Good morning gentle readers! The sun is shining today, January 8, 2009, the birthday of Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and I'm up with the dawn...at 10 am.
My foot's still delicate, and I woke up to make a follow-up appointment with yet another doctor. I'm in for tomorrow at 10:45 am, so wish me luck, guys. Here's to hope, change, and not becoming an amputee in 2009!
I'm feeling optimistic, though--but that could be due to the youtube clip my homegirl just sent me a link to.
Now, I'm not a Gossip Girl fan, as it brings back too many memories of my days at en elite Manhattan private school and the damage done to me emotionally, but I do love musical comedy and when genres are done spot-on by an unlikely duo ('Flights of the Conchords,' anyone?)
Check out this Gossip Girl rap done by Southern Mothers featuring Matt Pearson (A John Legend-like character). My favorite line includes a shout-out to my alma mater--I think you can guess what it is. The images of the Upper East Side bring me back, but luckily, being on the other side of the world, I am able to truly distance myself.
HILARITY!!!!
Now, back to baby Zahara!
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Playing Footy
I went back to the doctor last night, seeing as my foot was still bleeding, which I knew couldn't be a good sign 4 days later. The doctor was different from the first one I'd seen. He was a Santa-like figure whose jolly beard and portly middle instantly put me at ease. Well, put me at ease until he told me my foot was INFECTED and the wound wasn't at all closed.
So, yeah, apparently there will be no walking in 2009. I'm supposed to really stay off of it if I want it to close up, especially cause it's in the most awkward place ever--right where the foot bends. This means that when I walk into my 2pm interview with a temp agency today, I'll have to find a clever way to explain why I'm dragging my foot much in the manner of Quasimodo. I may even suck it up and force myself to walk normally, since, you know, no one hires the disabled.
I'm way over the Swede, seeing as nothing good can come of stressing over someone who clearly doesn't appreciate the goodness that is the blacktress. Unfortunately, this means he'll have to be deleted from Facebook, because reminders of my transgression--and his rejection--aren't what I need when I'm trying to write witty wall posts consisting of inside jokes about things that happened hours earlier.
I think what I most need to shake off is feeling so lonely. I wish I had someone who could come over and hang out, just chat with me while I'm sitting around. Or I wish I was on the same time zone as my friends so that we could g-chat all day long and I'd maybe forget that I'm on the road to becoming a goddamn amputee. For some reason, since the incident, I've become addicted to the TV show "How I Met Your Mother," and it's the only highlight of my day. I think it's mostly because, after watching most of my Buffy DVDs, I need more Alyson Hannigan in my life and just try and pretend she's still a lesbian witch.
I just feel like I am spending my time in this city just wasting money on rent for a place that isn't so great and not doing much else. I feel like James Caan in Misery, and the city of Sydney is like Kathy Bates, torturing me into staying with her even though I must get out to see my daughter. I'm trying to save for trips, then I have to run to the medical centre every ten seconds and pay out of pocket cause, you know, "I'm not a citizen," or whatever the surly lady is trying to explain to me through my grumbling as I look for my credit card.
Okay, guys, this can't be my life. I've got to get it together in 2009. Maybe I should use this immobilization period to write a major novel, or a screenplay.
Or maybe I should just chat with every single person on OasisActive.com until I get one of them to wire me all the money in their bank account as part of a sham marriage (I'll say I'm a Nigerian prince, of course).
So, yeah, apparently there will be no walking in 2009. I'm supposed to really stay off of it if I want it to close up, especially cause it's in the most awkward place ever--right where the foot bends. This means that when I walk into my 2pm interview with a temp agency today, I'll have to find a clever way to explain why I'm dragging my foot much in the manner of Quasimodo. I may even suck it up and force myself to walk normally, since, you know, no one hires the disabled.
I'm way over the Swede, seeing as nothing good can come of stressing over someone who clearly doesn't appreciate the goodness that is the blacktress. Unfortunately, this means he'll have to be deleted from Facebook, because reminders of my transgression--and his rejection--aren't what I need when I'm trying to write witty wall posts consisting of inside jokes about things that happened hours earlier.
I think what I most need to shake off is feeling so lonely. I wish I had someone who could come over and hang out, just chat with me while I'm sitting around. Or I wish I was on the same time zone as my friends so that we could g-chat all day long and I'd maybe forget that I'm on the road to becoming a goddamn amputee. For some reason, since the incident, I've become addicted to the TV show "How I Met Your Mother," and it's the only highlight of my day. I think it's mostly because, after watching most of my Buffy DVDs, I need more Alyson Hannigan in my life and just try and pretend she's still a lesbian witch.
