, I guess, to be more accurate, LOW) lights over thai food.

Anyway, I digress. I’m not bitter, I swear.

Suddenly, with the bachelorette date of April 24 approaching, I had to put my money (and seriously, I mean my money) where my mouth was, making a customized recipe book that consisted of personalized notes from family, friends, and even the future German in-laws. This wasn't particularly difficult, but it was time-consuming, as I had to find a way to get it done wile doing my 9-5, trying to get my side-hustle stand-up career on, and preparing for my television debut. Needless to say, I was pretty stressed.

But Saturday came, and it was me and 7 future doctors, only one of whom wasn’t in a serious long-term relationship. I planned an evening that started at my favorite wine bar, which was only made awkward by the fact that I’m not drinking at the moment. So, there I sat, as the conversation turned to episiotomies, (click at your own risk!) drinking my mocktail, and wondering why I was destined to die alone and poor. I also made a mental note never to get admitted into a hospital.
Good times.
I then planned for us to head over to a delicious tapas restaurant, where they didn’t take reservations, but told me to just put our names down 20-30 minutes before we were ready. Of course, at that point, the place was nearly empty and the hostess told me not to worry about it. When we got there less than half-an-hour later, however, the place was packed, and we ended up waiting over an hour to sit down. As we waited, we became acquainted with two cheesy d-bags, and, in true blacktress fashion, the baggier of the d-bags took a shine to me. His name was Keith, and he looked like a cross between Andrew Dice Clay and “The Situation,” from The Jersey Shore.
Not cute.

I love "The Dice's" bedazzled vest.

He spent much of the time pestering me to have a drink and telling me I needed to “loosen up,” by which I think he meant, “drop my panties.” He then told me I looked like Kelly Rowland from “Destiny’s Child,” after explaining that his friends tell him he looks like Billy Baldwin. He really brought it home when he said,
“We’re gonna be in the tabloids tomorrow! It’ll say, ‘Billy Baldwin has a case of Jungle Fever!!!”
Um, check please!

Oh wait, it’s 10pm and I HAVEN’T EATEN YET, so I can’t get a check.

The night was quite tame, as you can probably guess from a guest list that includes 6 docs who were either coming off of, or preparing for, an overnight shift. The girls were nice, but as the Maid of Honor and co-planner put it, “they're completely sleep-deprived people, which clearly translates to functioning at a level that hovers below normal humans.”

At the end of the night, I gathered my passport and other paperwork and headed to Greenpoint, BK, to hang out with Jewboo. After being accosted by “The Dice,” it was nice to hang out with a man who respected me despite the fact that my boobs were prominently displayed. The next morning, we had brunch with two of his old friends, and I tried my best to make a swell impression. As expected, the male friend was easy to get along with, quick to laugh, and perfectly content just shooting the shit, while Jewboo’s female friend was a bit quiet and reserved, making me nearly nauseous with nerves.

After that ended, we hung out for a bit, and Jewboo and I took a nap at around 4:30pm—cause we’re classy like that. I was clearly coming off of an emotional hangover of hanging out with the “Grey’s Anatomy” extras and trying to impress bf’s friends and needed to rest. Things were all well and good until I decided to break out my first cry of the new relationship, which we all know is the first nail in the coffin. Afterwards, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it had taken me 6 weeks to break out the waterworks, which definitely constitutes growth.

As you can imagine, the blacktress has a flair for the dramatic. Part of being a successful blacktress requires an ability to “easily access” one’s emotions, which means I can cry at the drop of a hat. The story of conjoined twins separated, a moving Chris Meloni monologue on “Law & Order: SVU,” or even just a particularly deserving “America’s Next Top Model” winner can bring a tear to a blacktress’ eye.

This easy access to emotions, coupled with my deep-seated need for approval and fear of dying alone means that one sideways glance from Jewboo after hanging out with engaged girls, and I’m blubbering like an idiot, because I’ve failed in my duty gf.

See, I’ve got this twisted perception that I bring two things to the relationship table: orgasms and food. After all, that’s the only reason heterosexual relationships function, isn’t it? Men don’t want to talk about feelings, they don’t want to be challenged in any way, and they don’t really look for a “partner,” so much as easy access to both food and vag….right?
Clearly, I’m a hot mess, suffering the aftermath of an absent father figure. For those of you who are surprised, I suggest you start reading this blog from the beginning.

