I've been on the fence about having kids for years now, but this latest display of horrendous bullying has me tying my tubes in a figure-eight knot my damn self, Prometheus style. I can't even sit through the whole thing, but just look at this video taken on a school bus in Greece, New York: kids are saying vulgar things to the bus monitor!
We can't go telling kids that "it gets better" when a 60-something-year-old woman is being ripped apart!
What happened to, at the very least, respecting (and fearing) your elders? If you even looked at my grandmother sideways, you were going to get put in your place and mom wouldn't even flinch. I'm not into corporal punishment, but as the great truthteller Chris Rock says, every kid needs a good whooping on four key transgressions: lying, stealing, cursing, and disrespecting. Just set it straight once and it's never happening again. It's what I like to call terri-fucking-fy you. If you just invoke a stress response, a Pavlovian fear, it's a wrap. When I was hanging with my old-lady friend (she's 86) and some of her peeps (that's how I roll--with the Soft Food Crew), she was telling me about a kid being rude on the subway. Her friends chimed in with other stories about rude young adults.
"I've found that there are two groups of people who are consistently courteous and helpful: European tourists and young black men." BOOM! Are you shocked to hear it, readers?! Can you handle the truth?! I wasn't surprised, but I wanted to know more.
"It's because many of them were raised by women and particularly their grandmothers--they were either in their home or their sole caregiver."
Socioeconomically speaking, that checks out (and here, too). No doubt the kids in this video have little home training. I hope they suffer the consequences for their actions--and get some intensive therapy. Or maybe Greece, New York, should bring back the fucking gladiators and have these kids fight to the death--you know, separate the wheat from the psychopaths.
What do you think?
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
How do you know when you've found "the one"?
When he tweets:
@Blacktress Every month, Tyler Perry’s Madea goes through her minstrel cycle.
@Blacktress Every month, Tyler Perry’s Madea goes through her minstrel cycle.
Whose Got Two Thumbs, One One of Which Isn't Working? THIS GIRL!
I must be honest and say that part of the reason I haven't blogged about the D is because of a medical condition. For weeks now, I've had intense-yet-sporadic pain in my dominant hand that effects all five fingers and even extends up to my elbow! But on this high-deductible "health-insurance plan" I'm not running to the doc unless there's oozing or hallucinations. When I got back the results from my physical and heard that my white blood cell counts were extra-low, I figured with the hand pain and the wack immune system it could only be one thing--bone cancer (natch). Still suffering PTSD from last year's medical madness (and ensuing debt), I was still trying to get answers without running to the doc every ten seconds.
Plus, you guys know how much I love genetic anomalies and medical mysteries. Well, add to that a dash of hypochondria and an apathy toward my day job and I really can get to the bottom of a host of personal ailments. Here is an email I sent to my doc last week:
Yes, y'all--I created my own visual aids. These are the lengths I will go to in order to avoid a co-pay in these trying times.
And yes, I called my doctor "K-Cho." We're cool like that.
Unfortunately, my excellent PowerPoint presentation couldn't get me out of living life on life's terms. Doc replied a couple hours later:
Wow, that’s an impressive email with nice illustrations! Unfortunately, hand and wrist pain is much better diagnosed by exam than xray. Plus the xray will be useless without correlation to the exam if an xray is even needed. Most hand/wrist pain don’t require xrays if there hasn’t been any trauma/injury.
And boy, was she right! I went into her office yesterday and a few simple tests revealed De Quervain's tenosynovitis.
"I had a feeling that's what it was based on your description," she said.
"So what you're saying is that my diagrams were an excellent representation of where my pain was and I should perhaps enroll in medical school?"
K-Cho didn't answer, but I'd like to think that's because the answer was obvi.
Apparently this is common among athletes who grip tools (rackets, ski poles, etc) and those who do frequent manual labor, such as hammering. Since I fit into neither of those categories, I can only assume it's because of all the typing and playing Bejeweled on my bootleg phone--or....
"Um, could it be from too much....texting?" I asked tentatively.
Doc looked up knowingly and said, "Could be."
Guys, I have a textually transmitted disease (TTD).
I thought I was careful. I always used T-Mobile protection! My phone is so broke and busted, it's always been tough to text, but I was willing to stick it out because we'd been through so much together. But now it's destroying my ability to pursue my livelihood! How can I hold a microphone with this level of pain?!
I've been prescribed a regimen of RICE, advil, and even rehabilitation exercises--and I am dedicated. I'm not dying, I'm living with DQT--a TTD that will no longer hide in the shadows.
But this means I've gotta lay off the hard stuff (emotional texts) and the soft stuff ("running 10 min late!"). But I've got one of those ergonomic cushions at the office, so I'll try to get in as much blogging as possible while I can!
I miss you. Call me!
Friday, June 15, 2012
It's a Nice Day for a White (Person's) Wedding....
Who knew I was such a Billy Idol fan?
Tomorrow night Jewboo and I will be attending the wedding of two friends of mine. It's our first and, so far, only wedding of the year, so we're excited. This may also have to do with the fact that it's only 40 minutes outside of the city by train, which means we won't end up stuck in some godforsaken airport for 12 hours.
I've decided I really like going to weddings because I've learned how to make it all about me. Here's a quick tip sheet:
Making a Wedding Work for You: 2012 Edition,
by Sojourner 'you can't handle the' Truth
(dictated but not read)
- You know there will be photos galore, so save yourself hours of de-tagging the following weekend and use the upcoming nuptials as an excuse to look your MOST FIERCE. I'm super excited to get a mani/pedi/waxi/everythingelseineedtobebeautiful this afternoon!
- After all the flight delays and drama last year, I've decided to only attend weddings within driving distance. With this power comes great flexibility to add a little more vacation to your destination. We're just staying at a hotel one night, but I called to request an early check-in. We'll get to hit the gym/pool, take a nap, and squeeze a brunch in! Who says it's not my special day?
- Ask the DJ to play a few Zumba tunes! You'll engage the fuck out of your core!
