Wellington--not just a boot, but a state of mind.

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 28 March 2009.

Greetings from Wellington, N-Zed!!

I am totes crushing on this town. I got here after midnight on the 26th, and from the moment I stepped out on Friday, I felt the buzz. My stomach was doing excited flips, the way it does when I get excited about seeing someone I haven't seen in a long time. Even though I was walking down a street that mainly consisted of warehouses, I felt like I could get down with this vibe--I was instantly feeling Welly's flava. It's kinda hipstery, and reminds me of Melbourne and NYC's East Village, but people are actually nice. Take for instance, the clerk at the jeans store, where I was on a hunt for some cute black jeans--we chatted for 20 minutes, he helped me find the cutest pair, and even gave me a gig guide so I could see what's on around town. We also talked about Kanye West being cray cray, and I think if I'd stayed around, he would have proposed to me just so he could come to NYC.

I'm trying to hunt for Bret and Jemaine, my FOTC boyfriends, but it's hard. Mainly because most people think I'm crazy when I ask where I can find them. As I walk the streets of Welly, I think to myself, "This is where Bret walked as he wrote 'Ladies of the World'" Can you imagine?! As I search various thrift stores, I try to find those cool sweaters Bret wears with pics of wolves on them, but so far, no luck. Nothing says "you could be a part-time model" like wolf art.

Ozzies always make fun of the kiwi accent, but only now, after 4 months of Ausland, can I tell the difference. The Kiwi accent is hilarious to me, as 'e' becomes 'i' and 'i' becomes 'u.' Take for instance, this gem I overheard:
"I sint him a tixt. I was tixting and tixting, and he niv-eh risponded. He's bin' a total duckhead."

'Duckhead' = 'Dickhead' Although I really wish she actually meant that he had the head of a duck. That would have been a way lower blow.

Okay, I should stop being a table-nine, indoor kid and go explore this big wide world of Wellington.

Talk soon.
xoxo,
blacktress

BSS and BCB

I just got back from my Bar Service Skills (BSS) course, which taught me the basics of bartending. We weren't allowed to use real liquor, but we worked the beer taps and practiced our fancy wine-pour technique.

We had to wear black pants, white button-down tops, and black shoes. As I walked to the class, I felt like I was on my way to a high school jazz performance, where we would funk up such classics as "America the Beautiful." I was a dash late, since I'm still getting turned around, but only one other student was there when I arrived.

Let's call him Crazy Eyes. 

He had those wide eyes that make you think you've just handed him an amazing present and he's about to say, "For ME?!" He was very fidgety, which is always suspect, and I avoided eye contact. Two minutes later, I hear a hissing sound, and look over to find Crazy Eyes applying spray-on deodorant to his pits. 

I kid you not.

This is happening in a waiting room.

I knew those eyes were a sign.

Only 5 of us are in today's clas, and we headed down to a bar in Darling Harbour, where we got down to biz-nass. Our teacher was a cool older woman who owns a pub outside of the city. As she went about the lesson, Crazy Eyes interjected whenever possible to tell us unnecessary information. For example,

"At home in New Zealand, you can go to a pub with an empty Cola bottle and just say, 'hey, mate, fill this up with some beer,' and they do it."

Um, really? 

Apparently, he tried it in Oz, and they turned him away.

As I walked behind him, I noticed that his haircut was an even hotter mess from the rear. It was almost like a cascade, with the top level being short and spiked, and the back divided into two tiers. However, this wasn't a mullet--it fell just below his ears. Oh, and I should mention it was dyed orange. I know it was a dye job because he was rocking 1980s, Judith Light in "Who's the Boss?"-style dark brown roots. 

Anyway, while I managed to tune him out and avoid looking in his mouth (don't get me started on the teeth), I learned much about pouring dranks/enabling addictions. The highlight was the role-playing at the end, when we each played a barman and a customer, and had to order 3 drinks. Of course, being the blacktress I am, I love a good RPG. As the shy Norwegian girl prepared to serve me, I put on my best "sleazy older gentleman" vibe.

"Hello, pretty lady, how are you today?"

[She laughed]

"Oh, by that laughter, I can sense a bit of an accent. Where are you from?"

"Norway."

"Ooh, precious. It gets cold there, eh? Do you want to snuggle?"

