Hey Y'all,
I write to you in my final hours in Detroit. I worked hard to make the best of it, but this city refuses work with a blacktress. Yesterday's foolery was manifold:
1. I wanted to go to the gym real bad, because I feel like I've been eating hypertension and type-2 diabetes ever since I got here. My cousin's a member of LA Fitness, a national gym chain that she joined in the ATL. We found the location nearby and when we got to the front desk we were told we had to pay because: 1) her membership wasn't valid in this state; 2) I couldn't use a guest pass unless I lived within 20 miles of the gym.
What kind of fuckery??????? I mean, who joins a national chain and doesn't think they can use it anywhere in the nation? They give out guest passes like they're candy, yet I can't, as a visitor, get my treadmill on if I come in with a member who pays a monthly fee? And why on earth would you a member pay an additional usage fee each time she visits the chain instead of just transferring the account to Michigan?
To top it all off, when my cousin asked to cancel her membership, the girl behind the desk printed out a form that had to be mailed in--stamp not included!! Since when is an in-person cancellation not valid? I can't even cope with this madness.
2. After the gym was a bust, we headed to the nearest Payless so that I could return the cheap gym shoes I purchased. With box and receipt in hand, I waited in line at the Payless in the Northland Mall. I did my best to be patient and pleasant as the tweens in front of me had all sorts of issues. When I finally got to the register, the woman sank her head in her hands and said, "Please don't tell me you're doing a return."
"Um....ok. I'm not doing a return. Here are the shoes and receipt. Can I have my money now?"
"I been doin' returns all day, I can't do no more," she said. I assumed this meant she was fatigued, or maybe her manager wasn't around to punch in the proper return codes, but she certainly couldn't have been serious.
"We don't got no more money," she said as she chewed on her acrylic nail.
So.....what am I supposed to do? Grammar aside, how on earth does a store in a mall run out of money? And, if that was really the case, couldn't she have said that to me during the 10 minutes I waited in line so that I could have been on my merry way? (#whyblackbusinessesdon'tthrive)
"There's another Payless down the road you can try."
Okay, fine. I leave without an attitude and have my cousin drive me to the next Payless a few minutes away.
It didn't bode well from the moment we pulled up, as the lights were on, but no one appeared to be home. Good lord--they didn't close for another 2 hours. Look alive, people!
I walk in and call out to someone. A woman in the back of the store says, "Hey," like we're old friends.
"Um, I have a return." I yell to her from the front, near the register.
"We been doin' returns all day; we don't got no more money," she says without moving a centimeter closer.
WHAT THE FUCK???? WHERE IS ALL THE MONEY IN DETROIT???
The worst of it is that such shady business operations are completely against yesterday's principle, Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics): To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.
Payless was certainly refusing to economically cooperate with a blacktress, instead sending her on a wild goose chase for some basic funds. I can't build, maintain, or profit from a damn thing if you don't have at least 18 dollars and 1 cent in your registers!
As we drove to the third Payless (I kid you not), I wondered when Detroit became the streets of Calcutta. I felt like a slumdog millionaire without the millions. I was about ready to cut a bitch.
I was finally given my $18.01 at the third Payless, and vowed to destroy Cuntinental Airlines once and for all (it has officially replaced Delta as the worst airline ever) for leaving me here.
As we commiserated in the car, my cousin told me about this "music video" called "It's So Cold In the D," which is all about Detroit. "Nay Nay, it's kinda Antoine Dodson-style, but kinda sad-funny" she explained, referencing the "Bed Intruder" jam I introduced her to on Christmas. Of course, after a long day of foolery, I had to see it.
What I witnessed on her laptop was unlike anything I've ever seen. It really encapsulates Detroit--and clearly struck a chord, based on the more than 2 million YouTube views. From the lead singer's neon-orange braids (that match her hoodie--um, if it's "so cold in the D," why isn't anyone wearing a coat?) to the still photos of slain family and friends to the crew walking through the graveyard, it reminds me of how my cousins and I would spend our summers "making movies" (I'm trying to find the footage of "Life in the Ghetto" so that it can be burned before my bio-pic).
OK, enough explaining. Let me just embed it. This, gentle readers, is where I've been for the last 5 days:
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Detroit is Deadly
What up, gang! It's another dysfunctional day in Detroit. My cousin, who works in auto insurance, just came in from work to visit my grandmother. He immediately goes into the kitchen and begins frying chicken (I swear, I'm not being racist). As his chicken fries, he sits down and takes off his sweatshirt (my grandmother keeps her house a cozy, menopausal 80 degrees). A turn to the left reveals the gun on his right hip. I have to share the following exchange:
Mom: Jay, you got yo' gun on you today?
Jay: Yeah, auntie. I had to go to the bank.
Um, are we in the wild wild West? Why on earth would you need a gun to go to the bank unless you're about to rob it? I didn't see a red kerchief, so I assume he was making a routine deposit. When his sister comments on the foolery of this, he replies:
Jay: It's not loaded like that.
"Loaded like that"? What does that mean? It's either loaded, or it's not. My fear mounts as I realize that anyone who has their own rules of what qualifies as "loaded" probably shouldn't own a firearm.
Jay [in a condescending tone]: To actually shoot, the gun has to be engaged.
OK, so what he's saying is that there are bullets in the gun, but the safety's on. I think that qualifies as "loaded."
I have no idea how Detroit expects to engage in Ujamaa* when a routine trip to the bank requires "back up."
Y'all, I still have another 24 hours here. Meanwhile, my mother is angry at me for a facebook post that my cousin mentioned (family has officially put on the limited view), and is not speaking to me. I need a kwanzaa prayer for patience.
*Ujamaa: Cooperative Economics-- To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.
Mom: Jay, you got yo' gun on you today?
Jay: Yeah, auntie. I had to go to the bank.
Um, are we in the wild wild West? Why on earth would you need a gun to go to the bank unless you're about to rob it? I didn't see a red kerchief, so I assume he was making a routine deposit. When his sister comments on the foolery of this, he replies:
Jay: It's not loaded like that.
"Loaded like that"? What does that mean? It's either loaded, or it's not. My fear mounts as I realize that anyone who has their own rules of what qualifies as "loaded" probably shouldn't own a firearm.
Jay [in a condescending tone]: To actually shoot, the gun has to be engaged.
OK, so what he's saying is that there are bullets in the gun, but the safety's on. I think that qualifies as "loaded."
I have no idea how Detroit expects to engage in Ujamaa* when a routine trip to the bank requires "back up."
Y'all, I still have another 24 hours here. Meanwhile, my mother is angry at me for a facebook post that my cousin mentioned (family has officially put on the limited view), and is not speaking to me. I need a kwanzaa prayer for patience.
*Ujamaa: Cooperative Economics-- To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Oppressed During Kwanzaa
Habari Gani, gentle readers!! That means 'What's the news?' in Swahili, and is used as the traditional greeting each of the 7 days of Kwanzaa. As you all know, "Kwanzaa" means "After Christmas Sales," and was invented in 1967. I won't bore you with all the Kwanzaa details, seeing as it's basically a remix of Hannukah, and I don't think we can get too wrapped up in any holiday invented after TVs came in color. The gist of it is that there are seven principles, one for each day. They are as follows:
12/26 - Umoja - Unity
12/27 - Kujichagulia - Self-Determination
12/28 - Ujima - Collective Work and Responsibility (who knew one little word could mean so much?!)
12/29 - Ujamaa - Cooperative Economics
12/30 - Nia - Purpose (not to be confused with blacktress Nia Long, for whom I have always had a Love Jones)
12/31 - Kuumba - Creativity (not to be confused with the fellow who went to White Castle with Harold)
1/1 - Imani - Faith (not to be confused with the supermodel and miscegenator)
Today, I am seriously running on Kujichagulia, y'all. I am in Detroit visiting the G-unit (you know you gotta holla at your granny when she's 94.5!) with mamadukes, and it has all gone horribly, horribly wrong. What was supposed to be a 56-hour visit is now a 5-day campout, as the blizzard of 2010 has NY airports closed and our flight postponed for three days!!!
Al was right when he called it an inconvenient truth.
As I was kept on hold by CUNTinental Airlines for 2 hours and 34 minutes, after which point their automated machine got tired of replaying itself and they hung up, I tried to be positive. Yeah, delays suck, and yeah, it's better that we weren't stuck in the airport, but the facts remain:
- I packed only 2 pair of underwear.
- My mother and I are stuck in Michigan without a car.
- My mother and I can only interact in 3-hour increments before we start to hate each other.
- I have heaps of work to do, but all of it is in NYC.
- We are stuck in Detroit, Michigan, for three extra days.
I don't know if you guys have been following me on the Twitter lately, but you might want to look for the hash tag ChristmasInDetroit. Everyone's been in top crazy form, with my aunt asking me to "get the voices back on the computer" (it's my fault for answering her initial question "do you know how to use a computer?" with a yes), and my cousin giving me a "grab bag" for Christmas. Its contents: slipper-socks, a $15 Pier 1 Imports gift card, and a 6-pack sampler of KY warming lubricant.
'Tis the season, y'all.