I just feel like I am spending my time in this city just wasting money on rent for a place that isn't so great and not doing much else. I feel like James Caan in Misery, and the city of Sydney is like Kathy Bates, torturing me into staying with her even though I must get out to see my daughter. I'm trying to save for trips, then I have to run to the medical centre every ten seconds and pay out of pocket cause, you know, "I'm not a citizen," or whatever the surly lady is trying to explain to me through my grumbling as I look for my credit card.
Okay, guys, this can't be my life. I've got to get it together in 2009. Maybe I should use this immobilization period to write a major novel, or a screenplay.
Or maybe I should just chat with every single person on OasisActive.com until I get one of them to wire me all the money in their bank account as part of a sham marriage (I'll say I'm a Nigerian prince, of course).
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Back In the Saddle/ Dickheads
Blacktress' Log, Star Date 5 January 2009.
Went in to work tonight--had a 6pm- 2am shift. I was walking around with my pimp limp, doing my darndest to serve customers. Luckily, Sunday is relatively quiet, but it was still more than I could handle with my rough foot.
We also had a new girl on a trial shift--a really perky 19-year-old Canadian girl whose optimism and energy offended me in every way. I didn't let it show, though, seeing as since I was last in, we'd lost 5 employees (which puts a monkey wrench into my plan of quitting). Three girls went traveling, one guy quit for visa reasons, and one girl was fired after she left a bag of weed in the handicapped bathroom.
Clearly, we need all the help we can get.
For some reason I keep thinking of the wise words of the nurse who applied my dressing at the medical centre on New Year's day. Perhaps it's the bloody wound that keeps her still so fresh in my mind. Perhaps it's merely the ring of TRUTH that speaks to Sojourner.
Referring to the ambulance that treated me on New Year's Eve, she said:
"Oh, the ambos are great. God bless 'em. And I bet people were being real dickheads, weren't they?"
I said yes, recounting the tale of the drunkards who decided to hop on the back of the ambulance as it attempted to get through the crowd.
"Oh, dickheads," she shouted, as though they were in the room with us. "I just hate dickheads. People come in here and I say to them, 'Are you gonna be a dickhead, or are you gonna be nice? If you're gonna be a dickhead, get out. And you know what they say? 'I'll be nice.'"
We share a laugh, and I wonder what I can do to make sure I can be her when I grow up.
I mean, who does like dickheads (or, as I'm currently calling them, Swedish men)? I can't say she's really taking a renegade stance on that one. What I do admire is the fact that she calls people out and tells them to handle their scandal or to get the hell out of her medical centre. I think I need to adopt this kind of attitude, even if I'm not a surly elderly British woman with a surprisingly soft touch. I may have to start yelling at customers who come in the bar, making sure they're not dickheads before I serve them. And I may have to ask dudes if they're dickheads before...um...serving them--if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
I came home and attempted to wash away the grit and grime of a long hard day of bartending, but it was difficult with one foot hanging out of the shower wrapped in a plastic bag. As I dressed and dried I saw that my foot was bleeding again--this is 4 days later, guys! WTF? I think I'm really going to have to stay off it if I want it to get better. Or, even worse, may have to go back to the medical centre--which my wallet won't really appreciate.
But first, I sleep. it's now 4:09am, and once the birds start chirping, it's hard to nod off.
Went in to work tonight--had a 6pm- 2am shift. I was walking around with my pimp limp, doing my darndest to serve customers. Luckily, Sunday is relatively quiet, but it was still more than I could handle with my rough foot.
We also had a new girl on a trial shift--a really perky 19-year-old Canadian girl whose optimism and energy offended me in every way. I didn't let it show, though, seeing as since I was last in, we'd lost 5 employees (which puts a monkey wrench into my plan of quitting). Three girls went traveling, one guy quit for visa reasons, and one girl was fired after she left a bag of weed in the handicapped bathroom.
Clearly, we need all the help we can get.
For some reason I keep thinking of the wise words of the nurse who applied my dressing at the medical centre on New Year's day. Perhaps it's the bloody wound that keeps her still so fresh in my mind. Perhaps it's merely the ring of TRUTH that speaks to Sojourner.
Referring to the ambulance that treated me on New Year's Eve, she said:
"Oh, the ambos are great. God bless 'em. And I bet people were being real dickheads, weren't they?"
I said yes, recounting the tale of the drunkards who decided to hop on the back of the ambulance as it attempted to get through the crowd.