Then it stopped being funny.

Tonight I begin the couch-surfing lifestyle, and will be staying witha strong black woman from NY who moved to Sydney about 8 years ago. My mother knows her father, and I've basically been email-stalking her for the last 2 months. We met for the first time last week, and she is my shero.

She is the black Carrie Bradshaw--only without the whining and lameness.

She works as a fashion stylist, has a gay entourage to rival that of Bette, Liza, and Cher, and has taken the young Sojourner under her wing with no questions asked. 

God bless her soul.

She's even started reading the blog, which proves she can indeed handle the TRUTH. 

I told her of my dreams to be on Neighbours, and she told me that they're actually looking to diversify--holla at a blacktress' big break! Her son is an aspiring blacktor, but has already renounced Neighbours for more serious work. I think he has the chops to become the next Sydney Poitier.

I hope I won't put too big of a dent on her sofa, but when it comes to interim housing, Australian advice from BCB (as we're calling Black Carrie Bradshaw), is a hell of a lot better than tiptoeing around random Swedish girls, who seem to enjoy nothing more than crinkling plastic bags at 7:30 am. 

Checking out 2 more apts. this weekend. Wish me luck!

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.

Erase. Replace. Embrace new PLACE

That's a slight amendment to my normal motto: Erase. Replace. Embrace new face! You know how Sojo likes to bounce back when the men have done her wrong!

Today I gave the massa notice that I was leaving the plantation--yay!! I was really nervous to break the news, then I rememebr that laying it out there would be a hell of a lot better than running away and risk getting my feet cut off (remember ROOTS).

I was in a place of empowerment, as this action came on the heels of me officially dumping the kiwi.

Yes, readers, even after he was allegedly done, I went back into his foreign arms--partially out of boredom, and partially because he promised to feed me dinner yet again (you know how I hate to turn down a free meal--it's my weakness). However, it just wasn't working for me. I mean, I know I'm leaving and I'm not looking for a baby daddy, but at the very least I should be able to find someone who will call me up regularly and turn me out!!

"Well, duh, Sojourner," you may be thinking. "You're a strong black woman with a boobs so nice that your friend's fiancee calls you 'Count Rack-ula'--you should want for nothing in the bedroom."

Yes, you are right. But guys, I have a confession. I know that I may appear to be a strong black woman (you know, whose truth you can't handle), but I can be quite the delicate lamb with terrible taste in men. Often, I'll just let a relationship go on, too afraid to end it for whatever ridiculous reason. But, in anticipation of my upcoming voyage, I am turning over a new leaf (listening to India.Aire's "Strength, Courage, & Wisdom" helps), and no longer settling for half-assed d-bags simply because I'm bored or they think I've got nice boobies.

I believe when I called the kiwi my exact words were, "Let's stop this foolishness."

Y'all, I am a 47-year-old divorcee and I don't have time for this ish (me and Danny Glover are both getting too old for this shit)! I realized things had gotten too intense when my homegirl who is studying for the GREs used Sojourner's truths to help her learn some complicated mathematics. For example:

1. If the blacktress has 5 possible guys to date, how many different possible combinations are there for going out with different people on Friday and Satuday night?

2. If each of her dates send her an average of 5 inappropriate text messages per day, plus some other random dude sends 5 messages every 3 days, how many days until her inbox is full (assuming it holds 50 messages)?

3. If Sojourner has 6 slutty tops, 4 pairs of pants and 3 skirts to choose from, how many possible bombshell outfits can she construct?

4. Sojo starts in Harlem and travels 5.8 miles south to Union Sqare, then walks 1 mile east and .2 miles south to the bourgie pig. How far is she from home at the end of the night?

5. If Sojourner has $20 and she takes a cab home which charges a flat fee of $2.50 plus $0.40 per 1/5 mile, will she have enough money to pay for a 15% tip and a $2.00 slice of pizza?

6. If it takes 10 bonza blokes to drink a keg of beer in 4 hours, how long will it take 20 of them to drink 6 kegs?*

I mean, you know my madness has gotten too public when it's become engrained in the the minds of others and is helping them solve for 'y'. (you know, as is "Y God, Y?!")


Well, luckily, I can turn my attention to other good things happening in the world, such as JESSE McCARTNEY'S REMIX OF T-PAIN'S 'BUY YOU A DRANK'!!!
I kid you not.

