Ok, so you guys know how much I love my new daddy, right?
Well, the bloom is starting to fade from the rose, as they say.
(does anyone actually say that besides my mom?)
He is sort of fabulous, but also enfuriating—sometimes I feel like I’m in a deleted scene from The Devil Wears Prada. Take, for instance, this morning’s conversation.
New Daddy: Okay, I’m thinking out loud here. We need to get a super issue of Watercolor mag out as soon as possible.
Me: How many additional pages of content would that require?
ND: I don’t know, 40?
Me: That’s roughly 4 extra articles, in addition to the 9-10 that appear in each issue. And you want that by when?
ND: For the next issue.
Me: That’s not possible.
ND: How long is that acrylic article? 250 words? what were you thinking?
[he has now moved on to another topic entirely, with no regard for what I said was not possible.]
Me: The article hasn’t been written or sent to me yet. You told you wanted a spread, so no more than 400 words—depends on how many images we get.
ND: Okay, okay [he pauses]. I’ve got the advertisers up my ass, I’ve inherited this clusterfuck, I don’t know.
[note: he says the above with complete nonchalance.]
[I don’t know what to say.]
ND: Okay, is there any way we can get this in to the next issue of the monthly?
Me: It ships on Thursday, and we don’t have any of the content. If the artist gets it to me on Monday, that still requires a scramble.
ND sighs and rubs his temple. I am fearful he’ll throw his hot coffee in my face.
ND: I need to please these advertisers. [pause] Okay, I’ll make a call to advertising, see what I can do. I’ll try to work some queer magic.
Naturally, his laugh line is my cue to exit, as he turns his seat back to his desk as he shoos me away.
I don’t know how to handle him. He’s very stream-of-consciousness, and he goes from pissed and hilarious at the drop of a dime. An older gay is the kind of breed that can turn on its hag, and I’m fearful of him. I need his approval as both my massa and an older gay, but I also need him to stop trippin’ and let me get my basic shit done. Toeing the line with this one will require a bit of finesse.
Thank god it’s Friday. I need to take a nap.
[aaahhh, New Daddy came over just as I was googling images of 'Angry Ian McKellen'--you know, basically Magneto in X-Men]
Showing posts with label older gentleman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label older gentleman. Show all posts
Friday, June 18, 2010
Friday, November 14, 2008
Tiamo, Te Amo
"Thou canst be harmed by man nor sword, for now Macbeth is an undead Lord!!!!"
This is a line from "Macbeth Re-Arisen," the production I had the privilege of seeing Wednesday night at Trades Hall, in Melbourne. As previously stated, it likes to think of itself as a cross between "Shaun of the Dead" and Shakespeare--you know, as natural a combination as peanut butter and jelly.
Prior to the show, I had dinner at Tiamo, an Italian restaurant recommended to me twice over by both "Let's Go!" and a lovely shopkeeper at a clothing store where I bought a $10 skirt. After miscalculating the distance and walking in scorching heat, I arrived to find the restaurant packed, but luckily there was a bar with seating. I sidled up between two older gentlemen and asked for a menu. The older waiter pointed to the chalkboard behind him, where there roughly 10 options. I like that they keep it simple.
"You support him?"
I looked up from my book to see this older man looking at me expectantly. I stared blankly, caught off guard. He then pointed to the Obama pin I was wearing (I said I'd never take it off and I mean it) and raised his eyebrows.
"Hell yeah!" I smiled.
"He's a good-looking man, that Obama." He smiled in a knowing, sorta pervy way.
I didn't know how to respond.
"Him and his wife. That's a good-looking couple."
I don't know if you've ever heard of a "red flag," but if you were to look it up in the dictionary, it would probably show the line above as an example. In general, when one begins a discussion of politics with a comment on the physical attractiveness of the people involved, it indicates there's little knowledge of the issues. When you stare at a black woman and tell her Michelle Obama is sexy as she sits alone in a possibly Mafioso restaurant, there is little doubt that the flag must be raised and waved fiercely.
He asked where I was from, and introduced himself as Sam. He shook my hand and it felt a little greasy, and I made a mental note not to break my bread with my right hand. Just then, another older waiter came over and Sam said something to him in Italian while looking at me. They share a laugh, the waiter leaves, and Sam says, "He knows I love black women!"
I smile lightly and go back to my book, but Sam does not get the hint. He asks what I do for a living (which annoys the shit out of me), and I tell him I'm a writer.