Last night, we went to a family gathering held by the folks on the other side of the family (my aunt's husband's crew), and as I ate a bit of type-2 diabetes-inducing peach cobbler, I watched some of the older folks dance. I was a bit alarmed when I noticed that a 50-something-year-old gentleman had a gun clipped to his hip.
Yes, y'all--he was ready to bust a cap in someone's ass.
When I pointed it out to my mom and we laughed, my aunt told us that it's legal to carry a gun in Detroit (#whyblackpeoplecan'thavenicethings), and my cousin told me that he and his wife also keep guns. When I asked him where his was he said, "Mine in the car, it's family time." Good to know.
The evening culminated in a "dance contest" in which all children under the age of 14 had to participate. We were urged to put in a dollar for the "winning pot." As children popped, locked, and flipped as the adults urged them on, I admired the ingenuity--with the kids dancing, we had the music, entertainment, and family bonding in one fell swoop. As Aunt Hannah counted out singles to make sure there were enough for every kid to get some, I worried: were we creating a new generation of strippers, children eager for dollar bills that signified acceptance?
Tonight, as I was driven back home after picking up food (everything in my grandmother's house is salt-free and doesn't require chewing), we passed "D&L Market," a grocery store. Along the side, however, it advertised Check Cashing - Beer & Wine - Lotto - Pawn - Poultry
Oh, Detroit..... You are what keeps Tyler Perry rich. How on earth could one shop offer so much? Something's obviously getting short shrift (my guess is the poultry).
According to Wikipedia (my source for all things ethnic and newfangled), the self-determination of kujichagulia means 'to define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves.'
As my mother gets angry at me for eating too long (her exact words were, "you been at the table damn near an hour!") I am working to define myself as someone who can process her anger in a healthy manner, instead of lashing out at the woman who birthed me. I am naming myself as a strong black woman, instead of "the cause of her mother's hot flashes." And, since mamadukes is looking at me with a sideways glance every time I breathe with conviction, I am taking to my blog so that I can speak for myself.
All right, y'all, I've officially been out of my grandmother's sight for 20 minutes, and she's starting to yell. Luckily, I can use the fact that the thermostat is set at 82 degrees (I kid you not) as an explanation for why I had to step outside.
xoxo,
blacktress!
12/26 - Umoja - Unity
12/27 - Kujichagulia - Self-Determination
12/28 - Ujima - Collective Work and Responsibility (who knew one little word could mean so much?!)
12/29 - Ujamaa - Cooperative Economics
12/30 - Nia - Purpose (not to be confused with blacktress Nia Long, for whom I have always had a Love Jones)
12/31 - Kuumba - Creativity (not to be confused with the fellow who went to White Castle with Harold)
1/1 - Imani - Faith (not to be confused with the supermodel and miscegenator)
Today, I am seriously running on Kujichagulia, y'all. I am in Detroit visiting the G-unit (you know you gotta holla at your granny when she's 94.5!) with mamadukes, and it has all gone horribly, horribly wrong. What was supposed to be a 56-hour visit is now a 5-day campout, as the blizzard of 2010 has NY airports closed and our flight postponed for three days!!!
Al was right when he called it an inconvenient truth.
As I was kept on hold by CUNTinental Airlines for 2 hours and 34 minutes, after which point their automated machine got tired of replaying itself and they hung up, I tried to be positive. Yeah, delays suck, and yeah, it's better that we weren't stuck in the airport, but the facts remain:
- I packed only 2 pair of underwear.
- My mother and I are stuck in Michigan without a car.
- My mother and I can only interact in 3-hour increments before we start to hate each other.
- I have heaps of work to do, but all of it is in NYC.
- We are stuck in Detroit, Michigan, for three extra days.
I don't know if you guys have been following me on the Twitter lately, but you might want to look for the hash tag ChristmasInDetroit. Everyone's been in top crazy form, with my aunt asking me to "get the voices back on the computer" (it's my fault for answering her initial question "do you know how to use a computer?" with a yes), and my cousin giving me a "grab bag" for Christmas. Its contents: slipper-socks, a $15 Pier 1 Imports gift card, and a 6-pack sampler of KY warming lubricant.
'Tis the season, y'all.
Last night, we went to a family gathering held by the folks on the other side of the family (my aunt's husband's crew), and as I ate a bit of type-2 diabetes-inducing peach cobbler, I watched some of the older folks dance. I was a bit alarmed when I noticed that a 50-something-year-old gentleman had a gun clipped to his hip.
Yes, y'all--he was ready to bust a cap in someone's ass.
When I pointed it out to my mom and we laughed, my aunt told us that it's legal to carry a gun in Detroit (#whyblackpeoplecan'thavenicethings), and my cousin told me that he and his wife also keep guns. When I asked him where his was he said, "Mine in the car, it's family time." Good to know.
The evening culminated in a "dance contest" in which all children under the age of 14 had to participate. We were urged to put in a dollar for the "winning pot." As children popped, locked, and flipped as the adults urged them on, I admired the ingenuity--with the kids dancing, we had the music, entertainment, and family bonding in one fell swoop. As Aunt Hannah counted out singles to make sure there were enough for every kid to get some, I worried: were we creating a new generation of strippers, children eager for dollar bills that signified acceptance?
Tonight, as I was driven back home after picking up food (everything in my grandmother's house is salt-free and doesn't require chewing), we passed "D&L Market," a grocery store. Along the side, however, it advertised Check Cashing - Beer & Wine - Lotto - Pawn - Poultry
Oh, Detroit..... You are what keeps Tyler Perry rich. How on earth could one shop offer so much? Something's obviously getting short shrift (my guess is the poultry).
According to Wikipedia (my source for all things ethnic and newfangled), the self-determination of kujichagulia means 'to define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves, and speak for ourselves.'
As my mother gets angry at me for eating too long (her exact words were, "you been at the table damn near an hour!") I am working to define myself as someone who can process her anger in a healthy manner, instead of lashing out at the woman who birthed me. I am naming myself as a strong black woman, instead of "the cause of her mother's hot flashes." And, since mamadukes is looking at me with a sideways glance every time I breathe with conviction, I am taking to my blog so that I can speak for myself.
All right, y'all, I've officially been out of my grandmother's sight for 20 minutes, and she's starting to yell. Luckily, I can use the fact that the thermostat is set at 82 degrees (I kid you not) as an explanation for why I had to step outside.
xoxo,
blacktress!
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday (Lack of) Focus
Hey y'all,
I'm a total bum today. I got all of 5 hours of sleep, after a night that was a mixture of shock, awe, and aaawwww. There were laughter, tears, and plenty of self-loathing. Let me explain:
So, Jewboo and I hadn't seen each other since Sunday, which ended in a terrible fight (basically, I'm a mentally unstable biatch--think Halle Berry in Introducing Dorothy Dandridge). I was seriously in the dog house, and after some brief phone chats during the week--and more than one visit to the Italian restaurant next to my job for eggplant parmesan sandwiches (food = love)--I was scared I was on relationship probation.
I was so scared, in fact, that I was nervous to see him. Add to that the fact that I was doing a set that night, and I had more butterfly in my stomach than Mariah Carey's 15th album. We met up around 6:30pm, and parted after seeing a mutual friend's show. The plan was for him to come stay at my place after my show--yay! Jewboo sleepover on a weeknight!
We held hands during the show, and I felt heartened. I went to my set downtown and in walked BCB, who was visiting from Sydney town--and she brought a Hollywood agent TO SEE ME!!
Seriously. She talked me up and dragged him downtown! He represents many famous actors and produces films--they met on a set where she was the stylist. He was really nice and thought I was funny, and even quoted one of my jokes back to me later in the evening!! I was having a total Sally Field moment.
The set went well, but the club was sparsely populated. I had a good time, though, and stayed afterwards to schmooze with the agent (obvi--gotta work it). I ended up staying out a bit too long, and jumped in a cab so that Jewboo wouldn't be waiting.
At 11:45 pm, while sitting in traffic on the West Side Highway and damn-near hyperventilating, I got a text from Jewboo. "I'm here, where are you?"
I was on Little West 12th street. For those of you outside of NYC, I live approximately 135 blocks away from 12th Street. We had quite a ways to go. For those of you not on the east coast or Midwest, it's currently 23 degrees in New York City. Needless to say, if I wasn't in the dog house already, I was certainly in it now.
I was in the cab freaking out--so much so that the taxi driver closed the partition to separate himself from the awkwardness. When we finally arrived at my place 20 minutes later, Jewboo limped up the block. He had gone to wait in the subway station, and his feet were so cold that they hurt. I tried not to make it about me--you know, looking to him to tell me it was okay. After all, it wasn't.
I simply opened the door, went up to get a hot bath going, and mellowed out.
You know how I know I want to marry him? He just looked at me as he sat on the bed and said, "I'm not mad. I'm just cold." And he meant it. And the fact is, if it had been me, he would have been dead to me. Like, done and done. The fact that he's so patient and understanding is a god send. I can't wait for him to put a ring on it.
Of course, I can't say this. So, instead, I made him an ecard:
They say an e-card is worth a thousand words. Is that true even when you have an 80-character limit?