"Oh, dickheads," she shouted, as though they were in the room with us. "I just hate dickheads. People come in here and I say to them, 'Are you gonna be a dickhead, or are you gonna be nice? If you're gonna be a dickhead, get out. And you know what they say? 'I'll be nice.'"
We share a laugh, and I wonder what I can do to make sure I can be her when I grow up.
I mean, who does like dickheads (or, as I'm currently calling them, Swedish men)? I can't say she's really taking a renegade stance on that one. What I do admire is the fact that she calls people out and tells them to handle their scandal or to get the hell out of her medical centre. I think I need to adopt this kind of attitude, even if I'm not a surly elderly British woman with a surprisingly soft touch. I may have to start yelling at customers who come in the bar, making sure they're not dickheads before I serve them. And I may have to ask dudes if they're dickheads before...um...serving them--if you know what I mean (and I think you do).
I came home and attempted to wash away the grit and grime of a long hard day of bartending, but it was difficult with one foot hanging out of the shower wrapped in a plastic bag. As I dressed and dried I saw that my foot was bleeding again--this is 4 days later, guys! WTF? I think I'm really going to have to stay off it if I want it to get better. Or, even worse, may have to go back to the medical centre--which my wallet won't really appreciate.
But first, I sleep. it's now 4:09am, and once the birds start chirping, it's hard to nod off.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
2009: The Year of the Hot Ass Mess?
I don't know if this is going to be my year, gang. I currently write this post in bed with my right foot elevated and in serious pain. I am also fighting the urge to obsessively check the facebook status of a certain Swedish zoo-friend because, you know, that would be stalkerish.
This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.
Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.
We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.
Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.
At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.
So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.
Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.
He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."
Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!
Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.
We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.
With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.
Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....
There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.
So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?
The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.
After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.
I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.
At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.
So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.
Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)
So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.
Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.
This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.
Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.
We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.
Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.
At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.
So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.
Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.
He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."
Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!
Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.
We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.
With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.
Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....
There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.
So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?
The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.
After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.
I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.
At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.
So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.
Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)
So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.
Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Zoo for Two
(my titles are getting so bad, I know.)
Blacktress' Log, Star Date Monday, 29 December 2008.
Today I went to Taronga Zoo with a Swedish lawyer I met last night while at work. Talk about randomness!!
So, I went into my Sunday night shift determined to have energy (and buoyed by the fact that we close at 1am on Sundays), and got off to a decent start. I started at 6pm, and actually prefer the bar when it's relatively quiet and people come in to order food, have a beer, and just sit around. It's alot easier to get along with folks when you don't have to shout over music and they aren't working their ESL skills while blind drunk. It's at these hours that I can be my best, chatting up customers, making them laugh, and making transient vagabond friendships.
Two older Australian guys came in around 6:30, and I instantly made a joke about them being on the prowl, which they appreciated. Then, a third guy came and joined them, and we all got to talking--where are you from, how long are you here, the usual. The third dude was visiting from Sweden, so I instantly mentioned my Swedish friend/inspiration to earn some street cred. They went off to play pool, and I started chatting with others. I got a break (finally!) and as I tried to eat*, they pounced on me, mocking my large flavourless meal. Out of nowhere, Swedish guy sits next to me.
"So, what are you up to this week?" He says, as though we're old mates.
"I'm off tomorrow, so I think I'm going to go to the zoo." I mean, he wanted to know, so I told him.
"Oh, I'd love to do that," he said. "What time are you going to go?"
Next thing you know, we've traded numbers and we've got a 1:30 E.T.A.
Um, okay. This is what moving to a foreign land is all about. Meeting randos for zoo trips and just going where the day takes you.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bar, there's Shane, another customer who I'd met the week before when I was off the clock. I was talking to him while my homegirl chatted up his hot friend, simply doing my sacred wingwoman duty--which was completely selfless seeing as Shane is about five feet two inches tall.
Now, those of you who know me know that what I'm looking for is a TALL glass of milk--not a shot glass! He also had scary eyes that made me uncomfortable, so you can imagine my surprise when he took my phone (it was out cause I was checking a text) and put his number in it. I'm telling you, male confidence never ceases to amaze me. Of course, I deleted his number post haste. When he came in last night and stood on his tip-toes at the bar (I kid you not, tippy tip toes!) he asked me "where I've been."
Um, what's with randoms coming to my place of employment and questioning my whereabouts?? These blokes need to slow their roll!
Just when it couldn't get any better, this 21 year old who came in Saturday night clearly mistook my awesome bartending/social skills as a sign of interest. He was really nice and funny and he was my favorite customer--primarily because he ordered simple drinks and boxed annoying dudes out of my area. And because I'm bored and living life on the edge (and because I have a pay-as-you-go phone that can be ditched at any second) I gave him my number thinking he'd be too drunk to call, or that we could just do a friend thing.