I think we all know how I feel about the song 'buy you a drank' and its creator, T-Pain. And I think we all know even more how I feel about a tall glass of milk. Well, when you put the two together, you get a drank that's so delicious and intoxicating, I'm still hungover today at work. Check this out, y'all.



No, you're not dreaming.
You're welcome



*For those of you who are dying to know (and want to test your math skills), the answers are below:

1. 20
2. 5 days
3. 42
4. approximately 6.1 miles
5. yes, unless there is wait time
6. 12 hours

Forget Confucius—Blacktress Says…

So, I’m done with the Kiwi. After not calling me for 4 days—when he specifically said he would—I just lost interest. I mean, I don’t ask for much, but at the very least, do what you say you’re going to do, you know? Or, if you can’t do it, at least have a good reason. His excuse for not calling me: “I got really wasted all weekend and couldn’t call.”

Really? Really? That’s the best you got? Honey, in those kinds of situations, lie to me. tell me you lost a limb and needed to get it reattached before you could see me. Tell me you’ve been smoking too much and they had to amputate your fingers (like the lady in the NYC Subway ad about quitting smoking) and you couldn’t text me. Come up with some good shit!

When he finally resurfaced, he promised to make it up to me by cooking me dinner at his place. Never one to turn down a free meal (Mama didn’t raise no fool!), I went over there Monday night—and I think I might find his roommate more interesting than him.

Not a good sign.

When recounting a story about one of his coworkers (who he referred to as his “little black brother”), the Kiwi couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He’s trying to figure it out, and he looks at me and goes, “What’s a black name that begins with a ‘J’?”

Sweet god in heaven, am I on candid camera?

Normally, I can shake off foreign ignorance, but when the person puts their p in my v, my tolerance becomes much lower. I looked at him and said, “Um…Jay-Z?”

Anyway, after a decent dinner (made more delicious by the fact that I didn’t have to cook it or clean up afterwards), we chatted a little bit—or, rather, I listened as he talked. After a lackluster makeout session, I headed home. As I rode the bus (doing my part to help the environment and my wallet), I realized that the Kiwi may be a lighthearted distraction, and even though he’s quick to feed me a meal, he’s not actually bringing anything to the blacktress’ potluck.

Let me explain.

Sojourner has a theory--a philosophy, if you will (will you?). I first developed it a couple of years ago when I former female friend of mine started dating one of my exes who’d hurt me real bad. As I thought about how to handle the situation, I looked back on our friendship up until that point. Over the 4 years I’d known her, she’d slept with one of my crushes, and, when I offered to take her home one night when she was drunk-crying (you know, the worse kind of tears), she put her head in my lap and PUKED ON ME.
We were on minute 7 of a 45-minute car ride.

As I sat in her vomit that night, I knew that this was not someone who was good for me. It wasn't until later that I was able to sort out my feelings.

See, the thing is, life is like a potluck. And the question is: What do you bring to the table in the potluck of my life???

Think about it:

You have a gathering of friends, and tell each one to bring a little something—and what they bring to the table is very telling.

First off, you’ve got the friends who roll up with a main dish—maybe some pasta with pesto, or a hearty salad—maybe even a meat dish. Those are the people you can count on. They’re bringing some sustenance to your table, and by extension, your life.

YUMMERS!!! This kinda goodness comes from a bestie, who knows that you need to be fed--both emotionally and physically.

Then, you’ve got the people who roll up with a couple bottles of red wine—I like them. They may not be the ones you go to when the chips are down, but when you want to know where the party is, they’ve got it. And that, my friends, is vital.

Wine-bringers are the folks who will tell you to go up and talk to that hot guy who is eye-fucking the shit out of you, and if he doesn’t holla back, they’ll buy you a shot. God bless ‘em.


Then, there are the folks who come by with some sort of Entenmann’s cake they clearly got at Duane Reade on the way to your house. I mean, I appreciate the effort, but that’s a little lackluster. It’s like, they forget they had a place to be and at the last minute ducked in to the place near the atm; they know they should bring something, but it’s not really what anyone wants to eat—and it’s full of trans fat, which will kill you.

NOT DELICIOUS. THAT ICING HAS BEEN ON THERE SINCE 1997!