Anyway, things are okay now, but I spent much of yesterday waiting to be IM’d, and then caving and IM’ing him with a stupid question…because in my head I am a 17-year-old in a CW drama, and I suffer from mild autism.

Anyhoozle, I’m glad that’s all over. Going to bed at 11pm last night was awesome. I feel way more emotionally stable. And even though I haven’t received so much as a “thank you” from the bride-to-be, I don’t mind, because it helps fuel my self-righteous resentment.

I’ve missed you guys. I’ll be back with funnier blog posts soon.

I Have a Fatty Girl-Crush On My Podiatrist

Yesterday I had an appointment with a podiatrist, which I was only able to get with the help of Linda from the IEP office--seriously, these IEP folks are worth every penny, helping a blacktress find assistance when all seemed lost. I called the doctor's office and managed to get booked for the next day to see 'Jo.'

"Um, blacktress, is this 'Jo' character's office located in a van down by the river??" You may be wondering. No, no, reader. You know how laidback the aussies are. It's quite Australian to call up for a doctor's appointment and have everyone refer to the doctor by his or her first name, just like you're meeting a friend for lunch and just sorting the details with his/her secretary. Equality, yay!!

I showed up awkwardly early, but took this opportunity to read the trashy mags made available. I was fully engrossed in InStyle Australia (reversed seasons, reversed fashions!) when I heard my name. I looked up and saw a blonde bombshell looking at me.
"Hi, Naomi, I'm Jo."
"Hi," I said back. For a brief instant, I just thought she was being really friendly, and I almost went back to my magazine before realizing she was the podiatrist I had made an appointment with.

When we went into the office, where the lighting was much better, her hotness became even more apparent. She was totally rocking the high-waisted skirt with the tucked-in blouse in the 1960s style I love. She had Angie Jolie lips but they didn't look fake. She was, like, porno hot. But, like, classy porn--the soft-core stuff you'd order after you checked into your room at the Radisson.

I explained the situation to her, handed her my ultrasounds, and she was instantly on the case. She removed my bandage to look at my wound (her touch was so gentle), and it looked all healed and not hideous. I thought I was finally in the clear, but she stopped me.

"I know it looks closed, but I don't think it is underneath, and we want to open it up so the body can continue to heal from the inside out. I'm just going to get a scalpel, don't freak out...."

After that, it was all a blur. Excuse me, hot doctor?! You think you can play Sojo?! I've heard this kind of backwards talk on the plantation--how are you going to get a surgical implement, apply it to my body while I'm fully conscious, and tell me to NOT freak out? That's like saying, "I just want to have fun" after showing up at my place of employment--does not compute!

But, as I do with most hot people, I quickly succumbed to her backwards logic and gave her the go-ahead to cut me open from groin to sturnum, figuring it'd all be worth it in the end.

Again, her touch was quite tender, and I didn't feel any pain as she went to work. I was half-tempted to ask her if she came here often, but decided against it. She explained that I didn't have an infection anymore, and that I've torn the tendons that are responsible for movement of toes, which explains why, you know, they aren't moving. One of these tendons also runs down your leg into your foot, which explains why I've been having leg pain. Between initial infection, the tearing, and not being stitched, it's just a slow healing process, and I'm going to have to go back for follow-ups to make sure I regain movement. She also said I had to stay off my foot as much as possible and to ice it every night.

After finally having a handle on what was going on, and getting to bask in the hotness of Jo, I was feeling good. The sun was shining, I'd be able to walk soon enough, but still wasn't ready for work--doctor's orders! With this newfound excitement, I called up my manager and just told him flat-out that I QUIT!!!

I AM FREE, Y'ALL!!!

No more pouring of Tooheys. No more making quick fucks. No more getting yelled at by incoherent d-bags. No more 5-am bedtimes without the fun that's supposed to come before. And, most importantly, I will never have to hear "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry again.

Now, here's hoping a temp gig opens up post-haste. Yay for freedom!