I'm a total bum today. I got all of 5 hours of sleep, after a night that was a mixture of shock, awe, and aaawwww. There were laughter, tears, and plenty of self-loathing. Let me explain:
So, Jewboo and I hadn't seen each other since Sunday, which ended in a terrible fight (basically, I'm a mentally unstable biatch--think Halle Berry in Introducing Dorothy Dandridge). I was seriously in the dog house, and after some brief phone chats during the week--and more than one visit to the Italian restaurant next to my job for eggplant parmesan sandwiches (food = love)--I was scared I was on relationship probation.
I was so scared, in fact, that I was nervous to see him. Add to that the fact that I was doing a set that night, and I had more butterfly in my stomach than Mariah Carey's 15th album. We met up around 6:30pm, and parted after seeing a mutual friend's show. The plan was for him to come stay at my place after my show--yay! Jewboo sleepover on a weeknight!
We held hands during the show, and I felt heartened. I went to my set downtown and in walked BCB, who was visiting from Sydney town--and she brought a Hollywood agent TO SEE ME!!
Seriously. She talked me up and dragged him downtown! He represents many famous actors and produces films--they met on a set where she was the stylist. He was really nice and thought I was funny, and even quoted one of my jokes back to me later in the evening!! I was having a total Sally Field moment.
The set went well, but the club was sparsely populated. I had a good time, though, and stayed afterwards to schmooze with the agent (obvi--gotta work it). I ended up staying out a bit too long, and jumped in a cab so that Jewboo wouldn't be waiting.
At 11:45 pm, while sitting in traffic on the West Side Highway and damn-near hyperventilating, I got a text from Jewboo. "I'm here, where are you?"
I was on Little West 12th street. For those of you outside of NYC, I live approximately 135 blocks away from 12th Street. We had quite a ways to go. For those of you not on the east coast or Midwest, it's currently 23 degrees in New York City. Needless to say, if I wasn't in the dog house already, I was certainly in it now.
I was in the cab freaking out--so much so that the taxi driver closed the partition to separate himself from the awkwardness. When we finally arrived at my place 20 minutes later, Jewboo limped up the block. He had gone to wait in the subway station, and his feet were so cold that they hurt. I tried not to make it about me--you know, looking to him to tell me it was okay. After all, it wasn't.
I simply opened the door, went up to get a hot bath going, and mellowed out.
You know how I know I want to marry him? He just looked at me as he sat on the bed and said, "I'm not mad. I'm just cold." And he meant it. And the fact is, if it had been me, he would have been dead to me. Like, done and done. The fact that he's so patient and understanding is a god send. I can't wait for him to put a ring on it.
Of course, I can't say this. So, instead, I made him an ecard:
They say an e-card is worth a thousand words. Is that true even when you have an 80-character limit?
Friday, December 10, 2010
Step Up 4 Realz
Happy Friday, Y’alls!
So, this past Tuesday was my berfday, and I am starting to feel the effects of another year. I had a decent day, primarily because I didn’t go to work. I woke up early, did some exercise, went to get my hair did, met mamadukes for lunch, and then we went to get our nails and toes done (like rapper Nelly, I too am a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes). I planned to share my beautification with Jewboo, with whom I was going to see Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on the great Broadway! We were going with a really cute couple, Steven and Dan. Steven and I share the same bday, and he’s one of those ethnically ambiguous-looking Jews, which I heart (I love when people come up to them speaking Spanish).
The show was good (primarily because it starred Jeff Hiller, my spirit animal--who was kind enough to take us onto the set post-show!), but I was less then enthused by the time the lights went down. Before meeting up with Steven and Dan, Jewboo gave me my birthday present. He had been excited about it for several weeks, priding himself on ordering it early. Although I’d kept my excitement at a minimum, it kept all my blackting skills to act gracious when I unwrapped the package.
He’d bought me a copy of The Walking Dead Compendium. You know, the first 48 issues of the comic book--oh, I’m sorry, graphic novel--on which the series is based. I do love me some zombies, and I’ve been really into the tv show, so I sorta get where he was coming from with the gift idea.
Sorta.
The thing is, I do not like comic books. I have had no penchant for picture books since the age of 7. I have nothing against them, and I am aware that many adults read them, and they’ve apparently grown quite sophisticated and complex since Sojourner was a young truth-teller. Since dating Jewboo I have made more than a few trips to Midtown Comics so he could scope out the latest releases, and I found myself able to overlook the scent of Dr. Pepper and low self esteem and really see the patrons around me. They’re people, too.
But I simply don’t get comics. I never know what order in which I’m supposed to read the talk bubbles, and I get all confused. I just don’t know if I’m a visual thinker, because I see the pictures, and it’s like, “Ok. I guess that means he’s walking far.” It just doesn’t resonate.
I have often said this, which is why a 20-pound, 350 page comic as a gift was not only shocking, but mildly worrisome. Does he not know who I am? It’s not even that I wanted any particular thing. I would have greatly appreciated a free hot meal and a cupcake. I mean, I know he knows me, because he printed out and taped the following e-card to the front of the box:
(Yeah, we’ve been through a lot.)
So why the comic, y’all? Of course, it’s not even about the gift. I realized that I’ve been holding on to a lot of residual resentment, and when he couldn’t even Step Up for my birthday, it all came out. He got a job at Columbia, only 20 minutes away from where I live, and yet he hasn’t spent the night at my home since 10/23, often using the excuse that he doesn’t “have his stuff.”
Okay, now I get that we all have our routines, but as I stood in the drugstore buying products for him after 9 months of dating, I wondered if I should even be doing this. If he wants to stay with me, shouldn’t he get his own products?
I live alone, in a very nice place, with tons of on-demand channels, and yet I trek to Greenpoint more often than a Polish immigrant trying to get her paperwork translated. The only time he’s come over to my place since 10/23 is when he wanted to use my kitchen to shoot a web video. He, along with 6 other folks came over to my house on a Sunday night, took twice as long as was scheduled, and when he was leaving, all he had to say was “thanks,” after telling me that he had been upset with me for telling them to utilize the extras sooner rather than later.
I get that he’s busy, and I’ve been trying to be supportive, but as it gets colder and I try to walk the 20 minutes from the train to his house as quickly as possible, with every step I wonder why Jewboo won’t Step Up 2 Da Streets (of Harlem). Add to that the fact that I spent 8 months paying for things and have yet to be treated to anything since he got a job, and, you know, blacktress was about to get ghetto up in here.
So, after talking to everyone but him, we met for dinner and had a talk last night. I know he loves me, and perhaps I haven’t been as clear as I think (because it seems to obvious to me what he should do, I almost feel crazy having to break it down). I explained that I was disappointed in his lack of initiative, and had been trying not to fight, but was just not living up to my TRUTH. I told him that I understand he’s a procrastinator and has trouble making plans, but I needed him to Step Up 3-D —you feel me, ladies?
He took it well, and had a good think while we ate. It helped that I not only made a list of grievances, but the fancy-ass face wash I had to order online for him had arrived that day, and I had the UPS package in my purse. When he asked what it was, I quickly displayed my effort/his products. I had also visited good ol' Wikipedia and looked up the definition of “empiricism,” because my former-philosophy-professor of a Jewboo often responds to my emotional reactions with, “I just don’t think like that, because I’m an empirical guy.” So, with a firm definition of empiricism as a theory of knowledge which asserts the idea that knowledge arises via sense experience; the belief theories must be tested against observations of the natural world, rather than resting solely on a priori reasoning, intuition, or revelation, I explained not simply the way things made me feel, but the observations of his actions in the "natural world" of our REALationship.
I had to go deep into the male mind for this one, y'all. It required internet-study.
I explained the facts, and basically asked him if he felt my grievances were out of line. Honestly, if you can’t stand Sojourner’s truths, get out of the relationship kitchen!
He said they weren’t, and really felt bad about some behaviors. He also came at me with some of my own truths, noting that I tend to plan things to avoid disappointment, but as a result don’t give him the opportunity to take the reigns. So he hangs back, and then I feel like he’s not active. He had me there, y'all--with default emotions of sadness, anger, and fear, I can't help by try to control everything in an attempt to avoid those emotions. I love a man who can dish up a steaming hot bowl of TRUTH.
Okay, I’m done now. How y’all doing?
So, this past Tuesday was my berfday, and I am starting to feel the effects of another year. I had a decent day, primarily because I didn’t go to work. I woke up early, did some exercise, went to get my hair did, met mamadukes for lunch, and then we went to get our nails and toes done (like rapper Nelly, I too am a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes). I planned to share my beautification with Jewboo, with whom I was going to see Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on the great Broadway! We were going with a really cute couple, Steven and Dan. Steven and I share the same bday, and he’s one of those ethnically ambiguous-looking Jews, which I heart (I love when people come up to them speaking Spanish).
The show was good (primarily because it starred Jeff Hiller, my spirit animal--who was kind enough to take us onto the set post-show!), but I was less then enthused by the time the lights went down. Before meeting up with Steven and Dan, Jewboo gave me my birthday present. He had been excited about it for several weeks, priding himself on ordering it early. Although I’d kept my excitement at a minimum, it kept all my blackting skills to act gracious when I unwrapped the package.
