Rider Die Chick

Hey gang,

So, ever since I got hazed and rejected by that hedge fund, I’ve been resigned to the fact that I may not be able to get off this plantation anytime soon. I’ve also resigned myself to the fact that my blog will be searchable as long as I sign in using my e-mail account, and even if I did make a change, Google’s like a war widow—IT NEVER FORGETS. In order to prevent future drama (save it for Obama!), I’ve decided I will only post things that I would say in real life—or about people who I know can’t read or don’t have computers.

Guys, I want to care about my job, I really do, but I only live once— and I must give myself over to the blacktress deep within. So when one of our editors tapped me to be in an upcoming “how-to video” on drawing, I said yes—mostly because I liked being referred to as “the talent”, and it’ll mean I’m away from my desk for a whole hour!

Of course, the video’s going to be dull as dishwater, and it’ll mostly be voice-over, but the editor wrote a “script” that basically reads like a book report on drawing. I got the first draft and was directed to “add your flair”—which I took to mean "cut as much of the crap as possible"--and I did. She was hounding me for my edits (um, not my job!) so I sent back the first three pages along with my rider. I mean, if you want to use a blacktress for the screen, you'll have to meet her needs (I heard Bob Ross required 12 afro picks on standby at all times). Please see my requirements below, and make a note in case you'd like to collaborate on any future projects:

Rider for Sojourner “You Can’t Handle The” Truth (who will herein be referred to as “Blacktress”) - 2/15/2011

by Blacktress – dictated, but not read

Requirements

- 2 bottles of Fiji water kept at room temperature

- 4 bananas, 1 of which must be sliced into rounds

- Justin Timberlake playing in the background

- Justin Bieber playing in the foreground

- Online editor (who will be referred to as “Massa”) must respect Blacktress’s dominance and knowledge of the creative process.



At least 4 takes of every medium close up (to be filmed on from Blacktress’ left side)


Blacktress has very specific needs, and body temperature is of the utmost concern. It is mandatory that the internal temperature of the performance space reach no higher than 68 degrees, to prevent sweating and facial shine.



Preferences
Please meet at least 3 of the following:

- Massa wears a dunce cap

- Video guy wears a newsie cap

- Video shoot must be scheduled to take place over 4 hours but only take 1.5, so that Blacktress may run some errands.

- 5 golden rings.

- 1 ring of power, 1 ring to rule them all.



Perfectly reasonable, yes?

Food For Thought

I know that many of you don’t know me IRL, so any talks of physical appearance will probably fall flat. Basically, I have gained about 14 pounds in the last year, largely because I stopped drinking to feel pretty and instead eat to feel social. I’ve been trying to nip it in the bud ever since Thanksgiving, but to no avail. My therapist has advised I keep a food diary, so that I can see what and why I’m eating like a crazy person.
I already know it’s because I’m on FATkins, not Atkins: Last weekend I ate French toast for both brunch and dinner; I’m a hot mess. But I decided to go with the doctor’s orders just to straighten myself out a bit. Here’s an excerpt for all you lovely readers who might know what it’s like to eat your feelings.

February 15, 2011


Dear Food Diary,

How are you doing? I can’t believe it’s been, like, 4 days since I’ve written in you. I’m sorry about all those nasty things I said about you—you know, that you were useless, annoying, and judgmental. I also feel kinda bad about staining your pages with my tears.
Anyway, here’s what I’ve eaten recently. So, last night Jewboo came over for Valentine’s Day, and I made dinner.

We had:
chicken (thinly sliced breasts) in a mushroom and balsamic sauce
with a side of pesto pasta (angel hair)
a mixed green salad
and cheesy garlic bread.
For dessert we had heart-shaped brownies (I know, I know, Diary--I’m such a sap!!) with ice cream.

Oh, and did I mention that for V-Day Jewboo got me a pint of red velvet cheesecake ice cream? Yeah, um, that happened. Look, Diary, it’s not my fault! It was really thoughtful of him and I had to at least try it! I mean, what kind of gf would I be if I was like, “I can’t eat this. I’m on a diet”?

This is why you’re single, diary.