Oh, how wrong I was. I'd ignored his text the night before (which said, "so when are we going on our date?"), and he came into the bar AGAIN on Sunday and sat right in my section with his friend. I asked him how old he was, and I burst out laughing when he told me. (For some reason, me being 47 didn't phase him.)
As the night gets busier, he comes up to the bar and says, "What's the best restaurant you've been to in Sydney?"
"Oh, Chat Thai would have to be it. Tiny place, great food, always packed."
"Ok, I'm going to take you there on our date."
Oh good lord. I'm such an accidental cougar.
Anyway, back to the Easy Swede (which, ironically enough, is a signature cocktail we make at the bar. I couldn't tell you what's in it, though--I always sort of make it up or read the menu when someone asks).
We meet up at Circular Quay at 1:30 today, both hungover. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine during staff drinks after work, and have been paying the price all day. We stopped to get a quick bite to eat, then took the ferry to the zoo. The Swede is 29 years old, has been practicing law less than a year, and has been to Sydney several times because he has family here. He's very buff, sort of like a Lego man, and also worked as a prison guard.
Yes, I went to the zoo with a Swedish former prison guard. LOVE IT!
The conversation went pretty easily. Swede was quite unimpressed with the zoo because most of the animals were in hiding or inert--although, to be fair, as we rode the Sky Safari up to the top of the zoo, we did see that one of the elephants had a massive boner, so I'd say we scored.
Early on, during the "Australian Walkabout" exhibit where you can take great photos of kangaroos, we came to a startling conclusion. The barrier in the exhibit is about 3 inches high, and yet the kangaroos didn't move. It's like they had no will to live or desire to escape. Clearly, these animals are being given sedatives to keep them complacent and zoo-friendly. I mean, look at him:
I am, like, totes in this kangaroo's George Foreman (grill) and it's not even batting an eyelash.
The only animal with the good sense to try and be free was this lizard we saw as we were being kicked out about 10 minutes after closing time:
For serious. This lizard was just on the pavement, heading toward the ice cream truck. I figured he was going to climb in and try to get a ride off the island. I think I saw its cousin in the reptile room only 10 minutes before.
After a couple of hours at the zoo we grabbed some dinner and chatted. He told me about this famous case he worked on back home, in which a woman killed the children of her ex-bf's current lady. Of course, being the weirdo that I am, I was fascinated by the case and kept making comparisons to CSI, which he didn't appreciate. He apparently grew up in the "mean streets" of Sweden, and is very comfortable "with all sorts of people," having many Iranian, Arabic, and African friends. He's even dated a black girl, so you know he was clearly feeling the blacktress. At first, I thought we were just being friendly, but we he said I could "google him" instead of "googling myself," I knew there were some sex in the subtext.
All in all, it was a decent day. I'm glad I fought the urge to stay inside and watch tv, and I may have even gotten New Year's Eve plans out of this. Yay for doing things!
Oh, I should also add that, while looking at the red pandas, we met a lovely Caucasian family from Boston. How? Well, I hear a little girl whispering and the dad saying "ask her!" And I turn around.
"Excuse me, but we were wondering how you get your hair like that?"
Ah, another lesson in black hair care. I leaned down to the girl's level and took it slow, explaining that no, I didn't do it myself, and that it took 6 hours. I'm glad I caught her early, to educate her on the black plight before she embarrassed herself at a liberal arts university.
*Note to self: never order vegetarian lasagna at a backpacker bar. It does all sorts of bad things to you.
Blacktress' Log, Star Date Monday, 29 December 2008.
Today I went to Taronga Zoo with a Swedish lawyer I met last night while at work. Talk about randomness!!
So, I went into my Sunday night shift determined to have energy (and buoyed by the fact that we close at 1am on Sundays), and got off to a decent start. I started at 6pm, and actually prefer the bar when it's relatively quiet and people come in to order food, have a beer, and just sit around. It's alot easier to get along with folks when you don't have to shout over music and they aren't working their ESL skills while blind drunk. It's at these hours that I can be my best, chatting up customers, making them laugh, and making transient vagabond friendships.
Two older Australian guys came in around 6:30, and I instantly made a joke about them being on the prowl, which they appreciated. Then, a third guy came and joined them, and we all got to talking--where are you from, how long are you here, the usual. The third dude was visiting from Sweden, so I instantly mentioned my Swedish friend/inspiration to earn some street cred. They went off to play pool, and I started chatting with others. I got a break (finally!) and as I tried to eat*, they pounced on me, mocking my large flavourless meal. Out of nowhere, Swedish guy sits next to me.