"You want to write about me?" he says, crazy eyes bulging.
"What you got for me?"
"Have you heard of Toyota?" I nod. "Well, I know some things about them."
Sam is clearly a high-ranking Mafia official.
"I don't know if that'll be interesting, Sam," I say, trying to keep it light lest he pull out a pocket knife and put me in my place.
"Well, I got another one. You can write about the break down of my marriage."
I am uncomfortable.
There was an empty seat between us, and just when Sam asks if he can sit next to me, another older fellow enters and takes the seat. I silently thank black Jesus ("hair like lamb's wool"!)and wait for my rigatoni ragu to arrive. After I start eating, Sam leans back and says to me, "I'm gonna apply for a bank loan tomorrow morning so I can take you out for dinner!" chuckling to himself.
I looked down at my plate. I mean, I was at an Italian restaurant; it was a hearty portion, but nothing out of the ordinary. I silently wished death upon Sam, who up until then was just a slightly sleazy but relatively harmless old man. Now, he was single-handedly responsible for rekindling my 8th-grade eating disorder.
The man between us started chatting with Sam, and I was left to enjoy my rigatoni in peace. After about 15 minutes, he turns me and says, "So you're a writer?"
Clearly, Sam's can't stop talking about me.
I nod, and for the next 5 minutes he proceeds to spew titles of great Australian novels, asking if I've read them.
"Have you heard of Honeybee? It's about real things, like honey."
Seriously, he said this.
I failed him yet again and he became bored of me. He looked down at his empty bowl of minestrone soup and settled his bill and left.
Just then, a hyperactive 4-year-old took his place. He jumped on the stool and poked my boob, before turning to Sam and saying, "you're a stupid-head, mate."
From the mouths of babes.
Although I was thrown by the boob touch, it was more action than I'd seen since I'd arrived in this country, so I figured I'd let it slide. Besides, the kid--who I learned was named Nicolas--was like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Problem Child, and I could not stop watching him sit up at the bar stool like he owned the place.
I went to tally my bill when the manager gave me a glass of wine and told me that Nicolas' dad would give me a ride to the theater where "Macbeth Re-Arisen" was playing. Completely stuck on this "balls to the wall" lifestyle, I had no qualms with getting in a car with a stranger and his 4-year-old child if it meant staying out of the heat.
While my meal cost $16--more if you count the wine I didn't ask for--the manager simply asked for $10 and then asked if I knew of any vacant apartments in Sydney. He explained that his son, Roberto, is a producer on The Bachelor, and needs to be on location for three months starting in January. I gave him some info and my cell number, and before I could even hop off my stool, he put his Iphone to my ear so that I could chat with Roberto.
Roberto and I were equally awkward and confused, but he appreciated the information.
As I headed out with the stranger and his child, the manager said he'd call me Friday and take me out to lunch.
I found this confusing but agreed, fully planning not to answer my phone for the next 48 hours.
I managed to make it to the theater with 10 minutes to spare, and was immediately directed to a bar area. I guess they knew the show benefited from a sauced audience. Done completely in Shakespearean verse, it took place after Macbeth's death, with him returning from the grave as a zombie, bent on resurrecting his wife and raising an army of zombies. The real crescendo was when Hecate gives him a chainsaw (to which he replied "groovy."-- i don't think that's Shakespearean) to slice and dice as he wished.
With no one to talk to, I sat in the theater at intermission and wrote down stuff, prompting the producer to ask me if I was from an international publication. I thought that was quite bold of her to assume that "Macbeth Re-Arisen" had somehow gained international notoriety in it's first week of performances, and I had been dispatched immediately to see the magic for myself. Although the beauty of crossing the international dateline alone is the ability to create any identity at any time, I said no, and she quickly got bored of me.
I went home that night feeling slightly drunk, a little violated, and more than a little confused. I have to go back to Tiamo and see how I can get on The Bachelor.
This is a line from "Macbeth Re-Arisen," the production I had the privilege of seeing Wednesday night at Trades Hall, in Melbourne. As previously stated, it likes to think of itself as a cross between "Shaun of the Dead" and Shakespeare--you know, as natural a combination as peanut butter and jelly.
Prior to the show, I had dinner at Tiamo, an Italian restaurant recommended to me twice over by both "Let's Go!" and a lovely shopkeeper at a clothing store where I bought a $10 skirt. After miscalculating the distance and walking in scorching heat, I arrived to find the restaurant packed, but luckily there was a bar with seating. I sidled up between two older gentlemen and asked for a menu. The older waiter pointed to the chalkboard behind him, where there roughly 10 options. I like that they keep it simple.