He’d bought me a copy of The Walking Dead Compendium. You know, the first 48 issues of the comic book--oh, I’m sorry, graphic novel--on which the series is based. I do love me some zombies, and I’ve been really into the tv show, so I sorta get where he was coming from with the gift idea.
Sorta.
The thing is, I do not like comic books. I have had no penchant for picture books since the age of 7. I have nothing against them, and I am aware that many adults read them, and they’ve apparently grown quite sophisticated and complex since Sojourner was a young truth-teller. Since dating Jewboo I have made more than a few trips to Midtown Comics so he could scope out the latest releases, and I found myself able to overlook the scent of Dr. Pepper and low self esteem and really see the patrons around me. They’re people, too.
But I simply don’t get comics. I never know what order in which I’m supposed to read the talk bubbles, and I get all confused. I just don’t know if I’m a visual thinker, because I see the pictures, and it’s like, “Ok. I guess that means he’s walking far.” It just doesn’t resonate.
I have often said this, which is why a 20-pound, 350 page comic as a gift was not only shocking, but mildly worrisome. Does he not know who I am? It’s not even that I wanted any particular thing. I would have greatly appreciated a free hot meal and a cupcake. I mean, I know he knows me, because he printed out and taped the following e-card to the front of the box:
(Yeah, we’ve been through a lot.)So why the comic, y’all? Of course, it’s not even about the gift. I realized that I’ve been holding on to a lot of residual resentment, and when he couldn’t even Step Up for my birthday, it all came out. He got a job at Columbia, only 20 minutes away from where I live, and yet he hasn’t spent the night at my home since 10/23, often using the excuse that he doesn’t “have his stuff.”
Okay, now I get that we all have our routines, but as I stood in the drugstore buying products for him after 9 months of dating, I wondered if I should even be doing this. If he wants to stay with me, shouldn’t he get his own products?
I live alone, in a very nice place, with tons of on-demand channels, and yet I trek to Greenpoint more often than a Polish immigrant trying to get her paperwork translated. The only time he’s come over to my place since 10/23 is when he wanted to use my kitchen to shoot a web video. He, along with 6 other folks came over to my house on a Sunday night, took twice as long as was scheduled, and when he was leaving, all he had to say was “thanks,” after telling me that he had been upset with me for telling them to utilize the extras sooner rather than later.
I get that he’s busy, and I’ve been trying to be supportive, but as it gets colder and I try to walk the 20 minutes from the train to his house as quickly as possible, with every step I wonder why Jewboo won’t Step Up 2 Da Streets (of Harlem). Add to that the fact that I spent 8 months paying for things and have yet to be treated to anything since he got a job, and, you know, blacktress was about to get ghetto up in here.
So, after talking to everyone but him, we met for dinner and had a talk last night. I know he loves me, and perhaps I haven’t been as clear as I think (because it seems to obvious to me what he should do, I almost feel crazy having to break it down). I explained that I was disappointed in his lack of initiative, and had been trying not to fight, but was just not living up to my TRUTH. I told him that I understand he’s a procrastinator and has trouble making plans, but I needed him to Step Up 3-D —you feel me, ladies?
He took it well, and had a good think while we ate. It helped that I not only made a list of grievances, but the fancy-ass face wash I had to order online for him had arrived that day, and I had the UPS package in my purse. When he asked what it was, I quickly displayed my effort/his products. I had also visited good ol' Wikipedia and looked up the definition of “empiricism,” because my former-philosophy-professor of a Jewboo often responds to my emotional reactions with, “I just don’t think like that, because I’m an empirical guy.” So, with a firm definition of empiricism as a theory of knowledge which asserts the idea that knowledge arises via sense experience; the belief theories must be tested against observations of the natural world, rather than resting solely on a priori reasoning, intuition, or revelation, I explained not simply the way things made me feel, but the observations of his actions in the "natural world" of our REALationship.
I had to go deep into the male mind for this one, y'all. It required internet-study.
I explained the facts, and basically asked him if he felt my grievances were out of line. Honestly, if you can’t stand Sojourner’s truths, get out of the relationship kitchen!
He said they weren’t, and really felt bad about some behaviors. He also came at me with some of my own truths, noting that I tend to plan things to avoid disappointment, but as a result don’t give him the opportunity to take the reigns. So he hangs back, and then I feel like he’s not active. He had me there, y'all--with default emotions of sadness, anger, and fear, I can't help by try to control everything in an attempt to avoid those emotions. I love a man who can dish up a steaming hot bowl of TRUTH.
Okay, I’m done now. How y’all doing?
Friday, December 3, 2010
Guess Who's ENJOYING Dinner?!
Hey Guys,
Sorry for the delay. The slavedriver is cray cray this week, and I've been balls deep in work. For those who want to know, mom liked Jewboo!!
Yes, y'all! He had her cracking up the whole time, but wasn't being showy. He was being his weird, random self--you know, like referring to his delayed reaction to burning his mouth on a scallion pancake as similar to that of a brontosaurus (it takes a long time for signals to travel down its long neck)--and she actually thought he was, "cute, funny, and clearly intelligent, even though he's a bit quirky."
EXACTLY, MOM!!
When we talked hours later, she was still chuckling to herself thinking of his pun--DILBERT & Sullivan.
I kid you not. He stopped in the middle of dinner to break out his notepad and jot down the gem.
He was funny and nice and interested and managed to avoid political talk, yet openly asked me if I'd go to the comic book store with him after dinner, as though he had no reason to be ashamed of such an endeavor at the age of 31. I think his self-acceptance and honesty makes it so that you sorta have to roll with it, and the neurotic jewyness of it all makes you love it and want to feed a potato latke.
I think my mom is really excited that I have a boyfriend, especially now that he's gainfully employed. I also think she was a little jealous that I'd been to his parents' house twice, but I'd been keeping him away, because at the end of dinner she pulled out a wrapped Hannukah present! Yes, y'all. He unwrapped the blue-and-silver paper (natch) and laughed when he saw this:
"Do you get it?" my mother asked.
Yes, yes he did.
I really was quite impressed, seeing as the humor works on many levels. Former Daily Show correspondent Lewis Black is an angry ranting Jewish comic, much like Jewboo himself. Jewboo also loves The Daily Show, and said he'd never want a Christmas tree in his house (not even if I decorated it with blue and silver ornaments--I asked). He also loves to read because he's all former-adjunct-professor smarty-pants.
At the end of the night, I was so happy, it was Chronicles of Riddickulous! Not only did Andy think my mom was "funny and cool," and she thought he was "a good guy--but I don't know how long you can keep going to the comic store," but I think madukes and I are just a tad closer, now that I've let her in to my interracial love.
Okay, y'all, that's it for now. Gotta go back to pretending like I care about my job.
xoxo,
Blacktress
Sorry for the delay. The slavedriver is cray cray this week, and I've been balls deep in work. For those who want to know, mom liked Jewboo!!
Yes, y'all! He had her cracking up the whole time, but wasn't being showy. He was being his weird, random self--you know, like referring to his delayed reaction to burning his mouth on a scallion pancake as similar to that of a brontosaurus (it takes a long time for signals to travel down its long neck)--and she actually thought he was, "cute, funny, and clearly intelligent, even though he's a bit quirky."
EXACTLY, MOM!!
When we talked hours later, she was still chuckling to herself thinking of his pun--DILBERT & Sullivan.
I kid you not. He stopped in the middle of dinner to break out his notepad and jot down the gem.
He was funny and nice and interested and managed to avoid political talk, yet openly asked me if I'd go to the comic book store with him after dinner, as though he had no reason to be ashamed of such an endeavor at the age of 31. I think his self-acceptance and honesty makes it so that you sorta have to roll with it, and the neurotic jewyness of it all makes you love it and want to feed a potato latke.
I think my mom is really excited that I have a boyfriend, especially now that he's gainfully employed. I also think she was a little jealous that I'd been to his parents' house twice, but I'd been keeping him away, because at the end of dinner she pulled out a wrapped Hannukah present! Yes, y'all. He unwrapped the blue-and-silver paper (natch) and laughed when he saw this:
"Do you get it?" my mother asked.
Yes, yes he did.
I really was quite impressed, seeing as the humor works on many levels. Former Daily Show correspondent Lewis Black is an angry ranting Jewish comic, much like Jewboo himself. Jewboo also loves The Daily Show, and said he'd never want a Christmas tree in his house (not even if I decorated it with blue and silver ornaments--I asked). He also loves to read because he's all former-adjunct-professor smarty-pants.
At the end of the night, I was so happy, it was Chronicles of Riddickulous! Not only did Andy think my mom was "funny and cool," and she thought he was "a good guy--but I don't know how long you can keep going to the comic store," but I think madukes and I are just a tad closer, now that I've let her in to my interracial love.
Okay, y'all, that's it for now. Gotta go back to pretending like I care about my job.
xoxo,
Blacktress
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Interview With a Blacktress
Guys, this is my favorite time of the year. No, not because we’re supposed to make the yuletide homosexual, or because I actually have a winter spoon this winter. It’s the best because we’re starting on a new financial year, which means we are ready to hire a new intern.
“But blacktress, aren’t interns annoying and over-eager?” you may be asking. “Doesn’t the hope and optimism in their eyes as they relish the ‘opportunity’ to photocopy remind you of your own lost innocence and drive?”
