How Much Do I Really Hate New York?

Dear Massa—I mean, Reader,

Let me be the first to apologize for my lack of bloggery as of late. I know it is my duty—nay, god-given right—to put my thoughts on the page as only a blacktress can. However, I’ve found that since the beginning of my 47th year I haven’t had the time to sit down and collect my thoughts. Things have been cray. In fact, one could even say I’m the captain of the S.S. Cray-Cray.

Firstly, I am suffering from serious black mama drama. It is time Sojourner faced her own TRUTH and find her own apt. I cannot let the co-op board (aka THE MAN) slow me down, and I must accept that my current situation is similar to the plantations from which I fled, shouting “Ain’t I a Woman?!” I cannot take steps back at this age. I must move onward and upward, and once again seek out the freedom I’ve longed for.

As for the quest for the winter spoon: it is over. Mission aborted. Like the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, my heart has been bombed into bits by unpleasant “romantic situations”—the Imperial Japanese Navy of evil men (thought none of them were Japanese). All I have for comfort now is I Love New York. Watching this show reminds me that, even on my worse day, at least I have a functioning brain, the ability to tell right from wrong, and no STDs (I took my test—I passed!).

New York is down to the wire, with only two men to choose from: Tailor Made and Buddha. Now, I personally am glad to see Punk go, as he needed to stop slumming and living this lie and do something with his Harvard education (it’s his kind of behavior that stops Negroes from having nice things).
I mean, the moment Punk’s mother came into the house I knew that was the end of him. Look at her:

First of all, why is his mother 112 years old? And why is she hideous? I was shocked by this turn—TV doesn’t get any more real than this.

I believe my favorite response to Punk’s mom came from a viewer who wrote to Yahoo:
She looks really frail and her mannerisms remind me of my some of the stroke victims I worked with at the hospital. Her mouth is always open and her glasses are so thick. She also doesn't make eye contact.

This would have to be true. As New York screamed and tripped, and as Sister Patterson waved her weave about and stabbed out the Entertainer’s eyes with her fake nails, Punk’s mother sat stoically, possibly passing a stone, looking bewildered and mildly frightened…. Then again, her wide eyes could just look that way because of her large bifocals.

I know it's wrong to take pleasure from the misfortunes of others. But I can't help it. With Massa-Mama breathing down my neck, my va-jay-jay confused and lonely, and the housing market rougher than a back alley in Detroit, I seek solace wherever I can find it.

Judge not lest ye be judged.

DRANKS FOR 2007!

So, this just in:

The top 10 lists for 2007 have made their way to my desk. From TVs, to movies, to downloads, to websites, I've got the pdf file of what was hot and what was not.

While many of the titles were to be expected, my heart actually leapt at one chart-topper:
List of Top 10 Most Digitally Downloaded Songs
10----Something
9-----Something
8-----Something
7-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!

List of Top 10 Most Played Songs on the Radio
1-----BUY YOU A DRANK (SHAWTY SNAPPIN')----BY T-PAIN!!!


YES! I'm just so happy that T-Pain's misspelling behind is finally getting the attention he deserves. Not only is drank my favorite word (closely followed by tooken), but this man has given more hope to ugly fools the world over. I mean, look at him:
He is not a looker. He might even qualify as a hot mess. But he buys DRANKS. These, for those of you who don't know, are even more potent than regular alcoholic beverages, and often inspire pole-dancing. He even says that he wants you to "get drunk and forget what we did"-- something that only a potent drank can cause.

Birthdays With Artists

Below is an excerpt from a call I received on Friday, 12/7/07-- the day of my birth. I was too busy not working and being lazy to post this at the time, but I've decided it still deserves to be shared. After all, my pain is nothing more than your reason for laughter. And for that I am proud.

OldMan: Are you in the editorial department?

SoTru: Yes, I am.

OM: Well, I want to talk to you about a problem I had and how I solved it. (yay for me!)
Okay, what was that?

OM: Well, my wife and I live in an apartment house, and we have a patio. A lot of people put plants on their patios for decoration, and it’s very nice. Well, we don’t have any water on our patio. (um, who does?)

SoTru: Oh, I see. (I’m still unclear on the problem)

OM: My wife and I would literally have to drag water from the kitchen onto the patio to water plants. (He says this really slowly, annunciating every syllable, so I can understand the magnitude of his problem. I say nothing. I still don’t get it.) So, I came up with this—are you listening?

SoTru: Yes, I am sir. How did you solve this problem?

OM: Well, you know plasticize board? Well, it’s that thick board you see politicians’ signs on—you know, like, on lawns saying “VOTE FOR KERRY!”

SoTru: Ah, yes. That.