I’ll still take an Entenmann’s cake person in, cause at least they tried, but they won’t be on the permanent party list, if you know what I mean (and I think you do).


Then, you have, like, the people who bring a half-empty bottle of Pepsi that’s going flat and some hummus dip. Those two things don’t even go together! It’s like they were cleaning out their fridge and thought you’d like the leftovers! These are the kinds of friends that dump all over you, give you their crap.
NOT OKAY.

I thought an image of The Hoff humping pepsi would really get my point across. If this image isn't wrong, I don't know what is.

Then, you have the bitches who have the nerve to roll up to your place empty-handed, LATE, and then when they leave they take a plate!!!

[No image on the interweb can describe this horror and disrespect. You will have to imagine it for yourself]

OH HELL TO THE NO!!

You know the ones I’m talking about. The bloodsuckers. The ones who will date your ex and then ask you to tell them it’s okay. It ain’t okay!! That’s not cool!!

I think the Kiwi would fall into the Entenmann’s category. He tries, and brings a little something, but it’s not quite rounding out the meal or bringing a new and exciting flavor, you know? I’ve decided from now on, people need to be coming with some main dishes or wine!! Do not come late and take a plate from my potluck!!

I think I should have majored in Philosophy.

New Future Baby Daddy

No, not the kiwi. But the kiwi did bring this man into my life. Let me explain:

Tuesday night’s dinner started off a bit rocky. I arrived at 8:15—fifteen minutes late—only to find the kiwi had just started cooking and the other two guests hadn’t even arrived. (Luckily, I’d inhaled a slice of pizza after work, foreseeing this possible delay.) I was sort of nervous and fidgety, wondering what he’d told his friends about me and if they’d be friendly and welcoming. Could they handle Sojourner’s truth? I’d already hung out with his roommate a few times—a scrawny, precious Caucasian who’s down with the hip hop music and getting his drank on—so that was one less person to worry about. But there was a … couple.

Couples are always hard—you have to win over both of them, but approach them in totally different ways. The thing about this pair is that they weren’t particularly interested in getting to know me, and I’m not one to force my truth onto another.* Normally, if I’m with a group of friends and a new person comes into our midst, I pepper them with questions, not only to figure out if they’re a Commie spy, but to make them feel like they are worth getting to know, and by extension, more at ease. These two peeps—a 21-year-old Cali chick and her 26-year-old Aussie bf—initially reacted to me as though I were a piece of furniture … or the cleaning lady. The kiwi was in the kitchen slicing and dicing away (SO hot!), and his roommate, who I thought would support me, just sat on the couch watching humorous internet videos. So I did what any normal, non-awkward person would do during an intimate dinner party.

I drank red wine and read the newspaper.

Now, anyone who knows me would be shocked to hear of the blacktress exhibiting such autistic behavior. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I was tired and didn’t really feel like trying to impress anyone. I figured it’d happen organically (you know, like Whole Foods), and if I tried to sweet-talk his friends, the kiwi would think I was really into him or something—and we can’t get his panties in a twist. So, I just drank my 3-buck Chuck** and kicked it old school.

When the couple wasn’t all up in each other’s grill (dude was fucking flossing her molars with his tongue), I decided I’d woo the woman first. Only 6 months in NYC, she was blonde, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, and relatively easy to talk to. I followed the three-step rule for making lady friends (see below), and soon she was putty in my hands. I used my impending move to Australia to woo the guy and get him to tell me all the hot spots (he warned me that even though I’d probably be a cool bartender, Aussies don’t really tip, so I might want to change my career plan).

After a lovely dinner of homemade, non-greasy, chicken fried rice (look at my kiwi, getting ethnic in the kitchen!), we continued to drink and chat.

And that’s when he appeared to me.

Jon Lajoie.

Future baby daddy.

He’s a Canadian comedian/musician who writes hilarious songs that can be seen on Funny or Die. Why I’d never heard of him, I don’t know. Why he isn’t in my bed right now baffles me even more.

His song, “Everyday Normal Guy” is basically a magnum opus written about the men I love. Check it out:

See more Jon Lajoie videos at Funny or Die

How can you not love this man?! He is a credit to his (Canadian) race. I think my favorite line is:

“I’m a pretty shy person and I’m average looking … I get nervous in social situations, muthaf*&!%@#”
Lord knows I love an awkward with anger management issues.