- Instead of drinking games, play eating games! Ever wonder how many buttercream cupcakes you can eat in an hour? Now's your chance to find out!
- Bring 250 business cards and 12 copies of your reel. You never know who's related to Ryan Seacrest!
- If you're like me and hate discussing your job/daily life/deferred dreams, stay away from people in your age group and find the oldest person in the room. Chatting up Aunt Irma is guaranteed to bring laughs--and maybe even a self-esteem boost (bonus points if the person is so old that they lived in the Jim Crow era and are shocked at your mere presence).
Now that the truth-telling is over, let's have a little Friday fun with a photo montage!
The Theme: Awkward Wedding Photos
Is this the cover of a Nickelback album?
Why is this supposed to be cute? She actually looks scared.
CAPTION CONTEST! What do you think he's going through here?
Wake up, Rog! (his name is Roger, don't you think?)
So what if it's your second marriage--give her your all!
I love everything about this.
Okay, Japan, I get that the subservient woman is a thing
but must she be pocket-sized?
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
F'd by FB!*
*(Fucked by Facebook, obvs)
The biggest challenge about moving in with Jewboo has been the sleep situation. I can't quite stretch out and his alarm goes off about 30 minutes before mine, which means I'm roused (but not aroused!) 30 minutes before I normally would. Then there are the cats, who are both soooo cute but so squirmy--except for the obese one, but he's so big that when he lays on the covers you can't move them at all--that I feel like I'm parenting 6-month-old twins. This morning was no different. After trying to go back to sleep--and having a weird lucid dream about a monkey appearing in my home and me repeatedly trying to jump from one high piece of furniture to the next (and then remembering that monkeys can jump and my attempts at escape were futile), only for the cats to appear and me worrying that the monkey would eat them--I decided to just get up and make my morning oats!
Clearly I was still delirious because I then thought that the best way to pass the time would be to see what was happening on Facebook. What began as a casual scroll through my newsfeed soon became a self-inflicted torture porn of albums celebrating engagements, weddings, pregnancies and babies. I don't know why I thought my day should begin with Facebook. I was already so fragile after a weekend spent in the D for G-unit's 96th birthday (more on that in the next post) and while I was gone I received texts informing me that one of my coworkers had given his notice (damn him for getting free!) and my Coyote Average co-host and co-producer would no longer be hosting, producing, or living in New York City. I know that in both cases these are the right decisions for both of them, but seeing people move closer to their dreams just reminded me how slowly I'm progressing.* Plus, I was gonna be losing my gal pal to the world of touring comedy!
In other words: Go-go-gadget failure complex! Or, as Harry Potter would say, accio abandonment issues!
Wait--did I tell you the VO agent I met with decided they didn't want to "go forward with a relationship" and that I've gotten no other responses to my demo reel?
Yeah, that happened.
Look, I know the TRUTH of the matter: What appears in a newsfeed doesn't capture anyone's daily life--of course everyone's photos are smiling, attractive, and showing milestones--those are the moments when someone actually has a camera! If we were really presenting our true selves, every album would pictures of people looking at other people's facebook albums.
And we'd all look like this:
(This is how I look in my head)
But I can't help but feel like I missed a damn memo. Hetero weddings?! Babies?! Babies havin' babies?! Babies having gaybies?! Gaybies having Prada Pampers?! Guys, isn't the world going to hell in a handbasket? Do we really want to provide more energy sources for the Google-created robots that will take over in just a few short years? I don't know, maybe I'm just too narrow-minded, but I didn't see this coming. Did you?
*God, I'm so self-centered I disgust myself.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Guys, I'm, Like, Really Well Spoken
Hey friends!
I finally recorded my voiceover demo! It starts out with some solid stereotyping and then moves into my true self--you know, showing the range a blacktress needs in these trying times. Give a listen and pass it along to that uncle of yours who works in the biz:
I recorded it on May 24 and I already have a meeting with an agent scheduled for THIS AFTERNOON! I'm trying not to get too excited, since it really is all a crapshoot, but I must say it's validating to get such a positive--and prompt--response. Perhaps I can start to live the dream instead of living the dream deferred!
Abrupt transition:
Yesterday I went to a goodbye party for one of my favorite high school teachers (whose son I used to babysit and affectionately refer to as Lil' Massa), which was held in the place where it all began--high school.
(By "it" I mean the self-loathing and outsider tendencies that would eventually lead me to telling un-handle-able truths.)
I didn't know anyone except for a couple teachers and one other guy from my year. We caught up and it turned out he and his wife--a fellow high school classmate--just had a baby 6 weeks ago. As he showed me pictures of their cute baby in their bright, tastefully decorated Brooklyn brownstone (that they own), I realized how far removed I was from this world. One pic showed mom leaning over the baby with a camera.
"Funny story," my friendquaintance begins. "He needs a passport photo and it has to be of him with his eyes opened, not crying, not flailing, and against a white background, so this was a chill moment."
Yes, the baby needs a passport--why? Well, because he and mom are spending the summer in France, of course. #keepingupwiththekardashians
I'm not surprised, really. I understand that wealth begets wealth--and France isn't the pinnacle of 'success' (however you define it)--but I was immediately shuttled back in time to the bar and bat mitzvah days, when I wore the same dress to the afternoon and evening parties and no one else did the same. I mean, here I was, praying that my decision to pay for me demo wasn't a waste of my savings, and there's a fetus still reeking of placenta who needs a passport and all I've got to look forward to this summer is a trip to the D (where it's so, so cold).
Needless to say, I ate a slice of banana bread and two slices of chocolate hazelnut cake as I tried to make my day job sound as exciting as summering in France.
As he rattled off the list of classmates who'd come to see the baby, I was mostly just shocked that they were all still friends. It's crazy how shit doesn't change. I chimed in with whatever I'd managed to glean from Facebook, but my heart just wasn't in it. I knew that I didn't want to be a consultant or a VP or a lawyer (but I did wish I could work for Google), but the ability to navigate the world with the ease that financial security brings would be pretty dope right about now. Granted, I am part of the 99%, but I'd blocked out the fact that I spent most of my formative years with the 1%, and it's probably why I am obsessed with amenities.