So, I was all set to be good today, but the RED DRAGON is upon me, and my uterus is aching. You know when the dragon comes he must be placated with sugar. And I would have been fine, but then my coworker brought in cookies. So today’s food has been:
1 biscotti
2 cups of tea
FOUR frosted cookies

I haven’t had anything else. I swear I’ll get a salad for lunch. Or maybe I’ll just have some more Advil. I don’t know. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, mmmkay?

From Blacktress, With Love!

Hey Gang,

Sorry for my lack of bloggery of late—it’s been a busy black history month. In the last 7 days I’ve written 4 articles, put together a 96-page magazine, gone on my first commercial audition, hosted a Black History Month-themed sketch show, shared my tales of OKCupid dating with the hippest of hipsters, told an embarrassing story in Williamsburg, and finally performed with some black people. I decided it was time to blog when my boss came up to me on Friday and said I looked like Black Barbie (remember, massa’s a former drag queen). I believe his exact words were:

“Look at you in this sparkly sweater, it’s so Black Barbie. With the bangs and the pony. You are just cute today.”

I was ready to break it down and then got bombarded with actual work and am only now just resuming this post!!! I hope that you’ll forgive me on this day of lovers.

Oh, and I also got an e-mail from a stand-up booker asking, “Can you do a clean set with some Christian material for a March 19th gig?”

Um, what? Is he looking for something Tyler Perry-esque? I have nothing of the sort. But for reals—I don’t know even think I have a clean set. The last time I had to do something clean was at an office party in Australia, and I left known as the woman who said “Vagina” in the workplace.

I’ve been at work less than an hour and am already looking for ways to procrastinate. Perhaps it’s because the one toilet that the 10 of us share is clogged, and our “doorman” is plunging it as we speak. I feel like I’m in a late-80s sitcom.


It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m actually not all that excited—weird, right? Jewboo has an improv show tonight, and we’re going to make dinner afterwards, which will be cute and domestic. I think that after years of being single, I have drained the power out of this godforsaken “holiday”. It no longer takes me over and makes me feel bad about myself. I mean, after all:

I choose to focus instead on the African-American struggle and perseverance all month long, and make February 15 my new day of celebration, as I rejoice in the discounting of all heart-shaped chocolate items.

For those of you with lovers, here are some fun V-Day Suggestions from Women’s Magazines:

CosmoGirl on gifts:
You Should Get Him A Teddy Bear!

Your guy is sweet and cuddly, just like the little fuzzy creature you should suprise him with! No need to get your down-to-earth dude something over the top- stick with a present that can join in on the cuddling and that will remind him of you whenever you're apart.

Glamour on dates:
DO Plan a Date That’s Outside the Box
Remember when Dylan took Brenda to donate blood in the original 90210? Now that was a heartfelt idea.

[what?]

Marie Claire on finding love in unexpected places:
Feature article: I Fell in Love With a Terrorist
[Who hasn’t been there, girls??]

For those without:

Read the list above and remember that this whole thing is a sham!

It Was a Dark and Stormy Black History Month.....

What up Blossoms and Joeys? I’m poking my head out of a pile of work to remind y’all to celebrate the young, gifted, and black.
Except for me.

"Why so self-loathing, Sojo?" Well, I found out yesterday that I didn’t get the job I applied for. Even though I was sorta on the fence about working for a company that would haze a prospective employee with crazy-ass MacGuyver questions, the rejection stings—especially since it means I’m no closer to getting off of this plantation. This is not what BHM is about!!

I did have my meeting with the agent on Tuesday, though, and it’s amazing how simple it was. I basically went in, read some copy (and sounded a bit too “serious” for Zyrtec eye drops—what is with me and allergy-med commercials?), and she said she’d start sending me out! I wasn’t amazing or anything, but she’s gonna give me a shot and see how I go. In business lingo, I’m “freelancing” with her, which she described as, “we’re dating. We’re getting to know each other, and if we like each other we’ll get engaged and get married.”
If only all of my relationships were so simple.

She did suggest I get new headshots, which made my wallet start to cry, but at least I’ll know what I’m aiming for. She’s really funny and motherly, and was very impressed by my put-togetherness (I have a feeling being employed in the real, non-actor world will really give me a leg up when it comes to the details). Crossing my fingers (for luck) AND my legs (for black Jesus)!

Although my day job is still rough,* at least I have some blackting opportunities coming up.