"You support him?"
I looked up from my book to see this older man looking at me expectantly. I stared blankly, caught off guard. He then pointed to the Obama pin I was wearing (I said I'd never take it off and I mean it) and raised his eyebrows.
"Hell yeah!" I smiled.
"He's a good-looking man, that Obama." He smiled in a knowing, sorta pervy way.
I didn't know how to respond.
"Him and his wife. That's a good-looking couple."
I don't know if you've ever heard of a "red flag," but if you were to look it up in the dictionary, it would probably show the line above as an example. In general, when one begins a discussion of politics with a comment on the physical attractiveness of the people involved, it indicates there's little knowledge of the issues. When you stare at a black woman and tell her Michelle Obama is sexy as she sits alone in a possibly Mafioso restaurant, there is little doubt that the flag must be raised and waved fiercely.
He asked where I was from, and introduced himself as Sam. He shook my hand and it felt a little greasy, and I made a mental note not to break my bread with my right hand. Just then, another older waiter came over and Sam said something to him in Italian while looking at me. They share a laugh, the waiter leaves, and Sam says, "He knows I love black women!"
I smile lightly and go back to my book, but Sam does not get the hint. He asks what I do for a living (which annoys the shit out of me), and I tell him I'm a writer.
"You want to write about me?" he says, crazy eyes bulging.
"What you got for me?"
"Have you heard of Toyota?" I nod. "Well, I know some things about them."
Sam is clearly a high-ranking Mafia official.
"I don't know if that'll be interesting, Sam," I say, trying to keep it light lest he pull out a pocket knife and put me in my place.
"Well, I got another one. You can write about the break down of my marriage."
I am uncomfortable.
There was an empty seat between us, and just when Sam asks if he can sit next to me, another older fellow enters and takes the seat. I silently thank black Jesus ("hair like lamb's wool"!)and wait for my rigatoni ragu to arrive. After I start eating, Sam leans back and says to me, "I'm gonna apply for a bank loan tomorrow morning so I can take you out for dinner!" chuckling to himself.
I looked down at my plate. I mean, I was at an Italian restaurant; it was a hearty portion, but nothing out of the ordinary. I silently wished death upon Sam, who up until then was just a slightly sleazy but relatively harmless old man. Now, he was single-handedly responsible for rekindling my 8th-grade eating disorder.
The man between us started chatting with Sam, and I was left to enjoy my rigatoni in peace. After about 15 minutes, he turns me and says, "So you're a writer?"
Clearly, Sam's can't stop talking about me.
I nod, and for the next 5 minutes he proceeds to spew titles of great Australian novels, asking if I've read them.
"Have you heard of Honeybee? It's about real things, like honey."
Seriously, he said this.
I failed him yet again and he became bored of me. He looked down at his empty bowl of minestrone soup and settled his bill and left.
Just then, a hyperactive 4-year-old took his place. He jumped on the stool and poked my boob, before turning to Sam and saying, "you're a stupid-head, mate."
From the mouths of babes.
Although I was thrown by the boob touch, it was more action than I'd seen since I'd arrived in this country, so I figured I'd let it slide. Besides, the kid--who I learned was named Nicolas--was like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Problem Child, and I could not stop watching him sit up at the bar stool like he owned the place.
I went to tally my bill when the manager gave me a glass of wine and told me that Nicolas' dad would give me a ride to the theater where "Macbeth Re-Arisen" was playing. Completely stuck on this "balls to the wall" lifestyle, I had no qualms with getting in a car with a stranger and his 4-year-old child if it meant staying out of the heat.
While my meal cost $16--more if you count the wine I didn't ask for--the manager simply asked for $10 and then asked if I knew of any vacant apartments in Sydney. He explained that his son, Roberto, is a producer on The Bachelor, and needs to be on location for three months starting in January. I gave him some info and my cell number, and before I could even hop off my stool, he put his Iphone to my ear so that I could chat with Roberto.
Roberto and I were equally awkward and confused, but he appreciated the information.
As I headed out with the stranger and his child, the manager said he'd call me Friday and take me out to lunch.
I found this confusing but agreed, fully planning not to answer my phone for the next 48 hours.