Well, this isn't really going anywhere, so I'll stop typing. Here's hopin' I end up as the voice of Seagram's gin and guice, now with ginseng!
I recorded it on May 24 and I already have a meeting with an agent scheduled for THIS AFTERNOON! I'm trying not to get too excited, since it really is all a crapshoot, but I must say it's validating to get such a positive--and prompt--response. Perhaps I can start to live the dream instead of living the dream deferred!
Abrupt transition:
Yesterday I went to a goodbye party for one of my favorite high school teachers (whose son I used to babysit and affectionately refer to as Lil' Massa), which was held in the place where it all began--high school.
(By "it" I mean the self-loathing and outsider tendencies that would eventually lead me to telling un-handle-able truths.)
I didn't know anyone except for a couple teachers and one other guy from my year. We caught up and it turned out he and his wife--a fellow high school classmate--just had a baby 6 weeks ago. As he showed me pictures of their cute baby in their bright, tastefully decorated Brooklyn brownstone (that they own), I realized how far removed I was from this world. One pic showed mom leaning over the baby with a camera.
"Funny story," my friendquaintance begins. "He needs a passport photo and it has to be of him with his eyes opened, not crying, not flailing, and against a white background, so this was a chill moment."
Yes, the baby needs a passport--why? Well, because he and mom are spending the summer in France, of course. #keepingupwiththekardashians
I'm not surprised, really. I understand that wealth begets wealth--and France isn't the pinnacle of 'success' (however you define it)--but I was immediately shuttled back in time to the bar and bat mitzvah days, when I wore the same dress to the afternoon and evening parties and no one else did the same. I mean, here I was, praying that my decision to pay for me demo wasn't a waste of my savings, and there's a fetus still reeking of placenta who needs a passport and all I've got to look forward to this summer is a trip to the D (where it's so, so cold).
Needless to say, I ate a slice of banana bread and two slices of chocolate hazelnut cake as I tried to make my day job sound as exciting as summering in France.
As he rattled off the list of classmates who'd come to see the baby, I was mostly just shocked that they were all still friends. It's crazy how shit doesn't change. I chimed in with whatever I'd managed to glean from Facebook, but my heart just wasn't in it. I knew that I didn't want to be a consultant or a VP or a lawyer (but I did wish I could work for Google), but the ability to navigate the world with the ease that financial security brings would be pretty dope right about now. Granted, I am part of the 99%, but I'd blocked out the fact that I spent most of my formative years with the 1%, and it's probably why I am obsessed with amenities.
Well, this isn't really going anywhere, so I'll stop typing. Here's hopin' I end up as the voice of Seagram's gin and guice, now with ginseng!
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
The Importance of Being Ernest
There are so many things to adore about this video, but I'll let you decide for yourself:
I had no idea who Lana Del Rey was until I saw this video (and was prompted to look up several clips). I think that is a sign of a powerful YouTube clip--it inspired me to ACT.
It also reminded me that we could all use an Ernest in our lives.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
I Found More Than Just Containers....
I want to design my own t-shirt. I wouldn't sell it and no one besides myself would want it because it would say:
And underneath would be a picture of me and Ellen, the sales associate who made me feel like a better person.
This is what happens when I try to sneak out briefly during work to get a set of drawers.
[Yes, I like to think of myself as Bruce Willis in everything ever.]
Unfortunately the item I saw online actually looked like it was based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, and I was back to square one, but Ellen helped me figure it out before I had a Mariah Meltdown.
As I left without a drawer unit for my clothes, but with a jazzy clothes hamper, I felt hopeful. I'm ordering some drawers to pick up in store, which is both high-tech and less stressful. I'm probably going to pick them up on Saturday, which is the next day that Ellen's working.
Yes, she told me of her own volition. We're going to start going on coffee dates at Bed Bath & Beyond's cafe and I'll probably get her to "Like" my Facebook fan page. #BFFnotonNBC
I just got back from
And underneath would be a picture of me and Ellen, the sales associate who made me feel like a better person.
This is what happens when I try to sneak out briefly during work to get a set of drawers.
Ever since the blog stopped being a safe space, I've been unable to tell my personal truths in the cathartic way that this blog once offered. I can, however, talk about how I'm feeling, since that doesn't sully anyone's good name and feelings aren't facts.
In short: I'm having a hard time.
See, I'm not very good at "organizing," "making efficient use of my time," or "being a functioning member of society." Whenever I manage to get anything together it's usually because I've been guilted or shamed into behaving in a socially acceptable manner.* Which, of course, means that I'm having trouble living in close quarters with a man and two cats—all of whom I love—that remind me every day that I'm just taking up too much space.
I know that I need to get rid of the half-full Ikea bags full of clothing that I've hidden in the closet—I mean, it's because of them that I've worn the same 6 outfits for the last 3 weeks! And I can't complain about Jewboo's unpacked boxes when I'm using a stack of three of them as a desk for my laptop. As RuPaul used to say: If you can't love [living with yourself], how in the hell are you gonna love [living with your Jewboo]???
She also said, "Don't fuck it up," which I should also take to heart.
With that in mind, I started looking through shelving options on the Container Store's website. I was immediately overwhelmed (do you know there are containers for holding your double-A batteries???) and finally decided to just walk the 50 feet from my office to the actual store.
Actually, what I said to myself was "THIS. ENDS. NOW." before I grabbed my credit card and keys (they won't know I've really left if my purse stays!)
[Yes, I like to think of myself as Bruce Willis in everything ever.]
When I got there, it was all too much. For a store that was all about containing, I felt it was overflowing with stuff that was just out of control! I was about to walk out when I spotted a smiley sales associate with a hip haircut and very subtle blue-grey eyeshadow.
"I need help!" I said, much like a lost child at a county fair. (I've found this is the best way to get a stranger's attention and immediate sympathy.)