OM: Well, I covered it with waterproof paint and I placed cardboard cutouts on it. I have an animal series, and I took horses, cows, reindeer* and pasted them onto the board. I mean, this board lasts for forever and a day. And I put them out on our patio, and it really solved a big problem for us. So, what I’m wondering is this: would this be something that would be interesting to your readers?

(Wait, is he drunk? Is he serious? First of all, I don’t see how not having water on a patio was cured by cardboard cutouts on a board. And even if so, doesn’t he have a grandchild who could make him cutouts of horses? I’m confused.)

SoTru:Um, no I don’t think so. I think that would be better suited to a crafts magazine; we normally focus on traditional realism.

The lessons to be gleaned from this conversational nugget are threefold:

1. Always screen calls in the workplace. Unless you work in the field of organ harvesting and donation, or late-breaking news, there is nothing that can't wait until you decide to call back.
2. The elderly have a lot of free time on their hands, and are too weak to carry water. Please be nice to the next geriatric you see, and offer to carry their goods.
3. No problem in life can't be solved with a little plasticize board.

I don´t think I´m Lovin´

I honestly don´t know what can be said about this video. I just need someone else to see what I saw yesterday on my new favorite channel full of German and other foreign music videos. It´s called "I´m lovin... LRHP." LRHP stands for Little Red Hot Pants.
Has this boy´s balls dropped yet?

Lost in Translation

I am being oppressed by my own body. Here I am, in Barcelona, and I am deathly ill. I arrived at about 2pm and went to my hotel. After settling in, I went to a nearby pharmacy to get meds. Seeing as I didn´t know what anything meant, I went to the pharmacist and explained my symptoms in Spanish. "No sé que necesito. ¿Que Ud. cree?" I asked her politely. She gave me something or the other that I was to dissolve in water and drink completely.

I felt quite accomplished, having found medical attention in a foreign land. I took a walk around, went to grab some tapas (my jam and my jump-off), then returned to my hotel to medicate and sleep. While I waited for the disgusting medication to set in, I watched a show called "Amar en Tiempos Revueltos," which I figured out after about 20 minutes was an hour-long period drama set in 1920s/1930s España. It was about 5:15 pm when I started to fade-- just when Julieta told Alejandro that their love affair had to end.

Cut to 5am the next day. I am awake in my hotel room, after a lengthy 12-hour siesta.

Unsure of what to do, I turned on the boob tube, in hopes of watching another Spanish jam. I turned to channel 10, which was showing music videos-- in English! Missing my native tongue, I eagerly watched Sean Paul, Christina Aguilera, and Timbaland as my mind came to.

Suddenly, the television cut to a commercial, and I discovered I was watching a Dutch station (these hotels are so multi-culti). The next video was something foreign, and I was too weakened from illness to change the channel, so I watched. What proceeded to assault my eyes is unlike anything I have ever seen. Still physically oppressed, I dragged myself from my bed to the hotel computer to share this with you, gentle reader.

The group is called FETTES BROT, and they are a German hip hop group. According to Wikipedia, " ´Fettes Brot´is German for FAT BREAD. Although "fat" is a German slang term for "excellent", the phrase has no meaning at all. The band took the name from a fan who called them "Fettes Brot" after an early gig, which was probably meant as a compliment, but the members considered it so bizarre that they took it as the name for their new group. Fettes Brot's longevity has meant that it is sometimes referred to as "Hamburg's hip-hop-dinosaurs" by its members."

Um, hip-hop dinosaurs? Did they forget who they were appropriating? The title of the song I had the pleasure of viewing was "Nordisch by Nature"!
I kid. you. not.
Do not confuse this jam with the early 90s group "Naughty by Nature" and their hit jam OPP. Looks like Fettes Brot got down with some other people´s property!

For once, I do not think my skills as a woman of color and writer can do this song justice. I will simply embed the video so you can see for yourselves, and experience what I thought was another fever-induced hallucination.
It wasn´t.

Brown Girl, Brown Girl, Where Are You?

That was the title of a craigslist post I found, from a White man seeking a Black woman. Only now do I think I can mildly relate to the sentiment.

It´s about 9:30 in the mañana, and I´m leaving Tarragona and heading to Barcelona. I´m going to be by my lonesome for three días, but I´m sorta excited to get down to some real touristy stuff, walk on bustling streets and risk being robbed-- oh yeah, and I´d like to see some more negroes.

There are very few Black folks in northern Spain in general-- there are 0 in Tarragona. Everywhere I´ve been, people look at me like I´m either lost or about the jack something. Esther, my model for womanhood and wifery, says that people are just looking because I´m "muy guapa"-- very pretty-- not so much. They are looking at me because they only see me on la tele!