For those in the NYC area, here’s the info:
TONIGHT (2/3), 8:30pm – The Grisly Pear (107 MacDougal Street)
Wednesday, 2/9, 9pm – Under St. Marks Theater – hosting a sketch show! (8th ave btw. 1st Ave and Ave A)
Friday, 2/11, 8:30pm – ABC No Rio, Lower East Side – It’s an OK Cupid-themed comedy show, where hilarious NYC performers share there online dating horror stories.
Saturday, 2/12, 8pm – The Cove, in Williamsburg – NY Confidential storytelling show, with the unimitable Eugene Ashton! It’s very 1920s, speakeasy-style--but without the racial tensions.

* my boss actually compared himself to Hugh Heffner yesterday
Massa: I was reading The First 10 Years of Playboy and, you know, he was a revolutionary. And he never backed down. He did what he wanted to do, even when people told him he was wrong, and look at him now!
Me: So that means you don’t want me to respond to this subscriber’s e-mail?

B(l)ack by Popular Demand

Happy BHM, y'all!!!

Yes, today is the first of what will be 28 days of celebrating the young, gifted, and the black! Last night I was all in a tizzy because of today's agent meeting. I then realized that there was no better day for a blacktress to meet with potential representation than the first day of Black History Month.

Perhaps fate created last week’s storm just so that my meeting could take place on a day when no member of Caucasia could say no to a negress. Either way, I’m rocking a form-fitting bright top and slimming denim, and just used my anti-puff eye roller to help handle my baggy-eyed scandal (I got more bags than a Whole Foods right now, y’all. I look wearier than a woman of Brewster Place).

As I got dressed this morning, the snow and icy rain (aka “wintry mix”) had me stressed. We all know rain is the black woman’s kryptonite, and today is no time for a hairdon't. As I wrapped my hair up and hid it under my hat, I thought about how silly the whole process is. Coming off of last week’s viewing of “Good Hair,” where I saw the disintegrating effects of a chemical relaxer on an aluminum can I realized just how enslaved (and possibly brain-cancer-ridden) I still am--by norms of beauty, my own laziness, and my own tenderheaded-ness.

But of course, I’m not alone in this. Black women have been struggling with handling a hair scandal since the dawn of time (when neander-negros were heating up smooth rocks and using them as a flat iron--you didn’t see that NatGeo special?).
So today I just want to kick-off BHM with brilliant black mind who worked to make looking fine just a bit easier--without chemicals.

Name: Marjorie Joyner

Quick Facts: Marjorie, the granddaughter of a slave and a slave-owner (yes, y’all!), was born in 1896, and in 1912 she moved to Chicago to attend cosmetology school. Upon graduation she worked under Madame C. J. “Thanks for the Relaxer” Walker.

A page from her biography reads:

A dilemma existed for Black women in the 1920's.
[You mean Jim Crow laws? The inability to vote until damn-near the end of the decade? The need to provide for their families with little options besides serving members of Caucasia?]

In order to straighten tightly-curled hair, they could so so only by using a stove-heated curling iron. This was very time-consuming and frustrating as only one iron could be used at a time.
[Ah, yes, the real dilemma.]

Joyner… imagined that if a number of curling irons could be arranged above a women's head, they could work at the same time to straighten her hair all at once. “It all came to me in the kitchen when I was making a pot roast one day, looking at these long, thin rods that held the pot roast together and heated it up from the inside. I figured you could use them like hair rollers, then heat them up to cook a permanent curl into the hair.”

WHAT?! Y’all, for reals! Although black hair care doesn’t seem like a major innovation, let’s look at the genius: Marjorie was just in the kitchen making a roast for her man, and was like, “wait a second…” That’s some straight-up MacGuyver-type ingenuity. When I’m cooking in the kitchen, all I’m thinking about is whether I really have to pre-heat the oven. In 1926, Marjorie turned dinnertime into into breadwinner-time!

Joyner developed her concept by connecting 16 rods to a single electric cord inside of a standard drying hood. A woman would wear the hood for the prescribed period of time and her hair would be straightened or curled. After two years Joyner completed her invention and patented it in 1928, calling it the "Permanent Waving Machine."

Look at Marjorie with that man! She was 98 when this pic was taken, and it looks like she's telling him about himself. She is my (s)hero.

So, as you make tonight's pot roast or soy chicken nuggets, look inside that oven. Think of Marjorie--and think of the possibilities.