"What are you looking for?" Smiley Lady said, much like a kindergarten teacher addressing someone who she knows has just peed his pants.
"I need shelving because I just moved in with my boyfriend and my shit's a hot mess and if I don't get it together we're over, and I was on the website and saw this shelving unit that I want and I was at my desk and decided, 'THIS ENDS TONIGHT' but I can't find it."
Her name was Ellen. She was very patient and had no problem with TMI, which means we're meant to be BFF.
Elllen got married last year and she and her husband have been living in a studio apartment—and they're making their love work!!
"How, Ellen? HOW?" I asked as we stood by the mesh Elfa drawers sold exclusively at The Container Store.
Ellen explained that she's pretty chill and just says exactly what she's thinking.
"Yeah," I said. "I don't see you as one to fly off the handle." I just got her, you know?
Unfortunately the item I saw online actually looked like it was based on the novel PUSH by Sapphire, and I was back to square one, but Ellen helped me figure it out before I had a Mariah Meltdown.
As I left without a drawer unit for my clothes, but with a jazzy clothes hamper, I felt hopeful. I'm ordering some drawers to pick up in store, which is both high-tech and less stressful. I'm probably going to pick them up on Saturday, which is the next day that Ellen's working.
Yes, she told me of her own volition. We're going to start going on coffee dates at Bed Bath & Beyond's cafe and I'll probably get her to "Like" my Facebook fan page. #BFFnotonNBC
*We all know that if I had my way I'd be the star of next season's new show "Biggest Hoarders Loser Intervention," where obese men and women are made to lose weight by kicking their drug addiction and cleaning their health-code-violating compounds.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Summertime and the Dressin' is Shitty....
As the weather stays warm, everyone's dressing for the season--and many are looking fierce. I mean, I work in Chelsea, so every block and a half I see a young model on her way to a go-see (yep, I know the lingo), but even the normals are bringin' their A-game.
Except for the men.
I've discovered that I have several prejudices against certain fashion choices that men make. In fact, they offend me with their grossness.
I would like to share them with you now.
As with my fears, I believe that as I say them, I release them.
Hipster mullet.
This makes me want to vomit.
The man below is basically the stuff of my nightmares.
Except for the men.
I've discovered that I have several prejudices against certain fashion choices that men make. In fact, they offend me with their grossness.
I would like to share them with you now.
As with my fears, I believe that as I say them, I release them.
Hipster mullet.
I came across this just yesterday while getting lunch with a gal pal. It was one of those hip restaurants where all of the waitstaff look like runaways from Oregon, and the guy asked us how many we'd be before reserving our table with a flame-patterned kerchief. So typical.
TEVAS
OF COURSE this guy would have a fish is a lava-lamp-shaped tank and a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge as his screensaver. No, buddy, I don't want to hear about that time you went to India with your parents for vacation!
This same character is usually found wearing another gguuhh--ross item:
the short-sleeve button-down.
I know, I know, this may polarize many of you, but this is my blog and my truth!
It doesn't matter how attractive you are, this screams LAME DAD!
Jaunty Caps (with unkempt hair)
No, you're not cool, you're not a 1940s jazz musician, and you don't have to get up early tomorrow and go to a life-drawing class.
Winter Hats in Non-Winter Weather.
FYI: it doesn't look good on non-white guys, either.
While we're on the face, let's discuss WAXED MUSTACHES.
The man below is basically the stuff of my nightmares.
Frosted Hair; 1990s-swing-music-revival-style T-Shirt; BLEACHED SOUL PATCH; sculpted facial hair AROUND the soul patch; TWO hoop earrings; AND A PINKY RING.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
On the Twelfth Day of Not Blogging, My True Love Gave to Me....A Blog Post!
Twelve days since my last blog post?! That's a fuckin' abomination.
How are you guys? I'm a bit weary, but that's nothing new. I've had a lot of potential posts in mind but never really thought they were worth following through--or, rather, I was up against deadlines for work and after cranking out articles with such titles as "WaterMedia Meaning," I didn't think I was fit to walk the earth, much less sully the blogsphere. Luckily, the magazine has gone to the printer and I've got some breathing room for a week or so. And you know what "breathing room" means: lunches with my main gays, doctor's appointments to check on my brain (remember that ish last year?), doing some creative writing, and engaging in bloggery. So here we are!
Here are some things I wanted to share last week, presented in "mini-post" form:
Title: THE WAR ON TERROR
Abstract
Last weekend, I was lazing around the house and calling it organizing when I turned to Jewboo, who was washing dishes.
"Will you judge me if I take a nap now?"
He turned to me, with the confused look of a person being asked an interview question that's clearly a trick (you know, like, "What's your greatest weakness?"). "Um....are you asking my permission?"
"I don't know. Yes? Is that bad?"
As you can imagine, I'm having a tough time with cohabitation. Not because of anything Jewboo has or hasn't done--it's all in my head. You know how I like to dissect everything and try to figure out why so that I can, in turn, manipulate in hopes of achieving my dreams (usually fame and undying love)? Well, that's cute when it's pithy and can be closed in a Firefox tab. And it's acceptable when it happens once a week on the nights that I spend with my lover. But when it's a daily occurrence, it not only strains the relationship but it also taxes the mind. And I don't know how to stop.
The innocuous question, "What do you want for dinner?" reaches my hammer, anvil, and stirrup sounding like, "Are you seriously going to just eat ice cream as a meal?" I then feel the need to over-explain my behavior and request unnecessary approval.
Guys, it turns out I'm a terrorist--relax, government Google spies--I'm a "process terrorist." I learned this phrase from an insightful older gay gentleman who has been with his live-in Latin lover for nearly two decades. While explaining my new domestic status, he said, "You know, when I first met [Juan] I thought he was a bit dim cause he was so drama free. Turns out that he just doesn't feel the need to analyze everything to death. You're destroying everything by trying to dissect it. You're making everyday life fearful. You've got to stop."
Lord knows I have no desire for 72 virgins,* so I really do need to get it together.
