You Know It's Hot, Don't Forget What You Got, Looking Back...

Nothing like Lauryn Hill quote to kick off a farewell post.

It is now 4:30pm on Tuesday, April 14. In exactly 16 hours, I will board a Qantas flight bound for NYC.
My feelings are as mixed as the drinks I will be having at my farewell jam in a few hours.

I got back from my 5-week journey on Easter--I like to time my resurrections with those of the Lord. I was taken in by Meg, who recently moved into a new house, complete with three bedrooms and a dungeon.
I kid you not.
Luckily, I wasn't forced to sleep there.

Much of yesterday I was dying to go home, frustrated because of the inability to get someone to drive me to pick up my luggage, especially when one friend had already offered, but then backed out by pretending like it wasn't happening. It really hit home the sense of helplessness I'd felt many times in Sydney, not being able to do the simplest things--like laundry, for instance--without paying excessive amounts, or asking someone I'm not really close to for a favor.

I know that, although the last thing I want is to shack up with my mother and her latin lover, I also can't wait to sleep in my own bed, not wear thongs--oops, i mean flip-flops!--in the shower, and come and go easily.

But today, as I ran errands around the city, I found myself quite nostalgic, and actually sad. The sun is shining, I was actually too warm in my long-sleeved top, and Sydney was beautiful--and I felt like I'd made it my place, in a way. I have friends here and know where to go, and have made memories. I also have six months left on my visa, and there is a part of me that wonders if going home is a bad idea. I just found out my main gay may be leaving NYC in mere weeks, and my sister from another mister is heading to grad school in the fall. Add to this the fact that I've spent 6 months being a total selfish loner, not having to do anything but stay afloat and answer to no one, and you have a blacktress with a deep-seated fear of returning to reality.

I mean, 6 months is nothing in the grand scheme of life. Granted, I missed a few births, engagements, a black president and a global financial crisis--but, you know, the bars will be the same, and the dudes I hate won't have gained the 50 pounds I hoped they would as punishment.

Will folks actually have missed me? I want my reunion to be like that of Christian the lion and his old owners. You know, like this:



Is that too much to ask? I just want to maul you with my LOVE!!

When it comes to Sydneytown, there are some THINGS I WON'T MISS:
-trying to get home after midnight and paying a crapton.
-paying for condiments. Seriously, don't you think it's sort of passive aggressive to sell someone french fries and then charge them 50 cents for a package of ketchup?
-explaining my hair to total strangers.
-hearing the songs 'Save Tonight' and 'Land Down Under' at least once a day. I mean, 'Land Down Under' in Australia?????????

But really, when I think about it, there are so many THINGS I"LL MISS LIKE WHOA:
-Sweet, sweet, Eli Reed. You began as a reader, and you became a soul sister.
-Oh, dear, dear Meg. You have taught me much about the side hustle, and the ability to be a rockstar.


Wedges with sweet chili and sour cream--the most unlikely-yet-heavenly combination in the history of cookery.

-Lemon, lime, and bitters. Best. drink. ever.
-Meeting random strangers on public transportation and then being facebooked by them.
-Telling people I'm a blacktress and not being asked 'where do you wait tables?'
-Suzy Q, who always tried to get me out of the house when I was depressed, and told me I should stay in Sydney. Her optimism is precious.
-Abbreviating every word possible.


-Sushi Train. Delicious, delicious Sushi Train. Above shows where I ate on the regular, including my last lunch in Ausland.

-And, of course, Aussie accents. I'm still holding out for my foreign husband!

Okay, off to dranks with peeps. Next posts will be the tales of my travels--soooooooooo worth the wait!

xoxo,
blacktress!

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.