No, wait, I think my favorite line is: “And I like the show Grey’s Anatomy, mutha*&!%@#”

I bet he cried over Izzy and Denny, too.



* that’s a bold-faced lie, but I was out of my element!

** Trader Joe’s Wine Shop has a $3 bottle of wine that was made with the budget blacktress in mind.

THREE-STEP RULE FOR MAKING LADY FRIENDS
1. Compliment female on article of clothing or jewelry (you know, like Regina George in 'Mean Girls'--but don't make it a lie).
2. Make a funny-but-harmless joke about something innocuous.
3. Ask her about three questions about herself—if part of a couple, “how did you two meet?” always works.

Textual Seduction

So, the kiwi invited me over to his place for dinner tonight. It’ll be him and “a few friends.” I’m slightly nervous and slightly not really looking forward to it. I’m feeling sorta lukewarm towards this foreign man—and it’s not even a protectionist measure because I’m leaving soon. He’s really nice, friendly, straightforward, and relaxed, but I worry he may be a bit dim. Am I a bad person?
Yes, yes I am.

He kinda reminds me of a puppy--a scrappy, hyperactive golden retriever. You know how it is:
The cute puppy you just got from the pound is a bundle of joy, bounding all over the house. One day, after playing in the muddy woods, he’s so excited to see his new master that he jumps all over you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your favorite jeans.
“Bad, bad, puppy!” you say to him sternly.
He just pants and wags his (large) tail.
You can’t help but grin at his puppy excitement, but you’re still kinda pissed that he got carried away—not to mention that time he crapped on the carpet.

Do you get the analogy?

Anyway, I can’t really complain about the kiwi. The last thing I need is stress, and that’s the last thing he can bring to the table. Besides, I like being involved—it keeps me off the single streets and out of trouble. For real, y’all. For an example of what kind of shenanigans I get into when I’m on the market, check out the following text messages I’ve received from a certain “suitor.”

He is a 29-year-old PhD student at a prestigious New York university—New York University, to be exact. I point this out because these credentials imply that he’s a grown-ass man with more than ½ a brain.
Alas, I may be wrong.

After one date three weeks ago where we had a couple of drinks and he kept asking me to come over to his house (to which I said, “homeslice, slow down! Does my vag have an expiration date?!”), he has been blowing up my phone with pathetic attempts at textual seduction (I heart Snoop Dogg*). For example:

Received 07/19/2008, 7:05 pm: so are you comin over to be crapped on or what?
(my complete response: “No.”)

Received 7/19/2008, 7:15 pm: what about for some sex?

Seriously, these are real text messages I have received from an educated adult male pursuing an advanced degree.

Just when I thought the madness was over, I got this one over the weekend:

Received 08/02/2008, 6:04 pm: is there a reason i haven’t fingered u yet?

I KID YOU NOT.

Um, what should I have said-- "because you are an insane man lacking in propriety and respect, and possibly a sexual predator" ?

I didn’t even respond. I don’t even know how to. I feel like he is beyond reason, completely vulgar, and possibly autistic (at the very least, he’s got Aspberger’s).

But, I have found a silver lining:
Normally, in such circumstances, the blacktress would lament her fate, wondering “Why God, Why?!” would such a terrible person seek her out. She’d blame herself for somehow “making” this PhD student this way.

Not anymore.

As I fortify myself for my international journey, I realize that, at 29 years old, this dude’s got about 28 years, 8 months, and 14 days worth of issues that were there before I cropped up on the scene. There is no way that my dazzling conversation, rapier wit, and pretty green dress got him so beside himself that the only way he could express his interest was through crazy texts.

He is, in summation a HOT ASS MESS.

And that is certainly one thing the sweet, hyperactive kiwi is NOT. He may not believe in spelling words completely or properly via text, but everything he has to say is in good clean fun. He invites me to meals that he will prepare in the presence of other people, proving that he has both social and culinary skills. He is also keeping me off the single streets of this cray cray city, where apparently PhDs are still Playa-hating Degrees!


* if you have not seen the music video or heard the song on which my clever title is based, please click here.
If a man came at me with Snoop's level of mojo, I'd probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet by now.