I managed to make it to the theater with 10 minutes to spare, and was immediately directed to a bar area. I guess they knew the show benefited from a sauced audience. Done completely in Shakespearean verse, it took place after Macbeth's death, with him returning from the grave as a zombie, bent on resurrecting his wife and raising an army of zombies. The real crescendo was when Hecate gives him a chainsaw (to which he replied "groovy."-- i don't think that's Shakespearean) to slice and dice as he wished.
With no one to talk to, I sat in the theater at intermission and wrote down stuff, prompting the producer to ask me if I was from an international publication. I thought that was quite bold of her to assume that "Macbeth Re-Arisen" had somehow gained international notoriety in it's first week of performances, and I had been dispatched immediately to see the magic for myself. Although the beauty of crossing the international dateline alone is the ability to create any identity at any time, I said no, and she quickly got bored of me.
I went home that night feeling slightly drunk, a little violated, and more than a little confused. I have to go back to Tiamo and see how I can get on The Bachelor.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Three-Day Grape Escape - aka - the Blacktress Goes Sideways
I'm writing on location from the Hunter Valley, the nearest wine country outside of Sydney. The HV (not to be confused with the HPV) is magical, and every vineyard has a "cellar door," where they conduct free tastings. I got up at about 8:30 this morning and arrived at the HV at 11:30, and had about 10 minutes to use the loo and apply lipgloss (you know it's got to be poppin'!) before heading off on the afternoon wine tour.
The itinerary: 2 wineries, break for lunch, 2 more wineries, and then a cheese tasting.
My buzz is just wearing off.
I came solo, but connected through the IEP program's many hook-ups. I'm loving the fact that they let me come to their offices, dominate their internet, ask them endless questions, and haven't kicked me out yet. I also appreciate their willingness to get drunk with me without judgments (more on their "Canada party" later).
There were 4 other people on the tour, 2 pairs of pals who were all.... FRENCH CANADIAN!!! As they spoke their native French-Canadian tongue, my pulse began to quicken, for me all know how I feel about Canadians. I wasn't sure how to interact, and was already feeling awkward and lonesome.
Luckily, this changed after the first winery.
We headed to Drayton's, where the shopgirl was working her first day, and seemed to be quite generous. We tried, like, 7 wines and 2 ports, and were already giggly and tripping after 30 minutes, and our love of liquor acted as a cross-cultural bond that could not be broken. I was on the hunt for some Pinot Noir for BCB as a thank-you gift, so I tried to stay focused--which was nearly impossible considering I hadn't eaten breakfast and we were on to the ports before 12:15pm.
Our tour guide was Mike, a fair dinkum Aussie bloke who wore a loud Hawaiian shirt partially buttoned, allowing his tufts to gray chest hair to have some air. He and I chatted alot, seeing as I wasn't French Canadian and didn't have anyone else to talk to. He pointed out fun facts and cool locations, adding a hint of color and class to the tour.
"Oi, guys," he said as the FCs chatted, "over there is the Broken Back Range--that's where the gay cowboys hang out."
Oh, Mike, you're hilarious!!
At the second vineyard, we tried about 5 wines, but this lady was a pro, so we couldn't coax more tastings out of her. However, I did get a sample of the Aleatico, a wine so old that it's known to be Napoleon's favorite.
I think this makes me a dictator.
Over lunch, Mike and I chatted about the election, and about how I'm "not a normal American" because I'm traveling for so long by myself. "Most Americans come for a few months, over vacation, then head back. You're breaking the ice, Sojourner!" I'm all about the old weathery Aussie blokes, cause they are really friendly and random. Take, for instance, our trip to the third winery, the Bimbadgen Estate...
As we drove up, Mike told us about the concerts and events they often hold on the grounds, such as the upcoming concert with "Alicia Keys and that girl from American Idol--you know, 'No air, No air.'" Mike then proceeds to sing snippets from Jordin Sparks' "No air" for the rest of the afternoon in this really high-pitched voice, and for some reason, it never ceases to make me laugh.
Graham, the host of Bimbadgen, is another bloke, and as he gives us tastes he chats us up and ends up taking quite a shine to the blacktress. I tell him I'm staying for a year and he says, "I think you'll be all right here," after I make him chuckle with some one-liners. I reveal that I'm a blacktress, which he dubs a "very clever" term, and tells me their opening up a new theater in Cessnock--a town of about 5,000 just next to the wineries. He suggest I be their opening act.
As we head out (I unfortunately buy no bottles because I already picked up bottles at Draytons), Graham shakes my hand and says, "Blacktress, it was a pleasure meeting you. When you take over Australia, remember you started here first."
I think Graham is going to be president of my fan club.
I now write from the YHA common room, where I fight the urge to open a bottle of port--after all, I have been drinking for 4 hours already and it's just now 6:30.
Um, who am I kidding? I have an addiction.
The itinerary: 2 wineries, break for lunch, 2 more wineries, and then a cheese tasting.
My buzz is just wearing off.
I came solo, but connected through the IEP program's many hook-ups. I'm loving the fact that they let me come to their offices, dominate their internet, ask them endless questions, and haven't kicked me out yet. I also appreciate their willingness to get drunk with me without judgments (more on their "Canada party" later).
There were 4 other people on the tour, 2 pairs of pals who were all.... FRENCH CANADIAN!!! As they spoke their native French-Canadian tongue, my pulse began to quicken, for me all know how I feel about Canadians. I wasn't sure how to interact, and was already feeling awkward and lonesome.
Luckily, this changed after the first winery.
We headed to Drayton's, where the shopgirl was working her first day, and seemed to be quite generous. We tried, like, 7 wines and 2 ports, and were already giggly and tripping after 30 minutes, and our love of liquor acted as a cross-cultural bond that could not be broken. I was on the hunt for some Pinot Noir for BCB as a thank-you gift, so I tried to stay focused--which was nearly impossible considering I hadn't eaten breakfast and we were on to the ports before 12:15pm.
Our tour guide was Mike, a fair dinkum Aussie bloke who wore a loud Hawaiian shirt partially buttoned, allowing his tufts to gray chest hair to have some air. He and I chatted alot, seeing as I wasn't French Canadian and didn't have anyone else to talk to. He pointed out fun facts and cool locations, adding a hint of color and class to the tour.
"Oi, guys," he said as the FCs chatted, "over there is the Broken Back Range--that's where the gay cowboys hang out."
Oh, Mike, you're hilarious!!
At the second vineyard, we tried about 5 wines, but this lady was a pro, so we couldn't coax more tastings out of her. However, I did get a sample of the Aleatico, a wine so old that it's known to be Napoleon's favorite.
I think this makes me a dictator.
Over lunch, Mike and I chatted about the election, and about how I'm "not a normal American" because I'm traveling for so long by myself. "Most Americans come for a few months, over vacation, then head back. You're breaking the ice, Sojourner!" I'm all about the old weathery Aussie blokes, cause they are really friendly and random. Take, for instance, our trip to the third winery, the Bimbadgen Estate...
As we drove up, Mike told us about the concerts and events they often hold on the grounds, such as the upcoming concert with "Alicia Keys and that girl from American Idol--you know, 'No air, No air.'" Mike then proceeds to sing snippets from Jordin Sparks' "No air" for the rest of the afternoon in this really high-pitched voice, and for some reason, it never ceases to make me laugh.
Graham, the host of Bimbadgen, is another bloke, and as he gives us tastes he chats us up and ends up taking quite a shine to the blacktress. I tell him I'm staying for a year and he says, "I think you'll be all right here," after I make him chuckle with some one-liners. I reveal that I'm a blacktress, which he dubs a "very clever" term, and tells me their opening up a new theater in Cessnock--a town of about 5,000 just next to the wineries. He suggest I be their opening act.
As we head out (I unfortunately buy no bottles because I already picked up bottles at Draytons), Graham shakes my hand and says, "Blacktress, it was a pleasure meeting you. When you take over Australia, remember you started here first."
I think Graham is going to be president of my fan club.
I now write from the YHA common room, where I fight the urge to open a bottle of port--after all, I have been drinking for 4 hours already and it's just now 6:30.
Um, who am I kidding? I have an addiction.
Monday, October 27, 2008
I Think I'm Turning Sudanese, I Think I'm Turning Sudanese...
I really think so.
So, yesterday, I was standing at a traffic light and rearranging my heavy weekend bag when this guy walking towards the corner and smiles at me as though we're old work pals. He then says, "nice hair!" in the same manner that a teammate might congratulate someone for a really good throw or something.
I smile weakly, as I've learned to do as a solo traveller, and he keeps going. "Yes, nice hair indeed.... Are you by any chance from Sudan?" I said no and smiled weakly again, and was grateful for the WALK sign.