Yes, yes gentle reader, you are correct. But the best part of this whole process is that I GET TO INTERVIEW THEM!
As you all know, I relish power in all its forms, as I do not exist until you recognize my prowess. I also love young people, because my desire to be a mother without actually being a mother can be fulfilled by ordering them around and guiding them through the workplace as though it were life. The interview is the first time I’m able to assert my dominance, and I like to set them up for the beginning of the day so that I start off with a boost of confidence.
Unfortunately, I am co-interviewing with the other associate editor, who’s a real buzz-kill of a guy. He’s monotone, second-guesses everything I do (which really pisses me off, because he came into his post as my replacement), and doesn’t know how to kick back. In the interviews we pretty much take do the Good Cop-Bad Cop routine, with him asking hard-hitting questions, and me trying to take the pressure off and see into the applicant’s soul.
Before Thanksgiving, we interviewed one candidate, a plucky young grad who, after 2 years of Teach for America, is ready to be done with the illiterati (h/t Scribe) and pursue his editorial dreams. My coworker went in with this:
Buzzkill: Can you tell us of a time when you spearheaded a project, in or out of the workplace?
YAAAWWWNNNNN. Homey’s gonna be answering phones, faxing, photocopying, and copyediting for at least the first 6 months. He learns on the job, and if he’s got an interest and ¾ of a brain, he can do this. I don’t really need to know if he spearheaded anything. Let’s get to the real questions.
Me: Where do you see yourself in 5 years, and am I there with you?
That’s the kind of stuff we need to know! Tell me your dreams, tell me how much you love me, tell me what’s going on behind the button-down, sir!
Buzzkill: Do you have any interest or knowledge of contemporary realist art?
Ugh, WHO CARES?! I didn’t know Rembrandt from Remington Steele when I came in here—and I still don’t! What I do know is how to write, and how to use the Dictionary of Art Terms, and I sound super smarty-pants, and the readers are none the wiser. I am not tripping over this stuff, and I’ve been here 3 years and have actual responsibility! I don’t care if the whole magazine is printed in Wingdings, as long as my check clears!
This office is broke and busted, with one bathroom for 8 people, stacks of boxes lining the hallway (because we don’t have sufficient storage space), and a “doorman” named Manny who leans against the door all day (well, actually, only until 2pm, cause Manny got thangs to do) talking to the guy wearing a sandwich board sign advertising CHEAP PASSPORT PHOTOS. Every time I come into the office, I feel like I’m walking into a bodega.
In other words—this ain’t that deep, and we need to not get it twisted up in here. You’re asking an educated individual to spend 40 hours a week making sure “Antwerp blue” is spelled properly, and take calls from crazy elderly people who believe that all of their opinions should be heard. I need him/her to be smart, cool, and fearful of me—that’s all.
So now I’ve got a stack of resumes and cover letters, and I’m enjoying the judging process. I want to hire a cute, dorky boy who tells me I’m pretty and offers to run personal errands.
“But blacktress, aren’t interns annoying and over-eager?” you may be asking. “Doesn’t the hope and optimism in their eyes as they relish the ‘opportunity’ to photocopy remind you of your own lost innocence and drive?”
Yes, yes gentle reader, you are correct. But the best part of this whole process is that I GET TO INTERVIEW THEM!
As you all know, I relish power in all its forms, as I do not exist until you recognize my prowess. I also love young people, because my desire to be a mother without actually being a mother can be fulfilled by ordering them around and guiding them through the workplace as though it were life. The interview is the first time I’m able to assert my dominance, and I like to set them up for the beginning of the day so that I start off with a boost of confidence.
Unfortunately, I am co-interviewing with the other associate editor, who’s a real buzz-kill of a guy. He’s monotone, second-guesses everything I do (which really pisses me off, because he came into his post as my replacement), and doesn’t know how to kick back. In the interviews we pretty much take do the Good Cop-Bad Cop routine, with him asking hard-hitting questions, and me trying to take the pressure off and see into the applicant’s soul.
Before Thanksgiving, we interviewed one candidate, a plucky young grad who, after 2 years of Teach for America, is ready to be done with the illiterati (h/t Scribe) and pursue his editorial dreams. My coworker went in with this:
Buzzkill: Can you tell us of a time when you spearheaded a project, in or out of the workplace?
YAAAWWWNNNNN. Homey’s gonna be answering phones, faxing, photocopying, and copyediting for at least the first 6 months. He learns on the job, and if he’s got an interest and ¾ of a brain, he can do this. I don’t really need to know if he spearheaded anything. Let’s get to the real questions.
Me: Where do you see yourself in 5 years, and am I there with you?
That’s the kind of stuff we need to know! Tell me your dreams, tell me how much you love me, tell me what’s going on behind the button-down, sir!
Buzzkill: Do you have any interest or knowledge of contemporary realist art?
Ugh, WHO CARES?! I didn’t know Rembrandt from Remington Steele when I came in here—and I still don’t! What I do know is how to write, and how to use the Dictionary of Art Terms, and I sound super smarty-pants, and the readers are none the wiser. I am not tripping over this stuff, and I’ve been here 3 years and have actual responsibility! I don’t care if the whole magazine is printed in Wingdings, as long as my check clears!
This office is broke and busted, with one bathroom for 8 people, stacks of boxes lining the hallway (because we don’t have sufficient storage space), and a “doorman” named Manny who leans against the door all day (well, actually, only until 2pm, cause Manny got thangs to do) talking to the guy wearing a sandwich board sign advertising CHEAP PASSPORT PHOTOS. Every time I come into the office, I feel like I’m walking into a bodega.
In other words—this ain’t that deep, and we need to not get it twisted up in here. You’re asking an educated individual to spend 40 hours a week making sure “Antwerp blue” is spelled properly, and take calls from crazy elderly people who believe that all of their opinions should be heard. I need him/her to be smart, cool, and fearful of me—that’s all.
So now I’ve got a stack of resumes and cover letters, and I’m enjoying the judging process. I want to hire a cute, dorky boy who tells me I’m pretty and offers to run personal errands.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Dinner for Schmucks
Hey Gang,
My bad for the lag in blog posts. My brain was drowning in gravy, and I could barely string a sentence together—you know, except, “Pass me a crescent roll,” and “Oh god, why did I have apple pie for breakfast?” How was your holiday? I went to my mom’s house in the dirty Jersey, where we hosted 10 people! As you know, my mom has a Latin lover (who’s she’s been married to for 5 years, but I refuse to change his title). He’s got two 30-something year-old daughters, and both are married and have kids. The daughters are pretty chill, but their men are wack as all get out. One is super creepy and has a molestache, and the other supplements his income by driving an ice cream truck and is really competitive with his 7-year-old son. I knew we’d be in for a doozy of a day when my mom told me that they’d be bringing over fish and pork.
Um, this is America. I don’t think that we slaughtered the Indians for their salmon.
Anyhoozle, I cooked my favorite Thanksgiving staples, and proceeded to eat them all by Sunday. I hit a personal low earlier that day when I had not 1, not 2, but 5 crescent rolls with my morning meal. (God, I want to throw up in my mouth just thinking about it)
This, of course, has led to the Juice Fast of 2010.*
Before you get all up in arms and call the eating-disorder police on me, trust me when I say that this is a short-term thing. I honestly want to clean out my body from all the starchy sugary cheesy goodness that tasted great, but is probably lining my colon like a tacky ‘70s shag carpet. Prior to Turkey Day, I had be eating more sugary goodness than an oompa loompa, justifying it by reminding myself that I’ve stopped drinking, and just wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have at least one vice.
Next thing you know, my jeans are a bit too tight, and I start to fear that strangers on the subway, thinking I’m pregnant, will start to offer me their seats.
So far, it’s been rough, and I already cheated (a handful of nuts post “lunch” yesterday, and a small slice of leftover pie and ice cream post “dinner”—I thought it would be un-American to leave the last slice standing). However, even with these cheats, I did way less damage than I normally would.
I am, however, feeling really tired and my stomach hurts. My usual procrastination time has extended from 20 minutes per hour to the entire day. And I almost ripped my coworker’s throat out when he had the audacity to eat delicious-smelling leftovers for lunch yesterday.
Luckily, it won’t last too long. In fact, I will be forced to eat tomorrow night, when I go to dinner with Mom and Jewboo. Yes, y’all. And it’s on the first night of Hannukah, no less!
The time has come for Jewboo to meet my Claire Huxtable-esque Antoine Dodson-Ludacris-loving mom.
This is big.
I haven’t had many boyfriends, and no hot mess of a hook-up was meeting my mom, obvs. Jewboo is the first man worth presenting since Clinton was in office y’all! His parents have been quite welcoming to a blacktress, evening sending him home from Thanksgiving with a souvenir from a recent trip and a birthday present for me! This has been really crucial for the growth of our love, because Jewboo is very attached to his fam.
I, on the other hand, am not so much.
I mean, it was just me and my mom for most of my life, and I know she’s got my back, but we have really never been close-close in my adulthood. I don’t really tell her my business unless it’s impersonal, like whether or not to apply for a certain job, or if my taxes are done properly. I’d never tell her if I liked someone or if I was stressed or anything.