*What woman wants to spend the afterlife saying, "No, not there. Up. UP! Okay...no, it's fine."?
How are you guys? I'm a bit weary, but that's nothing new. I've had a lot of potential posts in mind but never really thought they were worth following through--or, rather, I was up against deadlines for work and after cranking out articles with such titles as "WaterMedia Meaning," I didn't think I was fit to walk the earth, much less sully the blogsphere. Luckily, the magazine has gone to the printer and I've got some breathing room for a week or so. And you know what "breathing room" means: lunches with my main gays, doctor's appointments to check on my brain (remember that ish last year?), doing some creative writing, and engaging in bloggery. So here we are!
Here are some things I wanted to share last week, presented in "mini-post" form:
Title: A POST-RACIST AMERICA?
Abstract
The 30 Rock role for which I auditioned was played by a WHITE WOMAN.
I can't even write more lest I end up writing a 30-page post.
Abstract
Last weekend, I was lazing around the house and calling it organizing when I turned to Jewboo, who was washing dishes.
"Will you judge me if I take a nap now?"
He turned to me, with the confused look of a person being asked an interview question that's clearly a trick (you know, like, "What's your greatest weakness?"). "Um....are you asking my permission?"
"I don't know. Yes? Is that bad?"
As you can imagine, I'm having a tough time with cohabitation. Not because of anything Jewboo has or hasn't done--it's all in my head. You know how I like to dissect everything and try to figure out why so that I can, in turn, manipulate in hopes of achieving my dreams (usually fame and undying love)? Well, that's cute when it's pithy and can be closed in a Firefox tab. And it's acceptable when it happens once a week on the nights that I spend with my lover. But when it's a daily occurrence, it not only strains the relationship but it also taxes the mind. And I don't know how to stop.
The innocuous question, "What do you want for dinner?" reaches my hammer, anvil, and stirrup sounding like, "Are you seriously going to just eat ice cream as a meal?" I then feel the need to over-explain my behavior and request unnecessary approval.
Guys, it turns out I'm a terrorist--relax, government Google spies--I'm a "process terrorist." I learned this phrase from an insightful older gay gentleman who has been with his live-in Latin lover for nearly two decades. While explaining my new domestic status, he said, "You know, when I first met [Juan] I thought he was a bit dim cause he was so drama free. Turns out that he just doesn't feel the need to analyze everything to death. You're destroying everything by trying to dissect it. You're making everyday life fearful. You've got to stop."
Lord knows I have no desire for 72 virgins,* so I really do need to get it together.
*What woman wants to spend the afterlife saying, "No, not there. Up. UP! Okay...no, it's fine."?
Title: FAMILY VALUES
Abstract
I received the following text not once, not twice, but three times (the cray cray) from my cousin who writes hood tales:
[Title removed] the sexiest erotic thriller is now available 4 sale b4 mothers day. set in a web of lust lies love deception drama and abortion.
And here I was, wondering what on earth to get for the mother who has everything!
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Workin' it Out!
Hey guys,
Sorry for the delay. As you can imagine, the last week has been a flurry of packing, schlepping,* and weariness--but there's been no shortage of blog material. Let me share some highlights--or, rather, lowlights--of the "Great Migration of 2012."
Last Thursday was the beginning of substantial preparation, and it involved a trip to Ikea with my mom.
No, not Jewboo. Why? Well, when it comes to interior design, meticulous planning, and troubleshooting my poor choices, mom's got Jewboo beat by a landslide. She watches HGTV 24/7 and seeing as I consider vajazzling a bold creative choice, I needed her expertise. Add to that the fact that 30 Rock is my design for living, and I just couldn't risk Ikea tearing Jewboo and I apart.
As we attempted to lug disparate pieces of birch veneer onto our trollies (which, of course, had to have sticky wheels that wouldn't respond to steering), my mother went from "Design on a Dime" to "Turn on You on a Dime." I went back to pick up and item and we were separated like two Mormon missionaries just days after arriving in a treacherous foreign land.^ Let's just say that by the time we got in the car, we weren't speaking...because that is what happened. Because I don't like toiling, sweating, or feeling dumb, I opted for Ikea's delivery and assembly service for the most complicated pieces: the bed frame, the office desk, and the tv stand. As Jewboo sat in Brooklyn, attempting to organize and pack 30 years worth of stuff, I sat in the new apartment waiting for deliveries to arrive. What took place on that day were interactions unlike any I could have ever dreamed of.
They all started with me profusely apologizing because I live on the top floor of a 5th-floor walkup. As burly, surly men hauled dining tables and chairs upstairs, I offered to help and was met with BPEs--"'Bitch, please' eyes." At around 5pm, Chris from Ikea arrived. He called to say that he couldn't find a parking spot and needed me to come down and hold the door while he emptied the truck.
"It's just you?!" I said with what may have been mistaken for disgust and disdain.
I was stressed out and worried--I had 11 different boxes totaling 200+ pounds and they'd just sent one guy. I'd warned them it was a walk-up. I'd hoped there'd at least be a spotter!
I offered to help and he looked at me like I had 3 heads before telling me to just "sit tight." He then proceeded to carry every single box up 5 flights of stairs.
I offered him water. I offered him food. I offered him a warm air mattress. He declined all of it.
"It's just a workout. That's all it is," he said through heavy breaths as he wiped sweat off his brow.
I was officially frightened. No one could be that righteous about heavy lifting unless he'd experienced worse. Every time he came in with a new piece, I stood up because I felt like an asshole for reclining when he was toiling. Once he was done, it was time to start assembling. Over the course of the five hours it took him to assemble items, we really got to know each other--and by that, I mean I got to know about him.
For the first half hour, he talked about the importance of exercise and supported his points with loose quotes from the Bible. "Do you believe in God?" he began. "You know God says by the sweat of your brow comes the strength of your body. That's truth."
I don't know why he needed to question my faith before saying that. I think we all know we need our 30 minutes a day because Michelle Obama says so.
Within the first 5 minutes, I knew he had to have been institutionalized in some way, because everything was really intense, like he wasn't used to having casual interactions with fellow humans and he got most of his information from a prison library. He didn't just make statements, he offered 10 different synonyms, stressing the least important parts of his conversation with such conviction he had to have been convicted.
I don't know if I'm explaining this well. Let me turn it over to Kevin Hart, who really captures the essence of such a man.
Take, for instance, Chris's thoughts on his physical appearance:
"Am I bigger than I should be right now? Yes, at this moment, as we speak, presently, I am not at the weight I should be for my height. I am 204 and I should be at a buck-eighty, a buck-seventy-five. I should be approximately 30 pounds less than I am. It is just a fact that I am larger than I should be."
Um, okay. #uncomfortable #lifetimemomentoftruth
He also kept asking me if I was "following" him, as though he'd been used to talking to methadone addicts who were prone to nodding off.
Turned out that Chris wasn't an Ikea employee but actually worked for a company to whom Ikea outsources it's delivery and assembly. (Turns out Ikea's own people can't even put the shit together! You know that's F'd) Luckily, he had experience with all of the items I purchased, so it only took him FIVE HOURS to put everything together.
WTF?! Who has that kind of time? Imagine if I'd tried to do any of that on my own, or if Jewboo and I had sat there struggling with the pictionary-esque directions? I would have started crying within 20 minutes and then stormed out to get a cupcake.
As he moves on to the second item, Chris tells me that I'm missing not one but two pieces needed for the bedframe to be ready for use: the midbeam and the slats.
"But it said there were 3 parts to the item and I have 3 boxes!" I yelped helplessly.
"Yeah, but you have to get these two things separately," Chris said. "They must be purchased in addition to the 3 pieces. It's additional. They didn't even tell you, did they?"
No, they did not, Incarcerated Chris! (InCHRISerated?)
Ikea needs to stop bullshittin' and just change their logo:
Chris explained what I'd need to do once I purchased the pieces (which you know involved a lot of repetition) and told me it'd be fine. He then went back to discussing physical fitness, and explained why ping-pong "is the greatest form of exercise that God gave man."
Hear him out:
"What was the first form of exercise? Fighting. Think about it: you use your body, you build strength, you can do it anywhere. It's man's instinct. [at this point I start to text friends: If you don't hear from me in 30 minutes, send out the dogs.] I mean, I can fight. I used to fight and I'm telling you, I'd be sweating more than I am now. But we can't do that as our exercise. Why? Because we'd hurt our bodies. It's too much stress and risk on the human body. And it's illegal, too [he laughs awkwardly]. Yeah, you'll get in trouble.
"Okay, what's next after fighting? Football. Again, too much physical injury. It's dangerous, no matter how much padding you wear. Then what? Baseball--please!" [I didn't say anything.] "Swimming is good for building flexibility, but there's no strength. Have you seen pro swimmers? They're weak. Ok, yeah, running, that's something, you're on to something." [Again, I didn't say anything.] "But runners are weak, too. They have endurance but they're all bones. Their bodies cannibalize themselves. It's all bone.
"And then there's ping-pong. You ever get hit with a ping-pong? It doesn't feel like nothing. Whether you hit it 60 miles an hour, the most you'll get is a red mark. And you're in combat. You're against your fellow man, but you're never in physical contact. I'm on my side, you're on your side. Always. There's no touching. NONE. At most, I throw you the ball. It's a workout, for real. Believe me. For the record I am saying it's the best exercise. You can quote me. I lost 60 pounds playing ping-pong."
What. on. earth.
It was the longest 5 hours of my life, made worse by the fact that I had no food to eat. Things started to get less intense once Chris asked if he could listen to music as he worked. "SWEET GOD PLEASE!" I thought as I said, "yeah, get in the zone."
He put the speaker at top volume on his iPhone and proceeded to blast 80s rock songs by Huey Lewis and the News, which only made him even more of an enigma.
If only I'd known that Chris would be the most steadfast of all the men who I'd meet over the next week. For the last 5 days our toilet hasn't worked, our shower dribbles like a public-school water fountain, and one of our dining chairs arrived broken and took 4 days to replace. When I called various men in charge, I discovered that the Ikea model had become universal. I was on my own Les Miz style, feeling very third world in my own (brand new) apartment! Jewboo and I have managed to make it through, however, and have actually grown closer (there's nothing like admitting to peeing in the shower to make a relationship stronger).
Here's to a first week of cohabitation unlike any other! At least I'm not Ashton Kutcher, am I right?!
*I'm so Jewish!
^I saw "Book of Mormon" on Broadway two weeks ago and it's changed my life.
Sorry for the delay. As you can imagine, the last week has been a flurry of packing, schlepping,* and weariness--but there's been no shortage of blog material. Let me share some highlights--or, rather, lowlights--of the "Great Migration of 2012."
Last Thursday was the beginning of substantial preparation, and it involved a trip to Ikea with my mom.
No, not Jewboo. Why? Well, when it comes to interior design, meticulous planning, and troubleshooting my poor choices, mom's got Jewboo beat by a landslide. She watches HGTV 24/7 and seeing as I consider vajazzling a bold creative choice, I needed her expertise. Add to that the fact that 30 Rock is my design for living, and I just couldn't risk Ikea tearing Jewboo and I apart.
As we attempted to lug disparate pieces of birch veneer onto our trollies (which, of course, had to have sticky wheels that wouldn't respond to steering), my mother went from "Design on a Dime" to "Turn on You on a Dime." I went back to pick up and item and we were separated like two Mormon missionaries just days after arriving in a treacherous foreign land.^ Let's just say that by the time we got in the car, we weren't speaking...because that is what happened. Because I don't like toiling, sweating, or feeling dumb, I opted for Ikea's delivery and assembly service for the most complicated pieces: the bed frame, the office desk, and the tv stand. As Jewboo sat in Brooklyn, attempting to organize and pack 30 years worth of stuff, I sat in the new apartment waiting for deliveries to arrive. What took place on that day were interactions unlike any I could have ever dreamed of.
They all started with me profusely apologizing because I live on the top floor of a 5th-floor walkup. As burly, surly men hauled dining tables and chairs upstairs, I offered to help and was met with BPEs--"'Bitch, please' eyes." At around 5pm, Chris from Ikea arrived. He called to say that he couldn't find a parking spot and needed me to come down and hold the door while he emptied the truck.
"It's just you?!" I said with what may have been mistaken for disgust and disdain.
I was stressed out and worried--I had 11 different boxes totaling 200+ pounds and they'd just sent one guy. I'd warned them it was a walk-up. I'd hoped there'd at least be a spotter!
I offered to help and he looked at me like I had 3 heads before telling me to just "sit tight." He then proceeded to carry every single box up 5 flights of stairs.
I offered him water. I offered him food. I offered him a warm air mattress. He declined all of it.
"It's just a workout. That's all it is," he said through heavy breaths as he wiped sweat off his brow.
I was officially frightened. No one could be that righteous about heavy lifting unless he'd experienced worse. Every time he came in with a new piece, I stood up because I felt like an asshole for reclining when he was toiling. Once he was done, it was time to start assembling. Over the course of the five hours it took him to assemble items, we really got to know each other--and by that, I mean I got to know about him.
For the first half hour, he talked about the importance of exercise and supported his points with loose quotes from the Bible. "Do you believe in God?" he began. "You know God says by the sweat of your brow comes the strength of your body. That's truth."
I don't know why he needed to question my faith before saying that. I think we all know we need our 30 minutes a day because Michelle Obama says so.
Within the first 5 minutes, I knew he had to have been institutionalized in some way, because everything was really intense, like he wasn't used to having casual interactions with fellow humans and he got most of his information from a prison library. He didn't just make statements, he offered 10 different synonyms, stressing the least important parts of his conversation with such conviction he had to have been convicted.
I don't know if I'm explaining this well. Let me turn it over to Kevin Hart, who really captures the essence of such a man.
Take, for instance, Chris's thoughts on his physical appearance:
"Am I bigger than I should be right now? Yes, at this moment, as we speak, presently, I am not at the weight I should be for my height. I am 204 and I should be at a buck-eighty, a buck-seventy-five. I should be approximately 30 pounds less than I am. It is just a fact that I am larger than I should be."
Um, okay. #uncomfortable #lifetimemomentoftruth
He also kept asking me if I was "following" him, as though he'd been used to talking to methadone addicts who were prone to nodding off.
Turned out that Chris wasn't an Ikea employee but actually worked for a company to whom Ikea outsources it's delivery and assembly. (Turns out Ikea's own people can't even put the shit together! You know that's F'd) Luckily, he had experience with all of the items I purchased, so it only took him FIVE HOURS to put everything together.
WTF?! Who has that kind of time? Imagine if I'd tried to do any of that on my own, or if Jewboo and I had sat there struggling with the pictionary-esque directions? I would have started crying within 20 minutes and then stormed out to get a cupcake.
As he moves on to the second item, Chris tells me that I'm missing not one but two pieces needed for the bedframe to be ready for use: the midbeam and the slats.
"But it said there were 3 parts to the item and I have 3 boxes!" I yelped helplessly.
"Yeah, but you have to get these two things separately," Chris said. "They must be purchased in addition to the 3 pieces. It's additional. They didn't even tell you, did they?"
No, they did not, Incarcerated Chris! (InCHRISerated?)
Ikea needs to stop bullshittin' and just change their logo:
Chris explained what I'd need to do once I purchased the pieces (which you know involved a lot of repetition) and told me it'd be fine. He then went back to discussing physical fitness, and explained why ping-pong "is the greatest form of exercise that God gave man."
Hear him out:
"What was the first form of exercise? Fighting. Think about it: you use your body, you build strength, you can do it anywhere. It's man's instinct. [at this point I start to text friends: If you don't hear from me in 30 minutes, send out the dogs.] I mean, I can fight. I used to fight and I'm telling you, I'd be sweating more than I am now. But we can't do that as our exercise. Why? Because we'd hurt our bodies. It's too much stress and risk on the human body. And it's illegal, too [he laughs awkwardly]. Yeah, you'll get in trouble.
"Okay, what's next after fighting? Football. Again, too much physical injury. It's dangerous, no matter how much padding you wear. Then what? Baseball--please!" [I didn't say anything.] "Swimming is good for building flexibility, but there's no strength. Have you seen pro swimmers? They're weak. Ok, yeah, running, that's something, you're on to something." [Again, I didn't say anything.] "But runners are weak, too. They have endurance but they're all bones. Their bodies cannibalize themselves. It's all bone.
"And then there's ping-pong. You ever get hit with a ping-pong? It doesn't feel like nothing. Whether you hit it 60 miles an hour, the most you'll get is a red mark. And you're in combat. You're against your fellow man, but you're never in physical contact. I'm on my side, you're on your side. Always. There's no touching. NONE. At most, I throw you the ball. It's a workout, for real. Believe me. For the record I am saying it's the best exercise. You can quote me. I lost 60 pounds playing ping-pong."
What. on. earth.
It was the longest 5 hours of my life, made worse by the fact that I had no food to eat. Things started to get less intense once Chris asked if he could listen to music as he worked. "SWEET GOD PLEASE!" I thought as I said, "yeah, get in the zone."
He put the speaker at top volume on his iPhone and proceeded to blast 80s rock songs by Huey Lewis and the News, which only made him even more of an enigma.
If only I'd known that Chris would be the most steadfast of all the men who I'd meet over the next week. For the last 5 days our toilet hasn't worked, our shower dribbles like a public-school water fountain, and one of our dining chairs arrived broken and took 4 days to replace. When I called various men in charge, I discovered that the Ikea model had become universal. I was on my own Les Miz style, feeling very third world in my own (brand new) apartment! Jewboo and I have managed to make it through, however, and have actually grown closer (there's nothing like admitting to peeing in the shower to make a relationship stronger).