This was not only odd because of his randomness and over-friendliness (I mean, even for Australia, it was too much), but because this was the second time someone had asked me if I was from Sudan. A couple days earlier, I was waiting for the train and I can feel this guy staring at me. Of course, I make sure to make no eye contact, but as the train comes I look in his direction, which provided him with the in he needed.
"Are you from Sudan?" he asks.
"No," I say as I board the train.
I think "are you from Sudan?" is code for "Are you a lady of the night?" cause it's just the most random of questions, and there are mad ladies of the night up in the city center.
Aside from perhaps being considered a prostie, things are ok. I spent the weekend in Kiama, a small beachside town 2 hours south of Sydney, where I hung out with my "Aussie mum." I met "Aussie mum" back in August in NYC, at the 50th birthday party of my favorite Australian. Aussie mum had a cig in one hand and a glass of red in the other and as we all danced to Michael Jackson, she said, "Oh, when you come to Australia, call me--I'll be your Aussie mum!" I knew right then that she was the one for me.
Her house is on an acre of rainforest in this tiny town complete with a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker (seriously--candles). Her son is an actor, and he and his gf happened to be around this weekend too, so I got to meet them both. Her husband was also around briefly (and he is a silver fox, I must say), and we discussed the election and how lame McCain is. They're very down for Barack here.
It was a very Australian weekend, complete with my first meat pie (surprisingly good), lounging on the beach, dinnertime barbie (bbq--not the doll), and midday cocktails at a town pub where a bush band played. Most of the time it was just me and Aussie mum, and she cracked me up. As I took advantage of her free internet, and profusely apologized for being online, she assured me she understood, for she too was an internet addict.
"It's just so great," she said. "You can find anything you need to know. I just love finding answers. I'll just be sitting around and I'll wonder 'Who invented hi-lighters?' and just go find out."
God bless her soul.
It was a really nice, relaxing weekend, and it was great to get out of the city and see more than just the tourist spots. Kiama's claim to fame is a giant blowhole--i kid you not--which can send water shooting up 3-4km.
I don't know if that's high or not, since I don't know anything about kilometers.
I also don't get the whole Celsius concept, which means I'm inappropriately dressed every day, unless I can google, "Sydney current temperature in Fahrenheit" the day before.
I'm so lost in translation, just call me ScarJo.
In random news: I got the following text from the Random Older Fellow this morning: "Want to come have steaks with me and my mum?"
This is not the first time he has invited me out to join him and his mother, people. I do NOT understand it one bit. Why would I want to hang out with his 90-year-old mom? And, like, what would he say? "Mum, this is the blacktress who was sleeping in the hostel I work at part-time when I'm not fighting fires or trying to woo younger women."
I joined him and some firemen buddies last Friday at a pub, and he told me that he didn't like Australian women. I mean, I understand ruling out a whole group (you know, like actors, or Greek men), but he lives in Australia. If he doesn't like Australian women, then he's in for a bit of a problem. He says they aren't "challenging," which is ridiculous--since when do grown men who quote lines from Anchorman want to be challenged?
He's pretty fun to talk to, and his fellow firemen friends were strapping as all get out!!! Many of them were in my demographic, and I wished ROF wasn't cock-blocking my flow, cause I could have been in there like swimwear. I was so tempted to say, "You boys should do a calendar," but being out of my element, I wasn't ready to put such things out there. Well, that, and the fact that I have no sexual desire whatsoever.
I kid you not. I do not want sexual eruptions of any kind, with anyone. On the rare occasion I do see someone attractive, the recognition only lasts a second before I just shrug it off and imagine how boring he'd be, or what little we'd have in common. I don't know what has become of me. Hopefully I'll get my mojo back soon so this blog can get really juicy!
So, yesterday, I was standing at a traffic light and rearranging my heavy weekend bag when this guy walking towards the corner and smiles at me as though we're old work pals. He then says, "nice hair!" in the same manner that a teammate might congratulate someone for a really good throw or something.
I smile weakly, as I've learned to do as a solo traveller, and he keeps going. "Yes, nice hair indeed.... Are you by any chance from Sudan?" I said no and smiled weakly again, and was grateful for the WALK sign.
This was not only odd because of his randomness and over-friendliness (I mean, even for Australia, it was too much), but because this was the second time someone had asked me if I was from Sudan. A couple days earlier, I was waiting for the train and I can feel this guy staring at me. Of course, I make sure to make no eye contact, but as the train comes I look in his direction, which provided him with the in he needed.
"Are you from Sudan?" he asks.
"No," I say as I board the train.
I think "are you from Sudan?" is code for "Are you a lady of the night?" cause it's just the most random of questions, and there are mad ladies of the night up in the city center.
Aside from perhaps being considered a prostie, things are ok. I spent the weekend in Kiama, a small beachside town 2 hours south of Sydney, where I hung out with my "Aussie mum." I met "Aussie mum" back in August in NYC, at the 50th birthday party of my favorite Australian. Aussie mum had a cig in one hand and a glass of red in the other and as we all danced to Michael Jackson, she said, "Oh, when you come to Australia, call me--I'll be your Aussie mum!" I knew right then that she was the one for me.
Her house is on an acre of rainforest in this tiny town complete with a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker (seriously--candles). Her son is an actor, and he and his gf happened to be around this weekend too, so I got to meet them both. Her husband was also around briefly (and he is a silver fox, I must say), and we discussed the election and how lame McCain is. They're very down for Barack here.
It was a very Australian weekend, complete with my first meat pie (surprisingly good), lounging on the beach, dinnertime barbie (bbq--not the doll), and midday cocktails at a town pub where a bush band played. Most of the time it was just me and Aussie mum, and she cracked me up. As I took advantage of her free internet, and profusely apologized for being online, she assured me she understood, for she too was an internet addict.
"It's just so great," she said. "You can find anything you need to know. I just love finding answers. I'll just be sitting around and I'll wonder 'Who invented hi-lighters?' and just go find out."
God bless her soul.
It was a really nice, relaxing weekend, and it was great to get out of the city and see more than just the tourist spots. Kiama's claim to fame is a giant blowhole--i kid you not--which can send water shooting up 3-4km.
I don't know if that's high or not, since I don't know anything about kilometers.
I also don't get the whole Celsius concept, which means I'm inappropriately dressed every day, unless I can google, "Sydney current temperature in Fahrenheit" the day before.
I'm so lost in translation, just call me ScarJo.
In random news: I got the following text from the Random Older Fellow this morning: "Want to come have steaks with me and my mum?"
This is not the first time he has invited me out to join him and his mother, people. I do NOT understand it one bit. Why would I want to hang out with his 90-year-old mom? And, like, what would he say? "Mum, this is the blacktress who was sleeping in the hostel I work at part-time when I'm not fighting fires or trying to woo younger women."
I joined him and some firemen buddies last Friday at a pub, and he told me that he didn't like Australian women. I mean, I understand ruling out a whole group (you know, like actors, or Greek men), but he lives in Australia. If he doesn't like Australian women, then he's in for a bit of a problem. He says they aren't "challenging," which is ridiculous--since when do grown men who quote lines from Anchorman want to be challenged?
He's pretty fun to talk to, and his fellow firemen friends were strapping as all get out!!! Many of them were in my demographic, and I wished ROF wasn't cock-blocking my flow, cause I could have been in there like swimwear. I was so tempted to say, "You boys should do a calendar," but being out of my element, I wasn't ready to put such things out there. Well, that, and the fact that I have no sexual desire whatsoever.
I kid you not. I do not want sexual eruptions of any kind, with anyone. On the rare occasion I do see someone attractive, the recognition only lasts a second before I just shrug it off and imagine how boring he'd be, or what little we'd have in common. I don't know what has become of me. Hopefully I'll get my mojo back soon so this blog can get really juicy!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
So It Begins.... 17/10/2008
I told you I'd go into my male suitor, right guys? Well, I practice what I preach (TRUTH, for those of you who were confused), so here it is. For the purposes of this blog, let’s call him Random Older Fellow—ROF for short. He works at the hostel I’m staying at. I met him the night I arrived, after hanging out with J-Date. I was on a high from my first social interaction and the viewing of the Opera House, so I was feeling chatty. I went over to the desk, because I’d left paperwork there, and asked if he’d found it.
He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”
“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”
I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.
“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.
We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.
The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.
Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.
He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.
He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”
“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”
He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.
Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.
Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?
Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”
Nice one.
We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.
Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?
I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.
Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.
Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.
PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.
He looks around for my missing folder and says “Sorry, mate, I don’t see it.”
“Okay, no worries, just wanted to check.”
I notice as he goes back to his seat that he’s got a glass of red wine on his desk. I tell him I took a cab roughly 10 blocks because I was so jet-lagged and he goes, “Oh, you’re a lazy bugger, aren’t you?” as he takes a sip from his glass.