I wondering if they can handle the TRUTH of Sojourner in the flesh. It makes me a little uncomfortable--especially when it comes from older people, who make no bones about being all up in my George Foreman (grill). But I know that us Negroes stick to the major cities and major spots, and tiny beach towns like Tarragona aren´t our cup of tea (you know we don´t like beaches-- why get my hair wet? You know how long it took to construct this lie?!). And, unfortunately, it´s quite possible to live in this mundo and never see a real life brown person. HOT MESS!

So, I eagerly await my three days in Barcelona, where I can blend in, eat tapas without being eye fucked, and possibly get my wallet stolen. I´m about to spread la verdad all up and down Las Ramblas-- and hopefully I´ll meet some foreign hotties to keep me company. I´m thinking of trolling some of the high-end hostels for children of a foreign diginitaries who are trying to get away from it all.

¿Como se dice en español, WINTER SPOON?

Have you ever been sitting at a dinner table at 10pm with a mother, father, and 16-year-old daughter, when all of a sudden everyone starts yelling really loudly in a language you can´t really understand? The bits you do get involve some sort of dinner with the girl´s coworkers and the repeated use of the word "youth."


That happens to me alot.

Or have you ever been watching "Family Guy"-- only it´s called Padre de la Familia-- and Lois doesn´t have the annoying voice, Peter sounds like a mildly retarded weatherman, and Stewie lacks any semblance of being an English dandy?


Is that just me?


I really love España, but sometimes feel like I´m in a bizarro world with really good food.


Being here sorta reminds me of my time with the deaf. Like having to use ASL constantly, being in España requires that I speak "the native language"-- which is really hard! And, in the native language I lack much of my personal flair and sass. Por ejemplo: everyone I met yesterday thought I was 16 years old-- the same age as the cousin I´m staying with.
Sojourner, how can you have a 16 year old Spanish cousin? you may be wondering. Let me explain:
My mother got married to her latin lover, and he has a brother. This man has a wife and daughter, so by marriage, we´re all one big, happy, familia.

Anyway, back to me being a Spanish teen: I think the reason everyone thinks I´m young is that I have the vocabulary of a toddler and use a lot of large, silly gestures to make myself understood. You know, like, rubbing my tummy when I´m hungry, or physically shaking when I want someone to know I´m cold. Everyone thinks I´m hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I tried to explain the concept of a "winter spoon"-- cuchara del invierno-- but it just wouldn´t work. you can´t even make "spoon" a verb over here, they think I´m cray!

But let me stop complaining. Me encanta España! Things I love:
- They get thirty vacation days a year, IN ADDITION to holidays.
- All their medication comes in larger sizes. While I normally have to take 3 advil in America to experience relief, one ibuprofen pill-- the size of a horse tranquilizer-- knocks out my pain here in Tarragona.
- Paella
- It´s almost December and it´s 60 degrees during the dia.
- SPANISH WIFEYS

Seriously, all I want for Christmas is a Spanish wifey. They work more than slaves who´ve forgotten their free, and they do it all with a smile. I use as my example Esther, la madre de la casa. Here´s Esther´s typical day:
5 am: wake up. Put in a load of laundry, cook food so that when her daughter comes home from school she can have her late lunch, shower, and dress.
7am: wake up her daughter, get her some breakfast, get ready to go.
8:00 - 6:30: go to work.
6:30-9:00pm: come home, dry and fold laundry, cook elaborate dinner.
9:30-10:30: eat dinner, relax for a minute.
11:00pm: go to bed.

Um, hello?! How does she do it?! When does she have time to wipe her own ass, let alone relax?! And she´s the absolute nicest person I´ve ever met, refusing to let me help her with anything, offering to do my laundry, and asking what I want for lunch and dinner every day. It´s like she watched too many episodes of "The Donna Reed Show," but that´s not it-- she´s just THAT AWESOME. And whenever I say thank you or tell her to sit down, she´s surprised, and asks what my mother does all day. I explained to her that en Los Estados Unidos, my mom is oppressed enough just existing, and wouldn´t wake up at 5 am unless you paid her.

Esther stares at me like I have two heads. In fact, it´s quite similar to the way I stare at her when she says she cleans the house every day. Seriously, you could eat off their bathroom floor (believe me, I´ve tried)-- and they even have a giant dog that doesn´t leave a hair to show for itself.

I wish I could be a Spanish wifey one day, but the legacy of slavery makes it so that I will never be able to cook or clean for another person without feeling resentful. I just hope my husband will be able to understand and won´t get testy when I make him wear a French maid uniform.