My Man Knows All About Slavery!

Here's a bonus clip from the taping of my (imaginary) Jewboo Nick Kroll's upcoming Comedy Central stand-up special that I simply had to share. Watch it all the way through and you'll know why:




If you want to see more hilarity, holla at Comedy Central's site, or watch the special tonight at 10pm on Comedy Central!

Or, you know, if you like to run the streets like Bobby Bottleservice, just DVR it.

No, I did not intend to sound like a tacky publicist.

xoxo,
blacktress!

These Are the Breaks!

Happy Friday, y’all!

What a week it’s been. Highs, lows, heavy days, light days. Today’s a light day. I coul even ride a bike.

I’m still reeling from the inception, creation, and blow-uption that is Black Swanson. Me and KWalsh were just doing what we do every day from our respective cubicles: joking around about portmanteaus, discussing our favorite bears, and toolin’ around with photoshop. Next thing you know, we’ve got a wacky image that's reblogged more than 400 times, re-tweeted more than…anything Kanye West ever says, deemed “so relevant it hurts,” and reblogged on MovieLine.com. That’s, like, a real website, y’all.

Wednesday night I had a show at Comix Comedy Club—nothing fancy, a regular bringer. What made this show stress inducing was the fact that my MOM was going to be in attendance. This would be her first time seeing me do stand-up. Ever. She’s seen me in plays in college, but to hear me on stage telling my TRUTH….well, let’s just say I was freaking out backstage. My mind was racing with such thoughts as “Should I keep it clean and not discuss WINTERcourse?” and “Definitely don’t do the joke about Ps in the V without a C—that’ll lead to a talk you’re not ready to have. “

When I got in I went backstage and tried to avoid the crowd. I had to duck out to meet Jewboo, and when I did I not only saw my mother, but two of her homegirls from work, whom I’ve known all my life.
Mom threw me for a loop. She turned my show into a straight-up Waiting to Exhale type of night!

My mom is definitely Angela Bassett.

The show went really well, and not only did my mother think I was funny (and get really tipsy off of two white-wine spritzers—damn you, drink minimum) but the show’s booker came up to me afterwards and said, “You’re really good. I’m gonna put you on an industry show,” meaning the special shows clubs host where they invite talent to perform for agents, producers, etc. Holla!!!

Thursday witnessed the unveiling of the blacktress's second piece on TheHairpin, in which I discuss my adolescent indecent exposure in front of Double Dare host Marc Summers.

Unfortunately, due to the insanity that is the northeast winter, my agent meeting set for yesterday was canceled. I’m okay with that, seeing as I didn’t know how I could possibly dress to impress when 10 inches of snow and slush were on the ground (at best, she would have put me in a Home Depot commercial). We’re scheduled for this coming Tuesday, which gives me plenty of time to lose 12 pounds and get my hair did.

I’m actually not that nervous for the meeting, because, really, it’s all about filling a slot. I learned in my commercial class that my "breakdown" is 'a black female, age 25-35 (in acting years), with a fresh, accessible look'. I’m signed up for a few different websites that list casting notices, and you can put in your information (age range, height, ethnicity, photo, etc) and receive personalized e-mails with casting calls that fit your type. I get two emails a day, which might have you thinking there are tons of roles for a blacktress. Unfortunately, I’m not quite right for any of these parts. Here are a couple of the recent breakdowns I’ve received (all from various film and television projects):



Tina: Early 30s, beautiful, strong, ambitious but extremely vengeful.

Stacy: 26-30. Cute and curvy, Stacy is the more naïve of the two. A Jr. marketing associate, she’s bored of her unchallenging job so she goes after excitement (i.e. drama) in her personal life.
[Um, wait a minute. Those first two sound a lot like me.]


Apparently, one website thought this character breakdown was so fitting, they sent it to my inbox with a “red alert”:

Pam: 40s, A very obese woman, waitress. She's busy but friendly.

Dina: His beautiful wife. Passionate, dangerous, immoral. 35-40.

Role: First Slave. Breakdown: 30-45, tawny-skinned Moor captured and sold in the marketplace

Kim:(20s)- John's junkie girlfriend. Chic in a six-months-to-live kind of way.


Oh yeah, that way. Apparently, things aren’t so post-racial that a blacktress can be fit for a part playing someone young, gifted, and of a healthy weight and size. I mean, I shouldn't be surprised now that the they want to put the goodness of brown in white!

Have a good weekend, y’all!


xoxo,
blacktress

Black Swanson (h/t KWalsh)

I love Ron Swanson. My girl KWalsh and I put together our heads and created the father of all portmanteaus:

BLACK SWANSON

What's your favorite block of the pyramid? I'm partial to "stillness: don't waste energy moving unless necessary" and "Friends: One to three is sufficient."

You know you love it.

No Country for Hot Babies

Penelope and Javier just welcomed their bundle of joy, y'all!!
I haven't even bothered finding out the name or gender, but I'm already counting down to its 18th birthday. Does that make me creepy? It's the hottest child in the history of the world!

[NO IMAGE FOUND]

When you try to search "hottest baby ever" in Google, there are no infant photos that can meet the criteria!!! You'll just have to use your brainholes!


Honey, do ju think we should name de bebe 'El Sexo Cruz-Bardem???"

(A Vain Attempt at) Radio Silence

Hello Gentle Readers,

You may have noticed a lack of bloggery over the last week. This wasn't a hiatus as much as a crisis of faith (in blogging, that is). I'll admit that I've definitely brought new meaning to the acronym TMI with my posts, but with tags like "funny," "not funny," and "awkward," I assumed my goal of entertaining would get me off the hook (while at the same time allowing me to exorcise my demons). Alas, no. To top it off, I recently discovered that a Google search of my full name (my real one, obvs) will lead you to not only some wonderful (i.e. NSFW) youtube clips of me discussing Ps in Vs without Cs but also my blog! I, Sojourner, can’t handle my own truth!

This has led to me feel intensely self-conscious, and almost wondering if I should continue with the bloggery. Of course, this is the Internet and my posts aren’t under wraps, but they are also something for which someone actively has to search. If that’s the case, should I not write what I feel, or should people I have IRL relationships with not use my blog as a means of gaining access? Or maybe I should do me and they should do them, and just let the computer chips fall where they may? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Bottom line is: It’s called “Diary of a Mad Blacktress,” not “Diary of a Diplomatic Blacktress”--there should be little surprise if it gets darker than it would in person. I’m not saying people shouldn’t get angry when I express my truths, or that I'm a victim—we all know my feelings on HBCUs has inspired to all sorts of venomous comments—but if you choose to view this page, you must be prepared for my truth, my whole truth, and nothing but my truth! After all, my thoughts don’t make it law, and since when has a diary been filled with rainbows and kittens?
I mean, besides Justin Bieber’s.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I do want to let you guys know that things have been a hot mess--and I swear, no humans will be emotionally harmed in the creation of this post.

On Friday I had a 7 ½-hour job interview with seven different interviewers, during which I was asked all types of math and logic problems. Considering I was applying for a position that would mostly entail some copyediting and light Excel-spreadsheet-creating, I was definitely ill equipped for such stumpers as “How can we go about determining the number of teachers in North America?” for which I had to divide 300,000,000 by 175,000 BY HAND.

I haven’t done long division by hand since before 9/11, y'all. The climate’s changed, and I can’t cope!

I left the interview feeling stupider than I’ve felt in a long time. Not like I’m a girl genius, but I’ve never been in a job interview where I’ve felt the failure taking place. I watched interviewers 6 and 7 try to keep straight faces as I botched very basic things (like, you know, saying that the population of North America was 65 million). I won’t go into anymore, since Big Brother’s likely watching, but let’s just say Friday night involved a lot of cupcakes.

Yesterday featured a 2 ½-hour doctor’s appointment in which it was determined that I am developing glaucoma. After waiting for ridiculous amounts of time and pressing my face against what I’m sure were less-than-sanitary chin rests, the doctor deemed me a “glaucoma suspect”. Um, why did she have to make it sound sketchy? Was she profiling me? Did I commit an ocular crime against myself?
I’m sorry if I sound like “conspiracy brother,” but ever since I saw the new Uncle Ben’s rice commercial, I’ve been on the alert for other attempts at eradicating the brown.


The goodness of brown, now in WHITE???? Why can’t the rice just be brown?! How many folks are looking at their plates going, “this rice tastes good, but it’s brown coloring just makes me sick.” I can’t handle this RICism!

After all the test, my vision returned to normal this morning—just in time for me to check my e-mail and read that I was rejected from the Women in Comedy Festival. Apparently, a show titled “The Blacktress Goes Inside Caucasia” isn’t appealing to the comedic women of Boston (I may have to call up Henry Louis Gates Jr. and see if he can get me and the ladies on a porch with some beers). I know rejection’s a part of the biz, but I’m just a squirrel trying to get a nut, y’all! And by “nut” I mean “seven minutes of stage time.” Is that so wrong?

Okay, I don’t want to leave you as depressed as I am, so here’s some potentially good news: I have a meeting with an agent on Thursday!

Unfortunately, it’s not one of the ones who came to my commercial class last week. I say it’s unfortunate because one of them was a hilarious nerdy gay man who referenced both Battlestar Galactica and Truth in Comedy, the improviser’s bible. If there’s anyone who should be representing a blacktress, it’s him.

I was put in touch with the woman I’m meeting on Thursday through one of the teachers of the class. After sending a thank-you e-mail to her, I followed up with:

Do you know if there are agents that specialize in/look primarily for comedians? I feel as though there's a lack of funny Af-Am females who aren't acting ghetto and aren't over 40, and there has to be an agent that wants to fill the void. In other words: I need to be playing Michelle Obama on SNL. Let me know your thoughts if you get a chance.

Best,
Blacktress

I was mostly being silly, but since she had complimented me several times on my sense of humor, I figured I could get her attention with some outlandish statements. She didn’t reply for a little while, so I started to get nervous (you know, just like I do after I tell a guy I have a crush on him). Just before I flipped out, I got an e-mail back from her titled “meet and greet,” addressed to be and some aol address. It only read:

C_____- meet Sojourner. She thinks she should play Michelle Obama on a miniseries.

Two minutes later I had an interview scheduled for 1pm!!!

Oh, and while I’m on an upswing, let me bring your attention to this wonderful video posted by the elite gay visionary Michael Martin. Re-post and spread widely!




*With a title espousing TRUTH, it's no wonder I love this book.

When Will I Be Free?

Happy MLK Day, y'all!!!

I am able to blog because I AM AT WORK TODAY.

Yes, y'all. No one seems to be able to believe it, and Scribe was most alarmed.

Scribe: you have to work today?!

me: YES

Scribe: that is ridiculous!

the post office is closed!

is your office more important than the post office?

NO!
you work in Arizona

we have to get you outta there.

Ain't that the gospel truth? I know I need to keep on steppin', but I feel like I'm just wading in the water. My job seems to think that a nationally recognized, legal holiday isn't real. My boss is basically standing over Martin's grave, screaming, "WHERE'S THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE???"
Or maybe he's just real close with the governor of Maine. Either way, I am sitting here, toiling and resentful, and it shouldn't even be legal.

Luckily, because everyone else has a holiday there are no calls and very few emails. I've got writing to do and can really get into it. I am a bit distracted, though, because tomorrow is the last commercial class, and two agents come in to watch us read our copy! I have several friends who took the class and got agents from it, so it could be a big night, y'all! Of course, it all depends on who the agents are and whether they're looking to add a blacktress to their roster. One agency reps a lot of famous child actors, but our teachers said they're looking to grow their "adult client base," so maybe they're lack means there's a void I can fill. Although precocious children scare/disgust me, I would certainly love to join an agency that includes such high-profile talent as "The Asian girl who plays Charlotte's daughter in the Sex and the City movies" and the lead blacktor from "Everybody Hates Chris." Cross your fingers (for me) and your legs (for Jesus)!

Okay, let me get back to the fields, y'all. I leave you with Public Enemy:

2011: The Year to Keep on Steppin'!

Hey y'all.

I feel like I haven't blogged in ages, when it's really been a couple days. That could be because the sinus pain and dizziness has made time stand still (yes, even as the room is spinning). Or it could be because I'm cramming mad stuff into each day, making it so that, by the time I got to my desk this morning I had already shoveled snow, paid my electric bill, and called my grandmother. G-unit was in top form, and she gave me a new phrase I will have to use. When I told her that I was shoveling the snow, she asked me why I didn't pay the neighbor boy to do it for me. When I said I could manage, she replied, "Oh, I know you can, but you got to be acting. You can't get all sweaty and hunched over. You need to pay someone to do it and keep on steppin!"

Okay, maybe it's not particularly funny because you can't hear her 94-year-old Mississippi southern accent, but trust me--it was brillz. So great, in fact, that I am making it my new philosophy. As 2009 was The Year of the Hot Ass Mess, and 2010 was the year I chose to save the drama for Obama, 2011 is the year I will keep on steppin'!

"Um, what does 'keep on steppin' mean, Blacktress? Is your grandmother really into the movie You Got Served?"

No, people! G-unit doesn't want me to join a step team or stomp the yard. When she says "keep on steppin'" she basically means "do you." You've gotta get the basics done, and then handle your business--in my case, that's writing and blackting.

I think I'm getting there, even though it's causing me to burn the candle at both ends. I had an interview for another job on Monday, and I think I'm highly qualified and have everything they're looking for. They also said they welcome people with "outside interests," and the interviewer referenced going on auditions and flexibility more than once. Although I haven't heard back yet, I'm hoping that they're just playing it cool, and I'll get a follow-up soon.

So, despite the random illness--and the inability to shake the sensation of swallowing, like, egg yolks or something gross--I'm doing well. Especially because last night I had commercial class number 2, and guys, I DIDN'T SUCK!!
I was, dare I say it, pretty darn good!

I went into the class with high energy, and vowed to get out of my own way (the blacktress's mind is like a bad neighborhood--you don't want to go there alone). I wore my glasses and comfortable (yet slimming!) black jeans. We were given a page with four pieces of copy, and almost all were comedic, and they made sense to me right away. I was excited, and instantly knew how to play with it. I went up second, and read a spot for Doritos. We were asked to improvise and play a character. The first take I did a shy, nervous, awkward girl, and it went well. Then, the two teachers went to give me direction at the same time, then fought over what kind of character I should play next.

“You totally look like you could kick my ass,” one of them said. (She totally reminds me on a real housewife of New Jersey.) “Just for fun, play a gym teacher.”

“Really? You want me to go all out?” She nodded.

So I did. I imagined Sue Sylvester, but without the snark and hatefulness. I introduced myself as Pat, and even improvised the copy a bit, so that it ended on: “Like any normal person, I ate the whole bag, I enjoyed it and then I dropped and gave myself 20.

I got a huge laugh; it killed! I felt great from then on. Don't worry; it wasn't like it was smooth sailing from then on—but I didn’t feel like I didn’t deserve to be there, you know? For instance, I was able to laugh at myself and not freak out when I had to play ‘Georgina, a cousin from Italy,’ and the other actor I was filming with flubbed the intro line ("this is my cousin georgina, from italy. word has it she loves...") and said “word has it, she’s from Italy”.

My response: I’m from the African part.

I talked to the agents after class, had them critique my headshots (alas, I’ll need to pay for new ones, since the current ones “don’t pop.”), and even made friends with a WHactress. I learned that comedy commercials might be my thing, and being an improviser actually gave me a leg up over the Meisner-trained, NYU and Yale School of Drama M.F.A. kids.

I will admit that I lost some of my steam an hour into it when I left to use the bathroom and hit myself in the face with the heavy glass door, leading me to spend the rest of class concerned that my brow bone and nose were swelling (you can take the blacktress away from the crazy, but you can't take the awkwardness out of the blacktress).

But even with my potential facial fractures and fears of looking like a hot mess, I got up and read the other sides. I was, as G-unit would say, able to keep on steppin’! Holla!

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.

The New Serenity Prayer

Of course, this was brought to my attention by my life partner and avatar, KWalsh. I believe her exact words were: "Thought you'd appreciate this," followed by "I think I need to frame this."

My blog is my bedroom wall, and I have hung it for you all to see.

Jesus, take the wheel!

When Sinus Pressure Hits....I don't know what to do.

Guys, I'm feeling a bit low after last night's commercial class. I thought I'd be great, and was told the casting directors would "just eat you up; they'd love a blacktress on their roster." Instead, I was directed to "not be so stiff," and after three tries was directed to sit down with a "better. that's better."
Like my mom says, "better isn't good enough."
She also says, "I didn't work so hard for this to be your life," and then it gets awkward.

Anyhoozle, the class was just two hours, and there were 12 people--all white as the freshly driven snow, and even the boys were as thin as Justin Bieber's left thigh (they lacked Biebs' swoopy bangs, though). I went in with energy, but just couldn't shake the nerves and discomfort. We were on camera, but couldn't see our own face. Instead, two HUGE flat-screen tvs faced outward, giving all of the class access to every pore. "Dont' think about yourself here," one of the teachers said, voguing around her head to indicate a television screen. "We don't show you your tape because the point is to not think about how you look."

I just couldn't help it, though! I'm much more at home on a stage, with an audience I can't see because I'm blinded by bright lights--not a handful of folks that are looking at my face at 10x its normal size. I know that we were all there to learn, but there were some students who just "nailed it. great read." They had moved to NYC just for a moment like this, and knew how to bring the right amount of confidence and relief to a discussion about sinus pain and pressure. I will always be a type-A brown-noser (as evidenced by the immediate unearthing of a pen and notepad once we sat down), and blackting is what I love--I simply must be perfect!

I feel just like Bette Davis in Now, Voyager.

I know, I know--I need to stop worrying about what the gossip girls are doing and handle my own scandal. I just wish I hadn't had all that Upper East Side private schooling--I might have high self-esteem in situations like this. We're told not to practice, but I think I may have to have someone point a camera at me long enough that I cease to be nervous. We'll see what happens.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Hey gang. It’s 9:34 am, and I’ve already been on the plantation for 90 minutes. Hell, I’ve already been up for over THREE HOURS. And in that time I’ve exercised (and I don’t mean my demons!), showered, ate oatmeal and watched my morning progrums, AND read all the work emails sent over the holiday break. 2011’s gonna be my year, I tell ya!

Ugh, okay, I can’t keep this energy up. Let’s be real: Yes, I did all of the aforementioned things, but only because I was dreading coming to work. I was walking down the subway platform like it was the green mile, and got in an hour before everyone just so I could get acclimated before all of the "How was your vacation?!" talk started. The three unplanned days in Detroit (and sharing a bed with mom) put a real damper on things, and the hullabaloo of New Year’s left little sleeping opportunities this weekend.

Despite my fatigue and job bitterness, however, I am ready to make 2011 the Year of the Blacktress (I’ve got the Chinese government on line 1, hoping it’s not too late to make the change). I started off NYE with a piece on The Hairpin, which is the beginning of my crossover success (leave a comment to help kickstart the blacktress whisper campaign!). The article put me in touch with another strong black woman who has a Jewboo, and now we’re internet besties.

I found a $100 bill on the ground in the early hours of 2011, and then kicked off the second day of the new year with a meeting with three ladies to start writing a sketch show! They are young, gifted, and white, and I think we’ve really got the start of something good. We all have assignments for the week, we’re meeting on the regular, and we’re ready to kick ass and take names. Tonight is the first of four on-camera commercial acting classes, where I hope to learn how to land a national ad campaign and never have to work in this craphole again! I'm kinda nervous--I haven't been around actor-y actors in a while, and hope I’m not the only one without a BFA. I'm also imagining the two teachers as aged, gravelly voiced, take-no-prisoners Hollywood types, who gesture with their cigarettes, tapping ash on you when you fail. They’ll say things like, "You're gayer than Rock Hudson on a telephone! Now sell me that face cream and MAKE ME WANT IT!!!”


I’ve got my hair did, contacts ready, and having been practicing my soothing, news-anchor voice while saying things like, “side effects may include constipation, explosive diarrhea, low self-esteem, and dry mouth.” We’ll see how it goes—I’ll definitely give you an update.

I'm Gonna Need Some Serious Ujamaa Up In Here

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:

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.

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!

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?

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?

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

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.

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:

1. Barack Obama—is he a mensch or what? (cross-cultural appeal!)
2. Kwanzaa—the black people’s Hannukah?
3. “You ain’t no Challah back girl!” aka “I see where Naomi gets her good looks and brains.” (flattery will get him everywhere).
4. “So, you’re a lawyer for the city, huh? I bet there’s a lot of baby mama drama going on there!”
5. “What do your parents do, where did you go to school, and what are your intentions for my daughter?”

It’s sure to be a good time, guys—if only because I’ll be eating solid foods.

*hash tag JF2K10