“You’re insulting and you drink on the job. I like you,” I said.
We started chatting some more, and I asked him about neighborhoods and good places to live and find work. I went to bed shortly thereafter, happy to have a nice conversation with a friendly local.
The next night (Tuesday), I saw him as I came in from dinner, and he tells me he extended my stay at the hostel. “I just made you a reservation because I saw you only had 4 nights, and we’re getting a bit full up,” he says matter-of-factly. I hadn’t even asked about this or even told him I was trying to figure out how to get more nights.
Of course, this is when I knew he wanted to marry me.
He gets me a glass and we chat and drink red wine as he works. As various guests come to check in and ask questions, ROF reveals his knack for languages, speaking to guests in Japanese, French, and—wait for it, wait for it—FLEMISH. Who does that?! I learn that he’s a rolling stone who has traveled for years all over the world, and he works as a full-time fireman when he’s not checking in people at the youth hostel. A man of many trades, of course I find this suspect—and also secretly wonder if he uses his fireman’s uniform for stripping or role-playing games.
He offers to show me around the next day, which is his day off. Not having any other plans and glad to have company, I immediately agree. We end up cracking open another bottle of red after his shift ends and are just shooting the shit, very low-key. However, I start to realize that he may be drawn to Sojourner’s Nubian essence. He asks what made me decide to come to Australia, because “we don’t get too many people like you.”
“You mean, blacktresses?” I say, mockingly. “Or women with vagina dentata?”
He later asks if I’ve considered modeling. I think we all know my weakness for being told I could be a part-time model (even though I’d probably still have to keep my normal job). I just laughed it off, and we ended the night with plans to meet tomorrow.
Wednesday, after my boring orientation, he met up with me. His car wasn’t out of the shop, so he’d been biking around, and I come out of the building to find ROF in short black exercise shorts, a black tank, and a white, yellow, and black track jacket, with black sunnies (sunglasses—they abbreve everything here). I cracked up, because he is the most random ever.
Oh, did I mention that in addition to being a fireman and random hostel worker, he was also a fitness instructor, and worked at a Fat Camp in Massachusetts?
Anyway, we had a good time walking around the city. We checked out the botanic gardens (where cockatoos roam like pigeons, and there are FLYING FOXES hanging from the trees!), and he knew the names of all this random flora and fauna; you could definitely color me impressed. Then again, he could have been making it all up, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. When asked how he acquired such knowledge, ROF said nonchalantly, “I read a book.”
Nice one.
We were discussing meats (don’t ask), and somehow it led to him saying, “you should come over tomorrow and I’ll cook some steaks and we’ll have some good cab sav.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I mean, food and wine are my weaknesses, and I’m sure it would beat the nasty hostel food I’ve been eating. But he’s a random 40-year-old man I’ve just met in a city where I know no one. If going to his house doesn’t sound like the beginning of a Law & Order episode, I don’t know what does. But how do you explain to a man you just met that you worry he may be a serial killer or sexual predator without him getting offended? I have a hard time navigating these things.
Since Wednesday, he has been blowing up the blacktress’s phone and sending me textual eruptions. I’m hesitant to respond, however. Not only because all my outgoing calls and texts cost money and incoming are free, but because I don’t really want to get caught up in something, and this is not the first time an inappropriately older gentleman has been drawn to the blacktress. I wonder why my most persistent suitors are always 40+, and I can't find a young, first, attractive man in my age bracket. Is it because I’m old and weary and the trials of age can be seen behind my eyes? Is it because I have the attitude of a 40-year-old divorcee? Is it because, by 40, most older Caucasian gentleman want nothing more than to bed a blacktress before they reach the winter of their life?
I know, I know, 40 is not the “winter of one’s life”—I just love using that phrase.
Anyway, this is all swirling in my head as I head into the weekend. He discussed seeing a comedy show, which of course I want to go to—but would I be leading him on by going? Sojourner’s not trying to hurt any feelings—I’m just trying to meet some Aussie homies and keep my nose clean.
And keep my nose to the grindstone. Or, wait, is it ear? I’m always mixing metaphors.
Seriously, guys, look at this. FLYING FOXES!!! They look like giant bats, and they swoop from tree to tree under the cloak of night. I can’t handle it. I was really scared they’d smell my fear or sense my evil and swoop down upon me.PS: Eli Reed, I would love to grab a drank, a la T-Pain.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)