Which means that any person I present to her is a BIG DEAL. It’s so rare, the dude MUST be special. And, if he is important, ma-dukes is going to “do me the service of scrutinizing him carefully and taking an impartial view that I am not privy to because of my emotions.” In other words, “I’m gonna put him on the stand like I do the drug-addicted parents in my courtroom every day. “
I’m nervous for Jewboo, although much less so now that he’s employed and works under a strong black woman (making him better equipped to deal with mom). I love him dearly, but this is just such foreign territory for me. People often assume that, as the mother of a blacktress, my mother is bubbly and funny and chill—this is not the case. She’s straightforward, and has no patience for “foolishness.” To aid in the interview process, I’ve prepared a list of talking points for both parties:
*hash tag JF2K10
My bad for the lag in blog posts. My brain was drowning in gravy, and I could barely string a sentence together—you know, except, “Pass me a crescent roll,” and “Oh god, why did I have apple pie for breakfast?” How was your holiday? I went to my mom’s house in the dirty Jersey, where we hosted 10 people! As you know, my mom has a Latin lover (who’s she’s been married to for 5 years, but I refuse to change his title). He’s got two 30-something year-old daughters, and both are married and have kids. The daughters are pretty chill, but their men are wack as all get out. One is super creepy and has a molestache, and the other supplements his income by driving an ice cream truck and is really competitive with his 7-year-old son. I knew we’d be in for a doozy of a day when my mom told me that they’d be bringing over fish and pork.
Um, this is America. I don’t think that we slaughtered the Indians for their salmon.
Anyhoozle, I cooked my favorite Thanksgiving staples, and proceeded to eat them all by Sunday. I hit a personal low earlier that day when I had not 1, not 2, but 5 crescent rolls with my morning meal. (God, I want to throw up in my mouth just thinking about it)
This, of course, has led to the Juice Fast of 2010.*
Before you get all up in arms and call the eating-disorder police on me, trust me when I say that this is a short-term thing. I honestly want to clean out my body from all the starchy sugary cheesy goodness that tasted great, but is probably lining my colon like a tacky ‘70s shag carpet. Prior to Turkey Day, I had be eating more sugary goodness than an oompa loompa, justifying it by reminding myself that I’ve stopped drinking, and just wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have at least one vice.
Next thing you know, my jeans are a bit too tight, and I start to fear that strangers on the subway, thinking I’m pregnant, will start to offer me their seats.
So far, it’s been rough, and I already cheated (a handful of nuts post “lunch” yesterday, and a small slice of leftover pie and ice cream post “dinner”—I thought it would be un-American to leave the last slice standing). However, even with these cheats, I did way less damage than I normally would.
I am, however, feeling really tired and my stomach hurts. My usual procrastination time has extended from 20 minutes per hour to the entire day. And I almost ripped my coworker’s throat out when he had the audacity to eat delicious-smelling leftovers for lunch yesterday.
Luckily, it won’t last too long. In fact, I will be forced to eat tomorrow night, when I go to dinner with Mom and Jewboo. Yes, y’all. And it’s on the first night of Hannukah, no less!
The time has come for Jewboo to meet my Claire Huxtable-esque Antoine Dodson-Ludacris-loving mom.
This is big.
I haven’t had many boyfriends, and no hot mess of a hook-up was meeting my mom, obvs. Jewboo is the first man worth presenting since Clinton was in office y’all! His parents have been quite welcoming to a blacktress, evening sending him home from Thanksgiving with a souvenir from a recent trip and a birthday present for me! This has been really crucial for the growth of our love, because Jewboo is very attached to his fam.
I, on the other hand, am not so much.
I mean, it was just me and my mom for most of my life, and I know she’s got my back, but we have really never been close-close in my adulthood. I don’t really tell her my business unless it’s impersonal, like whether or not to apply for a certain job, or if my taxes are done properly. I’d never tell her if I liked someone or if I was stressed or anything.
Which means that any person I present to her is a BIG DEAL. It’s so rare, the dude MUST be special. And, if he is important, ma-dukes is going to “do me the service of scrutinizing him carefully and taking an impartial view that I am not privy to because of my emotions.” In other words, “I’m gonna put him on the stand like I do the drug-addicted parents in my courtroom every day. “
I’m nervous for Jewboo, although much less so now that he’s employed and works under a strong black woman (making him better equipped to deal with mom). I love him dearly, but this is just such foreign territory for me. People often assume that, as the mother of a blacktress, my mother is bubbly and funny and chill—this is not the case. She’s straightforward, and has no patience for “foolishness.” To aid in the interview process, I’ve prepared a list of talking points for both parties:
- Barack Obama—is he a mensch or what? (cross-cultural appeal!)
- Kwanzaa—the black people’s Hannukah?
- “You ain’t no Challah back girl!” aka “I see where Naomi gets her good looks and brains.” (flattery will get him everywhere).
- “So, you’re a lawyer for the city, huh? I bet there’s a lot of baby mama drama going on there!”
- “What do your parents do, where did you go to school, and what are your intentions for my daughter?”
*hash tag JF2K10
Friday, November 19, 2010
When the Jewboo's Away......
The Blacktress will find another jewboo!!
J/K. You know I only have one trueJew love. But Jewboo’s currently in Boston doing some shows, and I must admit, I don’t mind it one bit. I haven’t had to shave my legs in 4 days (yep, I said it), I haven’t had to gchat stalk him for my own amusement during the workday (largely because he’s not available), and, although the hotel they’re staying in is right between a Hooters and Fuddruckers, his vegetarianism is sure to keep him away from both hot wings and pretty young things.
I kicked off my first night of freedom by seeing a Comedy Central taping for comedian Nick Kroll last night. I don’t really have celebrity crushes, and I don’t really like to gush, but Nick Kroll is seriously my life partner. He’s a nerdy Jew from Rye, New York who has the pouty lips of a man of color and every word out of his mouth is brilliant to me. He mostly plays characters, my favorite being Fabrice Fabrice—the name so nice, you have to say it AGAIN.
Check him out interviewing Steve Carrell:
He is my spirit animal. He is my avatar. He is my patronus. And after sitting second row center during his taping my life is officially complete. Let me explain.
First and firstmost (as Bobby Bottleservice would say), Nick Kroll has been on my TO-DO list ever since I saw him at UCB 4 years ago. He was so wonderfully hilarious, and his questionable sexuality intrigued me. I figured at the very least, every gay needs a blacktress, and I could endear myself to him. Unfortunately, he was way too cool off stage for me to approach, so I just let it be. Since then, however, Kroll has blown up like Nagasaki, starring in “The League,” “Sit Down Shut Up,” and random movie cameos. When I saw he was doing a show at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I jumped on those tickets—hipsters be damned!
I bought 4, figuring I’d make some friends at some point prior to the show. Enjoying freedom without Jewboo I made it a ladies’ night, and brought three of my favorite funny girls (well, 2 of my favorites and a random who wanted a ticket). I arrived with a friend and there was no sign or sense of order to the process. “What do we do?” my Caucasian friend asked? I looked around. Manning the door were too buff black bodyguards.
“I see black men. I’m getting some answers,” I said.
I walked over to the bald guy (they always have the most power), and asked him what the deal was. As he spoke, his gold grill nearly blinded me, but I stood my ground, speaking with a confidence and comfort that let him know I was cool, but not trashy. He gestured for us to wait on this side, and we did accordingly. The people around us began lining up behind us; we’d inadvertently started the line and were at the front (Rosa would have been so proud!). We ended up getting 2nd row center seats, perfect for eye-fucking.
On select seats was a sheet of paper and pencil, and we were directed to write down questions for Fabrice Fabrice. “Good” questions would be selected and given to Fabrice to read on stage/on camera.
This was my moment to connect with him. I thought long and hard. Here’s what I came up with:
1. What was Raven Simone’s favorite meal on the set of “The Cheetah Girls”?
2. How did you discover that craft services was your passion?
3. How do you like to unwind after a long day of serving crafts?
xoxo, Blacktress!!!
I didn’t think he’d read it, but I wanted to just add a personal touch.
After our questions were collected and reviewed, Fabrice was handed a stack to read. I tried not to get too amped—and then hateful—when my friend’s questions were answered. But then……
“What was Raven’s favorite meal on the Cheetah girls? Cheetahs. Baby cheetahs.”
YES!!!! He got me.
He proceeded to answer the rest of them, and then read my signature aloud:
“XOXO, Blacktress. That’s a black actress. This woman is black and she’s hating on Raven. That’s not solidarity.”
(everything sounds hilarious in the voice of Fabrice Fabrice, trust).
Um, it was the greatest moment of my life. Nick Kroll uttered my alias with his full lips. He instantly knew what the word meant—he can certainly handle the truth. And the fact that my questions were chosen proves that we’re cosmically connected—I know what to ask him to make him shine like Geoffrey Rush.
So, in summararium, Nick is my boo, I am famous by proxy, and I love me a matzoh ball!
I totally wish I was Henry Winkler right now.
J/K. You know I only have one trueJew love. But Jewboo’s currently in Boston doing some shows, and I must admit, I don’t mind it one bit. I haven’t had to shave my legs in 4 days (yep, I said it), I haven’t had to gchat stalk him for my own amusement during the workday (largely because he’s not available), and, although the hotel they’re staying in is right between a Hooters and Fuddruckers, his vegetarianism is sure to keep him away from both hot wings and pretty young things.
I kicked off my first night of freedom by seeing a Comedy Central taping for comedian Nick Kroll last night. I don’t really have celebrity crushes, and I don’t really like to gush, but Nick Kroll is seriously my life partner. He’s a nerdy Jew from Rye, New York who has the pouty lips of a man of color and every word out of his mouth is brilliant to me. He mostly plays characters, my favorite being Fabrice Fabrice—the name so nice, you have to say it AGAIN.
Check him out interviewing Steve Carrell:
He is my spirit animal. He is my avatar. He is my patronus. And after sitting second row center during his taping my life is officially complete. Let me explain.
First and firstmost (as Bobby Bottleservice would say), Nick Kroll has been on my TO-DO list ever since I saw him at UCB 4 years ago. He was so wonderfully hilarious, and his questionable sexuality intrigued me. I figured at the very least, every gay needs a blacktress, and I could endear myself to him. Unfortunately, he was way too cool off stage for me to approach, so I just let it be. Since then, however, Kroll has blown up like Nagasaki, starring in “The League,” “Sit Down Shut Up,” and random movie cameos. When I saw he was doing a show at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I jumped on those tickets—hipsters be damned!
I bought 4, figuring I’d make some friends at some point prior to the show. Enjoying freedom without Jewboo I made it a ladies’ night, and brought three of my favorite funny girls (well, 2 of my favorites and a random who wanted a ticket). I arrived with a friend and there was no sign or sense of order to the process. “What do we do?” my Caucasian friend asked? I looked around. Manning the door were too buff black bodyguards.
“I see black men. I’m getting some answers,” I said.
I walked over to the bald guy (they always have the most power), and asked him what the deal was. As he spoke, his gold grill nearly blinded me, but I stood my ground, speaking with a confidence and comfort that let him know I was cool, but not trashy. He gestured for us to wait on this side, and we did accordingly. The people around us began lining up behind us; we’d inadvertently started the line and were at the front (Rosa would have been so proud!). We ended up getting 2nd row center seats, perfect for eye-fucking.
On select seats was a sheet of paper and pencil, and we were directed to write down questions for Fabrice Fabrice. “Good” questions would be selected and given to Fabrice to read on stage/on camera.
This was my moment to connect with him. I thought long and hard. Here’s what I came up with:
1. What was Raven Simone’s favorite meal on the set of “The Cheetah Girls”?
2. How did you discover that craft services was your passion?
3. How do you like to unwind after a long day of serving crafts?
xoxo, Blacktress!!!
I didn’t think he’d read it, but I wanted to just add a personal touch.
After our questions were collected and reviewed, Fabrice was handed a stack to read. I tried not to get too amped—and then hateful—when my friend’s questions were answered. But then……
“What was Raven’s favorite meal on the Cheetah girls? Cheetahs. Baby cheetahs.”
YES!!!! He got me.
He proceeded to answer the rest of them, and then read my signature aloud:
“XOXO, Blacktress. That’s a black actress. This woman is black and she’s hating on Raven. That’s not solidarity.”
(everything sounds hilarious in the voice of Fabrice Fabrice, trust).
Um, it was the greatest moment of my life. Nick Kroll uttered my alias with his full lips. He instantly knew what the word meant—he can certainly handle the truth. And the fact that my questions were chosen proves that we’re cosmically connected—I know what to ask him to make him shine like Geoffrey Rush.
So, in summararium, Nick is my boo, I am famous by proxy, and I love me a matzoh ball!
I totally wish I was Henry Winkler right now.Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Getting off Struggle Strasse
You know how they say it’s hard out there for a pimp? Well, I think it’s much harder for a blacktress (didn’t the pimp get an Oscar nom?). Y’all, I am on Struggle Street, for serious. I mean, we all know struggle street (or, as I like to call it, struggle strasse to really highlight the pain)—how it feels when you’re swamped at work one week, when you’re getting rejected like a Jersey Shore cast member’s college application, when you wake up with no heat or hot water and don’t know what to do.
But normally, you get through it. It’s just one of life’s many valleys, and you know there’ll be another peak. In those moments, you’re just walking down Struggle Strasse—you know, you took a wrong turn, but you know that once you get your bearings you’ll be back on Make It Happen Boulevard.
Sometimes, though, it’s not so simple. Sometimes you end up on Struggle Strasse and get wooed by its cheap rent. You’re so hopeless you end up signing a damn lease and the next thing you know, it’s the middle of summer and you find out the windows in your apartment in the Struggle Strasse Projects can’t open, much less support an air conditioner.
That’s where I’m at right now. Nothing tragic happened—I just sorta let this malaise snowball, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even young, gifted, or black! (did you see one of the recent angry comments? I’m a discredit to the race!) I had a few shows happening, but I’m running out of new material—and not really writing more!!! What kind of roll-over-and-play-dead kind of behavior is this?! Definitely more wacktress than blacktress.
I think it really has to do with not liking my job, and not really knowing what alternatives I have—you know, probably the way an oppressed person feels almost everyday. I’m not accustomed to this. As mamadukes says to me when I’m acting a fool, “I didn’t work hard so you could cry all day.” That, and “if you want sympathy, you can find it between ‘shit’ and ‘syphillis’ in the dictionary.”
It’s tough love, but it works.
I don’t know what to do people! I’m trying to write funny hilarities to pitch to humor sites, and my brain turns to mush! What’s hip with the young kids? Is Bieber still hot? Why have I missed so many episodes of GLEE? This is what happens when you spend your evenings hunched over Edy’s Slow Churned Ice Cream (it doesn’t matter if it’s half the fat when you eat twice as much of it!).
All right, y’all, I’ll stop the rant. Just tell me what to do. Please leave a comment that answers the following:
1. Sojourner, the TRUTH is you should be spending your time doing ________ for a living.
2. Blackting is…..
a. Reacting
b. Attacking
c. Distracting
d. Comparing yourself to other people and wondering if the world still thinks you’re 3/5 of a woman.
3. When your drag queen boss tells you that your tone “concerns him,” you should
a. Calmly explain your point of view.
b. Send a clarifying email, so as not to give away your hatred via eye rolling and sighing. Then, look for a new job on monster.com.
c. Start looking into working holiday visas and see if New Zealand will let you back in.
d. Cut a bitch.
But normally, you get through it. It’s just one of life’s many valleys, and you know there’ll be another peak. In those moments, you’re just walking down Struggle Strasse—you know, you took a wrong turn, but you know that once you get your bearings you’ll be back on Make It Happen Boulevard.
Sometimes, though, it’s not so simple. Sometimes you end up on Struggle Strasse and get wooed by its cheap rent. You’re so hopeless you end up signing a damn lease and the next thing you know, it’s the middle of summer and you find out the windows in your apartment in the Struggle Strasse Projects can’t open, much less support an air conditioner.
That’s where I’m at right now. Nothing tragic happened—I just sorta let this malaise snowball, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even young, gifted, or black! (did you see one of the recent angry comments? I’m a discredit to the race!) I had a few shows happening, but I’m running out of new material—and not really writing more!!! What kind of roll-over-and-play-dead kind of behavior is this?! Definitely more wacktress than blacktress.
I think it really has to do with not liking my job, and not really knowing what alternatives I have—you know, probably the way an oppressed person feels almost everyday. I’m not accustomed to this. As mamadukes says to me when I’m acting a fool, “I didn’t work hard so you could cry all day.” That, and “if you want sympathy, you can find it between ‘shit’ and ‘syphillis’ in the dictionary.”
It’s tough love, but it works.
I don’t know what to do people! I’m trying to write funny hilarities to pitch to humor sites, and my brain turns to mush! What’s hip with the young kids? Is Bieber still hot? Why have I missed so many episodes of GLEE? This is what happens when you spend your evenings hunched over Edy’s Slow Churned Ice Cream (it doesn’t matter if it’s half the fat when you eat twice as much of it!).
All right, y’all, I’ll stop the rant. Just tell me what to do. Please leave a comment that answers the following:
1. Sojourner, the TRUTH is you should be spending your time doing ________ for a living.
2. Blackting is…..
a. Reacting
b. Attacking
c. Distracting
d. Comparing yourself to other people and wondering if the world still thinks you’re 3/5 of a woman.
3. When your drag queen boss tells you that your tone “concerns him,” you should
a. Calmly explain your point of view.
b. Send a clarifying email, so as not to give away your hatred via eye rolling and sighing. Then, look for a new job on monster.com.
c. Start looking into working holiday visas and see if New Zealand will let you back in.
d. Cut a bitch.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Young, Gifted, and BACK
Guys, I come to you now with my tail between my legs and my head hung in shame. I haven’t blogged in so long, you’d think I wasn’t an insecure narcissist whose primary form of procrastination was writing ramblings on the internet.
Since I last posted, there have been many changes afoot—I don’t even know where to begin!
