What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

Wedded Bliss/I'm a Fatty

I'm still doing it, guys--three posts this week! To get you through the blacktress-free weekend, here's a real long 'un.....

It's 10:45am and I got to work about 30 minutes ago—and the first thing I do is start blogging. After leaving the house 30 minutes late, I headed straight into the GAP store 2 blocks from my office to buy a pair of jeans. You see, guys, I woke up this morning and discovered that NONE OF MY PANTS FIT ME.

Yes, I have gotten just that tubby. I left the house in pants that would not zip or button, like some sort of Klump.

FML.

I was in a pit of despair most of this week and haven't been sleeping—my only solace came Tuesday night at 12:30am, when I was able to catch the last half hour of the newest episode of "16 and Pregnant" (right at the good part, where she gives birth, goes home, and discovers that babies are "a lot of work"), followed by the genetic-anomaly documentary "My 40-year-old Child." I thought it would be about adult males who spend all day making humorous internet videos, but it was about a boy who was 40 years old but had the body of a 10 year old, and was blind and mentally handicapped. Really tugged at the heartstrings.

I started to rally yesterday—even sleeping more than 6 hours last night—and then woke up to discover that I'm a lard ass.
So I went to the GAP, where a size 4 is really a 10, and made a purchase. Diet starts today.

I think I'm gonna hop on the Jew train and observe Passover, see if I can drop some of this 16-and-pregnant belly. (Any group that builds an Atkins diet into their religion knows how to live. They don't call them 'The Chosen People' for nothing!)

After all, spring’s just around the corner, and summer is two houses down from there, so I won't be able to hide under layers for very long. I can't wait to sit in Central Park and eye-fuck strangers without consent behind my sunglasses (a lady always uses protection). In addition to the lengthened days and increased temperatures, there's yet another reason to stop eating my feelings: wedding season.
[NB: The following piece was rejected from TheHairpin, and largely intended for that audience. Soon-to-be-wedded friends, take a cue from mid-90s R&B songstress Monica, and don't take it personal!*]

I don’t know why this is happening. I didn’t think I’d have to go to these until my 30s, at which point I would not only be financially solvent (and able to buy gifts on your multiple registries and travel to such exciting destinations as your grandmother’s home in Des Moines), but I’d have my own boo locked down—or, at the very least, a bitter divorce that would excuse me from attending. So far I am attending four weddings in 2 months, two of which take place on back-to-back weekends in Vermont. What am I supposed to do there? The last time I was out in nature, I got a tick in my woman parts.

“But Sojourner, what about all the free food, unlimited booze, and merriment?” you may ask. Look, I love a good shindig as much as the next blacktress, but by the time I find a dress that I’m willing to be photographed in, book a hotel, and get to the venue, no amount of Trader Joe’s wine can take that edge off. I inevitably find myself standing by the dessert buffet next to the groom’s aunt or cousin, who points to the happy couple saying, “that’s gonna be you next, dear!”
Um, Aunt Rina, my Jewboo and I make Monopoly money and we can’t even share food, let alone a lifetime.

I’m never a bridesmaid, but the fact that I’m a comedian/actor often gets me roped into other tasks. Remember when I planned a bachelorette party for my doctor-friend? Next month I’ll be doing a brief reading for a Midwestern ceremony and even attend the rehearsal dinner (i love food—see above—but why do I have to practice eating???). I know these are magical times in good friends’ lives, but can’t I just comment on the post-wedding facebook album and pretend I was there? Regardless, I’m gonna have to go through hundreds of photos to either un-tag myself or have something to watch while I’m eating ice cream and sobbing.

My mother always said, “Laugh, and the whole world laughs with you. Cry, and I’ll give you something to cry about.” So I’ve come up with a list of activities that can make this wedding season a bit less depressing:

• See opportunity to hang out with people over the age of 40 as a chance meet potential financial backers, agents, and managers. It may be the bride’s special day, but you’ve still got bills to pay, and dreams that can no longer be deferred! (Only do this if you have 20-40 8-x-11 headshots)
• Order both the fish and beef entrée and go to town.
• Arrive at the reception in fuzzy house slippers. If anyone balks, ask them if they know where your mommy is—adorable!
• Find the one psychologist on the guest list and get some free medical attention. (It’s likely that if you have a few too many glasses of white wine, you’ll start crying and this person will come to you.)
• Tack on extra days to either end of the trip and try to get some you-time in. Nothing says “I’m worth it!” like the presidential sweet at the Des Moines Radisson.
• Request “Single Ladies” every hour on the hour, clearing the dance floor each time to display your skillzzz.
• Practice identity theft. Forget the out-of-town guests—find the out-of-country guests and create a mystique. I enjoy starting a whisper campaign in which I claim to be a television star (movies have too international a reach. Name some local show the Germans haven’t heard of, and you’ll be the center of every photo for the rest of the night).
• If you can’t bring a boo, bring your main gay. He’ll look really cute, charm everyone, and always tell you if there’s food in your teeth.
• Help the help—not by doing actual labor, but by chatting them up. They’re almost all creative types and have a wonderful bitter streak that will be able to handle your self-loathing. Bonus points if you make out with a waiter by the crab puffs—or get a doggie bag filled with crudité.

This is what we call turning lemons into lemon drops, people.

*For those who don't know, here's one of the greatest songs in the history of R&B: