Nothing's Right, I'm SCORNED

Um, guys, I can't stop making e-cards. If you missed the first 4 in the series, scroll down to the post titled "OURecards.com."

My name is Sojourner, and I am a Photoshop addict.

Or, to quote the great poet Natalie Imbruglia,
nothing's right, i'm scorned...
i'm all out of faith
this is how i DEAL
i'm sitting here at work
and I'm blogging about pain....


Here are the latest e-cards:








Wait, is this one too personal????

OURecards.com

For those of you who follow the blacktress blog religiously, you already know from previous posts that I’m really into the website someecards.com. They have an ecard for almost every occasion, from April Fool’s Day to Black History Month, and for any situation. And I love their tag line: for when you care enough to hit send. SOO TRUE!

I’ve taken to sending them to friends for any and no reason, just to share the laughter and the joy. They’ve reciprocated, creating a lovely chain of goodness. But today, when discussing the e-card possibilities with Katie Walsh, we realized someecards.com was missing a very important category: “rejection.” While they have a category devoted to break ups, they’ve left out the all important moment when you really need to send an ecard. That is, after you’ve only gone on a few dates or had a one-night stand with someone who then acts like you don’t exist. How do you handle this rage? How can you get back at your oppressor electronically?

Well, Katie and I put our heads together and came up with our very own set of ecards: ScornedWomanEcards (we're hoping to get it as a .org, or maybe even .gov--perhaps sponsored by Michelle Obama???). Until we get our website up and running, you can save the images below and send them to the foes and hos that have done you wrong. I think the cards will say far more than your heart ever could.

Mondays With Artists

As you know, I work for a major publication. This comes with many risks, such as: people assuming you know about art, geriatrics seeking your support for their cockamamie schemes (hello, plasticize board, anyone?!), crazy artists thinking you have some sort of control over their failing careers and marriages.

Oftentimes, this madness comes in the form of telephone calls, and in the last few months I’ve become like Naomi Watts in The Ring: when my phone rings at the office, I freeze in terror and refuse to answer it. When coworkers ask if I’m “gonna get that,” I tell them I know who’s calling and I can take it later—even when I don’t.

Recently, I’ve been contacted via postcard by an unidentified artist. The first postcard arrived at the end of BHM, and was this (click on image to enlarge):

Can you read that? It says "I draw sock monkeys"

What does this mean?! What is a sock monkey? Is it made with socks? Am I looking at a picture of a puppet, a painting, or some sort of mixed media piece?

Not only is the image frightening and unappealing, the one-word sentence (is it even a sentence if there’s no punctuation mark?) is almost menacing, with its tiny handwriting and lack of a signature.

I kept this postcard because it was hilarious—obvi—and felt no guilt, seeing as the artist left no way of being contacted and did not connect his/her/hir’s name to it. I thought nothing of it, but occasionally laughed at the idea of a sock monkey during moments of procrastination.

Then, three weeks later, another one arrived.



This time the sock monkey was dark brown—is this a racial thing? What was this artist trying to say? I flipped it over, hoping for a clue.

Again, with the sentence fragment! I began to get frightened. With no return address, and only a San Francisco postmark, I had to wonder: was this a San Francisco Treat…or Trick?????

I kept this one, too, hoping to piece together clues like Columbo when the time was right. Then, a week later (today), this arrived:


Oh. MY. GOD. There’s more. There’s an “and.” But what, gentle reader, is a “sock monkey fertility cult figure”? Why does this person keep sending me this information without any name or address attached???? This is clearly a cry for attention and/or help, yet they do not actually want to be located.

My fear is mounting.

You can’t see it here, but if you look very closely at this last postcard, there is writing around one of the images. I can’t make out all of it, but it begins with, “I prayed for you last night but you did not come true…”

Is this me? Is someone in love with me in San Francisco? Is my fertility at risk? Is this person saying that I’m no more than a damned dirty ape?

These artists are really starting to freak me out.

Celebrating a White Woman

Yes, I'm doing it.

29 years ago today, my office wife was squeezed out into this world. She grew up in the suburbs of New Jersey, where she cultivated a love of whole wheat and grains, physical activity, and positive thinking. She went on to work in advertising, and then magazine publishing.

And there she changed a blacktress' life.

As a woman of color and a writer, it is behoovy of me to express my appreciation in the written form, as I've done for so many others, from Harry Potter to Katie Walsh-- you know, the people who really matter. Below, I look back on the year that has been and celebrate the birth of Alli Mali.

From the very first day, you knew all the answers
Wielding your red pen like a sword, you showed me it's the deck that really matters.
From our first lunch time walk en plein air
I knew we'd be besties--especially when that bird pooped in your hair.
Halfway through the year we moved into veal pens
But, surprisingly, our tender office love did not end.
Now we lean back in our rolly chairs,
sharing our worries and cares
Then bitch and moan at Lemongrass on Fridays.
You have the youthful joy of someone a mere 18 years old,
yet you always know I have a date if I'm wearing my reflections in gold.
And when I'm a hot mess you don't judge me in any way.
I feel great joy when I hand you an article I think is DONE AND DONE.
Then I see your red marks and I know the learning has just begun.
You push me to be the best blacktress I can be--
But no matter what you say, I won't drink that damn algae.
You're so kind to everyone, the mail guys say you're hot.
Then there's that darn Sal, who's just waiting for you to give him a shot.
You're my nine-to-five soul sister, twenty-four seven, three-sixty-five
Except for those ten vacation days, and the fact that you're white.


Alli, remember that time you and I were working on an article (you know, every day) and you taught me new and exciting things? Well, I never told you, but you just treated me like such an equal, I actually felt white.

Goosebumps--Tales of TRUTH

me: i know you're busy, but i just found a NEW office gay

Kathleen: nice

me: i was in the kitchen, talking to katey about how i hate men

and i just looked over at this dude who was at the vending machine and was like, "WHY AM I SINGLE?"

and turns out he's gayer than a christmas goose!

he goes, "all my girl friends ask me that. you need to leave new york and find a man somewhere else, club him over the head, and drag him back here."

Kathleen: haha

nice

so true as well

how is a christmas goose gay??

me: katie

that's not the point.


What is the point is that this man--a total stranger just in need of a can of Schweppes--knew the problem. He went on to say, "The thing is, to make it in this city, you have to be sort of an egomaniac [TRUTH], and it's hard for an egomaniac to be in a relationship with another person. And then, being a strong woman, it's even harder."

I mean, does he get me or what?
God bless a gay Christmas goose.

This is what I would cook for my boyfriend every night, if he ever decided to love me. Notice the two glasses of red wine.

The Last Unicorn

Ladies, Gentlemen, Friends, Foes, and Hos:

Today is a sad day. Another one bites the dust.

It is currently day 5 of “OPERATION: Why won’t he call me? WHY?! WHY?!” and still no word. Not one to roll over and play dead (I did free myself from the shackles of slavery, didn’t I?) I even called the wandering minstrel last night, just to put out there—this body ain’t getting any younger, people!!!

As of now, I have received no return call.

This, coming from a man who said I was “Excrutiatingly attractive”—when ‘excrutiatingly’ isn’t even a word! I mean, when you’re altering the dictionary to find the right compliment, it has to be for real, right?

This, coming from a man who had a moment in the Nubian sunshine, and came all the way to Harlem to attend a gathering hosted by Sojo when he didn’t know a single soul in attendance.

This, from a fellow who cleaned the red wine I spilled all over the couch and still wanted to make out with me.

I am seriously lost and delirious.

Let me tell you some things I like about my crush:

He is a 6-foot 3-inch tall glass of milk—Sojourner's not getting osteoporosis on his watch!

He has curly hair—it's like white people's version of nappiness!

He plays magic cards—which clearly means he is smart, has an nerdy past, and won't be scared off by my Harry Potter fetish.

And, most importantly:

He was recently on The Tyra Banks Show.

Um, need a say more???

Ok, I will!!!!!!!!!

A tall hot nerd who doesn’t know he’s hot is an urban legend—like razor-blades in apples, and getting AIDS from a toilet seat—only he’s more fun than those. A hot nerd who wants a blacktress is simply magical—the male equivalent of a unicorn. Like an audience member at his Las Vegas run of Cirque du Soleil, I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I dazzled him in my freakum dress and my gays said my “tats looked great.” Our interactions were effortless, and it felt like I’d known him way more than a hot minute. I thought I could finally stop kissing frogs and end up with a prince.

Apparently, that’s not in the (magic) cards for a blacktress.

My beeper has not beeped and my phone has not phoned, and I feel like an ugly normal person who no one wants to spend time with—not even Jesus (and he’s everyone’s homeboy).

Possible Reasons He No Longer Has Love for the Blacktress:
1. He’s gotten with that tramp Felicia from the Tyra Show.
2. Hotter women have come out of the woodwork ever since Tyra called him sexy.
3. He’s going on tour with a wandering minstrel show.
4. He’s been stop-lossed and is going back into the trenches, like Ryan Phillippe
5. He’s racist.
6. He’s lazy and crazy.
7. My vagina dentata scared him away (JK (rowling)!!! I don’t have TEETH)
8. Perhaps it’s because I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him til EL CINCO DE MAYO (Mexican Independence Day)?
9. Because I asked him to teach me to play magic cards because I wanted to “know his world.” (which I personally think is endearing as shit, and should have made him swoon with delight)

So, today, we self-soothe with episodes of "The Office" online. We shed a tear for the pretty, tall, mixie babies that would have been. We light a candle for the mocha acting troupe we would have undoubtedly started. We pour 1/5 of gin on the ground for our dead minstrel, and just praise White Jesus that he didn’t put his p in my v without a c.

The Emperor Club’s New Groove

Okay, so as you all know by now, former NY governor Eliot Spitzer resigned after he was discovered to be part of a prostitution ring known as the Emperor’s Club VIP. A high-priced international call-girl ring that serviced wealthy men in major cities around the globe, The Emperor’s Club’s clients paid upwards of $3,000 per hour for a moment of magic with some classy broads. They say on their website (which has been taken down):

We specialize in introductions of: fashion models, pageant winners, and exquisite students, graduates and women of successful careers (finance, art, media, etc…) to gentlemen of exceptional standards.

Women are rated on a diamond scale (cause, really, who doesn’t love bling?) of three to seven, with their rating directly proportional to a price of an evening or hour with them. A three-diamond ho costs $10,000 per day; a four-diamond ho costs $12,000; a five-diamond trick costs $15,000; a six-diamond tramp costs $21,000; and a seven-diamond lady of the night will set you back $31,000.

Um, let’s take a look at the chick Spitzer was caught with:

How many diamonds do you think this homegirl’s worth?

Here’s a screen capture of some of the ladies of the Emperor’s Club:

Notice that none of them are darker than a paper bag—at least, not without the help of a tanning bed.

Clearly, this is where Sojo comes in.

I’ve been inspired by the work of fellow blacktivist Scribe, who recently ended her Adopt-A-Darkie Campaign. Capitalizing on White celebrities’ preference for brown babies, she put herself up for adoption, even offering to wear a diaper and call Gwyneth Paltrow “mammy” if she helped eradicate her student loans.

This, to me, is genius. Some may call it “Selling Out” or acting as a “brazen race traitor,” but I call it acting on the freakonomics of the day and letting a rich white person work for you.

So here I sit, in all my mocha brownness.

Emperor’s Club, I offer my services to you.

Looking at the screen capture above, it’s clear they are missing some key flavors of dark chocolate. The only black girl they feature—a “Caribbean Beauty”—is lighter than Halle Berry, and certainly won’t cure any of these wealthy men’s chocolate addictions.

(You won't piss of the Spitzers at Seder dinner with that light skin!)

And we all know they have them. In fact, there is nothing a powerful white male wants more than for a black woman to say he has a big penis and let him….colonize her dark CUNTtry, if you will.

How do I know?
You don’t want to know.

I think I’d be an excellent addition to the Emperor’s Club—especially if I’m getting a substantial cut of that $31,000 per day (oh yes, I’m a seven-diamond sister). This is also payable in euros and pounds, which means I’ll be doing some international travel—to lands where all the men are down with the brown.

Reasons I’d Be a Good Emperor’s Club Trick

1. I’m young and fertile, but I won’t get knocked up.
2. I’m discreet (um, you will not find Sojo on myspace, with her crotch out and about, bent over a Vespa)
3. I’m really dark-skinned. I mean, I Am. Black. You won’t have any doubt that you’re doing something taboo when I’m in your boudoir!!
4. I, too, was an “exquisite student” (HIGH HONORS from a prestigious New England private university, what what?!)—the epitome of high-class ladies that the Emperor’s Club takes in.
5. I don’t talk White, I talk right. I can be your arm candy at all your events, and I’ll be even more well-spoken and dazzling than your wife.
6. For the right tip, we can even play “Thomas Jefferson and the Slave Girl”….. let the hate mail begin….

Basically, what I’m trying to say is: if Spitzer had gotten down with a sister, he might still be governor today.