Here's to a first week of cohabitation unlike any other! At least I'm not Ashton Kutcher, am I right?!
*I'm so Jewish!
^I saw "Book of Mormon" on Broadway two weeks ago and it's changed my life.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
The Legend of Blacktress Vance
Oh good god--I've been away from the blogsphere for a little over a week and Google's found another way to change it up. I logged in and don't even recognize the dashboard or the "new post" page. If this ends up being entirely in Wingdings, my apologies.
Of course, if it's in Wingdings, you won't even know I apologized.
Guys, it has been a c-c-c-Cau-CRAZY week! On the 19th, Jewboo and I signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem, taking our realationship to the next level and gentrifying 7th avenue, which is one of the last holdouts of--I want to gag--the area the realtors have dubbed SoHa (South Harlem). Basically, we decided to challenge Bill Clinton. Bill, I see your office building and raise you an interracial, interfaith couple with a pet that is struggling to manage his obesity.
We are the new face on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.
Speaking of being a new face (nailed it!): Last week I had two evening work events that really showed how far we haven't come. I went to both with my boss, who is even more cray when you have to deal with him one on one. Thursday night I was basically the Bagger Vance to his [Whatever Matt Damon's character's name was]--only without the moral lessons and new-found mutual respect. We were at an event where I was the only brown person not holding a tray and the average age of the attendees was 70. It was "old money" personified. There was one dude there who was 101 years old. Y'all, he was in a wheelchair being pushed by a slightly younger although equally geriatric woman (who was referred to as "the second wife that everyone calls a gold digger"), and I swear to you that at one point she wheeled him toward a wall and the panel opened and he was ushered inside.
Um, WTF?! Is he a hobbit?? Or perhaps a crypt keeper? Or was he part of a secret society of influential white males who have been granted eternal life???
Needless to say, I was out of my element.
After all my time inside Caucasia, though, I'm totally content to stand around and not talk to anyone while still looking approachable. However, I found it rather awkward when people I've met--and even written about--repeatedly didn't acknowledge my presence. I was getting Zen about it when two men approached my boss to chat. My boss introduced me to them and I jogged one of the guy's memory. The other didn't look at me. My boss then comments on the two men's colorful ties and makes a big production of saying that they're FIERCE! "We should just put you two at the door and you can blind everyone!" he said.
Then, the dude who doesn't acknowledge me points his thumb in my direction and goes, "With this one, we've got the whole rainbow!"My thoughts came in this order?
1. "This one"? Oh, so you can see me and have just chosen to say nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Wait, does he mean....?
3. No, that can't be--that's not even funny, even if he was trying to make a joke.
4. I'm wearing a cream-colored dress and a black sweater, so he can't have been referring to my clothing. He had to have been referring to the color of my skin and not the content of my character.
I bet he'd be terrified walking the streets of SoHa. God, I hate people.
I really would have had a better ending to this (complete with how the man "graciously" invited me to his Connecticut home as though I was a baby Zahara.) but I came back to this post about 8 hours after I started it and now I'm sucked into the maelstrom that is the Ikea website.
I heart you. Bear with me--we'll be out of this madness soon and I'll be bLack!
xoxo,
blacktress!
Of course, if it's in Wingdings, you won't even know I apologized.
Guys, it has been a c-c-c-Cau-CRAZY week! On the 19th, Jewboo and I signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem, taking our realationship to the next level and gentrifying 7th avenue, which is one of the last holdouts of--I want to gag--the area the realtors have dubbed SoHa (South Harlem). Basically, we decided to challenge Bill Clinton. Bill, I see your office building and raise you an interracial, interfaith couple with a pet that is struggling to manage his obesity.
We are the new face on Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.
Speaking of being a new face (nailed it!): Last week I had two evening work events that really showed how far we haven't come. I went to both with my boss, who is even more cray when you have to deal with him one on one. Thursday night I was basically the Bagger Vance to his [Whatever Matt Damon's character's name was]--only without the moral lessons and new-found mutual respect. We were at an event where I was the only brown person not holding a tray and the average age of the attendees was 70. It was "old money" personified. There was one dude there who was 101 years old. Y'all, he was in a wheelchair being pushed by a slightly younger although equally geriatric woman (who was referred to as "the second wife that everyone calls a gold digger"), and I swear to you that at one point she wheeled him toward a wall and the panel opened and he was ushered inside.
Um, WTF?! Is he a hobbit?? Or perhaps a crypt keeper? Or was he part of a secret society of influential white males who have been granted eternal life???
Needless to say, I was out of my element.
After all my time inside Caucasia, though, I'm totally content to stand around and not talk to anyone while still looking approachable. However, I found it rather awkward when people I've met--and even written about--repeatedly didn't acknowledge my presence. I was getting Zen about it when two men approached my boss to chat. My boss introduced me to them and I jogged one of the guy's memory. The other didn't look at me. My boss then comments on the two men's colorful ties and makes a big production of saying that they're FIERCE! "We should just put you two at the door and you can blind everyone!" he said.
Then, the dude who doesn't acknowledge me points his thumb in my direction and goes, "With this one, we've got the whole rainbow!"My thoughts came in this order?
1. "This one"? Oh, so you can see me and have just chosen to say nothing? Are you fucking kidding me?
2. Wait, does he mean....?
3. No, that can't be--that's not even funny, even if he was trying to make a joke.
4. I'm wearing a cream-colored dress and a black sweater, so he can't have been referring to my clothing. He had to have been referring to the color of my skin and not the content of my character.
I bet he'd be terrified walking the streets of SoHa. God, I hate people.
I really would have had a better ending to this (complete with how the man "graciously" invited me to his Connecticut home as though I was a baby Zahara.) but I came back to this post about 8 hours after I started it and now I'm sucked into the maelstrom that is the Ikea website.
I heart you. Bear with me--we'll be out of this madness soon and I'll be bLack!
xoxo,
blacktress!
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