1. On Friday, October 29th at 6:34pm, Jewboo called to tell me he GOT A JOB!!!
Yes, y’all!!! He’s got a sweet temp-to-perm gig at Columbia University! For those of you who don’t know, Columbia’s located in Harlem, which means that not only has Jewboo solved the “I’m broke-ass” problem, he’s also helped alleviate the “I love on the G train” issue! Other pluses to this new employment:
- Jewboo’s entire staff consists of strong black women and a black man named Junior. Our 8 months of dating have trained him perfectly for dealing with a strong black woman—and, should his superiors be prone to outbursts and mood swings, he will be able to respond by asking them if they are in “food distress.”
- When the gig goes permanent, Jewboo will be making 25% MORE THAN ME. Seriously. As an administrative assistant. It really makes me wish I hadn’t gone into debt going to a liberal arts university when managing an Outlook calendar is where the money is.
- With this newfound money, Jewboo can begin purchasing me foodstuffs of the baked variety. I’m ‘bout to get myself mad cupcakes, y’all!
- My mother can stop telling me that I need to “use this one as a back-up; don’t get attached.”
2. So, for Halloween, I decided to go as “slutty Condoleeza Rice,” complete with cheap corset purchased from H&M and a headband with a top hat. I was definitely a tramp, but luckily, my party of choice was a bunch of gays in a high school gymnasium in Chelsea. It was kind of amazing. The drag queens brought out their A game, and they actually taught me how to—
UGH, God, my fucking coworker keeps interrupting me, and I can’t get a blog in edgewise! He’s being such a fucking shunt*, and I having been wanting to cut him for days. My hatred has gotten so intense that Saturday night I dreamt we got into a fist fight. I wish he’d just never talk to me again—or only communicate with me via email. He’s just so damn….detail-oriented and “wanting to get your thoughts on” things that it just bothers the shit out of me. I swear to fucking god, I can’t handle being here.
*that’s Australian for “shitty cunt”
Okay, rant complete. Where was I?
Oh, right, HallowQUEEN. (How did I just start calling it this now???)
So, I’m dancing to remixed versions of every pop song I’ve ever known (when you speed up “Umbrella,” Rihanna sounds even more like a chipmunk than usual), in my trampy outfit, hanging out with two members of my BLONDtourage (white girls are excellent safety nets on nights when the crazies are out), when a guy crosses behind us to put is coat in a corner.
I freeze. My stomach twists in a figure-eight knot.
No, it isn’t one of the many former lovers I’ve had.
It was MY BOSS!!!
Yes, y’all! My boss was at the HallowQueen party, and decided to plant 4 centimenters from a blacktress! I immediately alerted the blondes and made sure to text my nearest and dearest. Jewboo’s response: “Isn’t yer boss a drag queen?” as though I shouldn’t have been at all surprised. One of the gals I was with was convinced he must have seen me, since he’d crossed several times to drop off his coat, go back to pull out his wallet and phone, and then go back to put something else in his pocket.
“Do you think he’d recognize me in this outfit?!”
I tried to continue dancing non-chalantly, but the night lost its luster. I wasn’t ready to be caught out dressed like a tramp by the man who signs my checks. I walked over to my bag to put my cell away when he turned towards me. I used my collapsible fan as a face shield (just like Condi would do), but it was a wrap.
Michael just looked at me, rolled his eyes and laughed, and said, “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
I swear, I’m only having former drag queens as bosses from now on.
Okay, there’s much more to report, but I gotta get back to work before the shunt comes over with another request. I’m glad I broke the block, y’all—how you been?
Since I last posted, there have been many changes afoot—I don’t even know where to begin!
1. On Friday, October 29th at 6:34pm, Jewboo called to tell me he GOT A JOB!!!
Yes, y’all!!! He’s got a sweet temp-to-perm gig at Columbia University! For those of you who don’t know, Columbia’s located in Harlem, which means that not only has Jewboo solved the “I’m broke-ass” problem, he’s also helped alleviate the “I love on the G train” issue! Other pluses to this new employment:
- Jewboo’s entire staff consists of strong black women and a black man named Junior. Our 8 months of dating have trained him perfectly for dealing with a strong black woman—and, should his superiors be prone to outbursts and mood swings, he will be able to respond by asking them if they are in “food distress.”
- When the gig goes permanent, Jewboo will be making 25% MORE THAN ME. Seriously. As an administrative assistant. It really makes me wish I hadn’t gone into debt going to a liberal arts university when managing an Outlook calendar is where the money is.
- With this newfound money, Jewboo can begin purchasing me foodstuffs of the baked variety. I’m ‘bout to get myself mad cupcakes, y’all!
- My mother can stop telling me that I need to “use this one as a back-up; don’t get attached.”
2. So, for Halloween, I decided to go as “slutty Condoleeza Rice,” complete with cheap corset purchased from H&M and a headband with a top hat. I was definitely a tramp, but luckily, my party of choice was a bunch of gays in a high school gymnasium in Chelsea. It was kind of amazing. The drag queens brought out their A game, and they actually taught me how to—
UGH, God, my fucking coworker keeps interrupting me, and I can’t get a blog in edgewise! He’s being such a fucking shunt*, and I having been wanting to cut him for days. My hatred has gotten so intense that Saturday night I dreamt we got into a fist fight. I wish he’d just never talk to me again—or only communicate with me via email. He’s just so damn….detail-oriented and “wanting to get your thoughts on” things that it just bothers the shit out of me. I swear to fucking god, I can’t handle being here.
*that’s Australian for “shitty cunt”
Okay, rant complete. Where was I?
Oh, right, HallowQUEEN. (How did I just start calling it this now???)
So, I’m dancing to remixed versions of every pop song I’ve ever known (when you speed up “Umbrella,” Rihanna sounds even more like a chipmunk than usual), in my trampy outfit, hanging out with two members of my BLONDtourage (white girls are excellent safety nets on nights when the crazies are out), when a guy crosses behind us to put is coat in a corner.
I freeze. My stomach twists in a figure-eight knot.
No, it isn’t one of the many former lovers I’ve had.
It was MY BOSS!!!
Yes, y’all! My boss was at the HallowQueen party, and decided to plant 4 centimenters from a blacktress! I immediately alerted the blondes and made sure to text my nearest and dearest. Jewboo’s response: “Isn’t yer boss a drag queen?” as though I shouldn’t have been at all surprised. One of the gals I was with was convinced he must have seen me, since he’d crossed several times to drop off his coat, go back to pull out his wallet and phone, and then go back to put something else in his pocket.
“Do you think he’d recognize me in this outfit?!”
I tried to continue dancing non-chalantly, but the night lost its luster. I wasn’t ready to be caught out dressed like a tramp by the man who signs my checks. I walked over to my bag to put my cell away when he turned towards me. I used my collapsible fan as a face shield (just like Condi would do), but it was a wrap.
Michael just looked at me, rolled his eyes and laughed, and said, “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
I swear, I’m only having former drag queens as bosses from now on.
Okay, there’s much more to report, but I gotta get back to work before the shunt comes over with another request. I’m glad I broke the block, y’all—how you been?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Unable to MoveOn.org
So I know I’ve been way behind on bloggery, and I have much to catch you up on, but I forgot to post a little tidbit from “Sad Girl” (remember her from that time I went to 8th grade prom?). She’s since graduated high school and is living on her own. Adult life hasn’t been so good to her. It seems, you can take Sad Girl out of high school, but you can’t take the….sadness out of the sad girl.
I don’t know if you guys know about this, but I’ve been going through a really hard time lately. Work is a total bitch, and my former drag queen of a boss (that’s not meant to be derogatory, that’s just a fact) keeps telling me that I’m “sick and suffering.” Yesterday, the online editor got pissed at me because I finally told her why I don’t like her (she doesn’t respect my dominance). And Halloween’s coming up, and I have no idea what to be (a slutty fireman? A slutty bunny? Muslim film star Delta Burqa?).
Not that I have anywhere to go anyway. No one invites me out anymore, and it sucks. I got Netflix a few months ago to help quell the ache, but even movies have gotten boring.
I check my email every 5 minutes, hoping for an Evite to som—
Oh my god, guess what?! I just got an email from a guy named Chuck S. It’s titled “Come to my party in New York on Saturday?”
I LIVE IN NEW YORK! Chuck knows that, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have invited me. I don’t know who he is off the top of my head, but I’m sure we met somewhere a year or so back, when I used to be social.
Ugh, thank god. I was freaking out over not having plans. Okay, now I’ll go to Ricky’s and get a costume. I wonder if anyone hot will be there. Maybe Chuck’s hot. Should I bring candy? Let me open the email and see the deets.
ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?
Hi,
We're just 5 days from the election, and dozens of races could come down to just a handful of votes. We could end up with narrow Democratic wins in a ton of close races, or a Republican takeover of our government, and it all comes comes down to which side has more volunteers getting out the vote.
I'm not going to let right-wing Republicans take over Congress.
So I'm hosting an election call party on Saturday in New York. I'm inviting people over to make calls to sign up volunteers for our candidates.
I can't do it alone. So if you've got a couple hours to spare this weekend—or even if you don't!--please, please, please come to my party. It's up to all of us in the next 5 days.
Why doesn’t anyone ever invite me anywhere fun?
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