"So, what are you up to this week?" He says, as though we're old mates.
"I'm off tomorrow, so I think I'm going to go to the zoo." I mean, he wanted to know, so I told him.
"Oh, I'd love to do that," he said. "What time are you going to go?"
Next thing you know, we've traded numbers and we've got a 1:30 E.T.A.
Um, okay. This is what moving to a foreign land is all about. Meeting randos for zoo trips and just going where the day takes you.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bar, there's Shane, another customer who I'd met the week before when I was off the clock. I was talking to him while my homegirl chatted up his hot friend, simply doing my sacred wingwoman duty--which was completely selfless seeing as Shane is about five feet two inches tall.
Now, those of you who know me know that what I'm looking for is a TALL glass of milk--not a shot glass! He also had scary eyes that made me uncomfortable, so you can imagine my surprise when he took my phone (it was out cause I was checking a text) and put his number in it. I'm telling you, male confidence never ceases to amaze me. Of course, I deleted his number post haste. When he came in last night and stood on his tip-toes at the bar (I kid you not, tippy tip toes!) he asked me "where I've been."
Um, what's with randoms coming to my place of employment and questioning my whereabouts?? These blokes need to slow their roll!
Just when it couldn't get any better, this 21 year old who came in Saturday night clearly mistook my awesome bartending/social skills as a sign of interest. He was really nice and funny and he was my favorite customer--primarily because he ordered simple drinks and boxed annoying dudes out of my area. And because I'm bored and living life on the edge (and because I have a pay-as-you-go phone that can be ditched at any second) I gave him my number thinking he'd be too drunk to call, or that we could just do a friend thing.
Oh, how wrong I was. I'd ignored his text the night before (which said, "so when are we going on our date?"), and he came into the bar AGAIN on Sunday and sat right in my section with his friend. I asked him how old he was, and I burst out laughing when he told me. (For some reason, me being 47 didn't phase him.)
As the night gets busier, he comes up to the bar and says, "What's the best restaurant you've been to in Sydney?"
"Oh, Chat Thai would have to be it. Tiny place, great food, always packed."
"Ok, I'm going to take you there on our date."
Oh good lord. I'm such an accidental cougar.
Anyway, back to the Easy Swede (which, ironically enough, is a signature cocktail we make at the bar. I couldn't tell you what's in it, though--I always sort of make it up or read the menu when someone asks).
We meet up at Circular Quay at 1:30 today, both hungover. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine during staff drinks after work, and have been paying the price all day. We stopped to get a quick bite to eat, then took the ferry to the zoo. The Swede is 29 years old, has been practicing law less than a year, and has been to Sydney several times because he has family here. He's very buff, sort of like a Lego man, and also worked as a prison guard.
Yes, I went to the zoo with a Swedish former prison guard. LOVE IT!
The conversation went pretty easily. Swede was quite unimpressed with the zoo because most of the animals were in hiding or inert--although, to be fair, as we rode the Sky Safari up to the top of the zoo, we did see that one of the elephants had a massive boner, so I'd say we scored.
Early on, during the "Australian Walkabout" exhibit where you can take great photos of kangaroos, we came to a startling conclusion. The barrier in the exhibit is about 3 inches high, and yet the kangaroos didn't move. It's like they had no will to live or desire to escape. Clearly, these animals are being given sedatives to keep them complacent and zoo-friendly. I mean, look at him:
I am, like, totes in this kangaroo's George Foreman (grill) and it's not even batting an eyelash.The only animal with the good sense to try and be free was this lizard we saw as we were being kicked out about 10 minutes after closing time:
For serious. This lizard was just on the pavement, heading toward the ice cream truck. I figured he was going to climb in and try to get a ride off the island. I think I saw its cousin in the reptile room only 10 minutes before.After a couple of hours at the zoo we grabbed some dinner and chatted. He told me about this famous case he worked on back home, in which a woman killed the children of her ex-bf's current lady. Of course, being the weirdo that I am, I was fascinated by the case and kept making comparisons to CSI, which he didn't appreciate. He apparently grew up in the "mean streets" of Sweden, and is very comfortable "with all sorts of people," having many Iranian, Arabic, and African friends. He's even dated a black girl, so you know he was clearly feeling the blacktress. At first, I thought we were just being friendly, but we he said I could "google him" instead of "googling myself," I knew there were some sex in the subtext.
All in all, it was a decent day. I'm glad I fought the urge to stay inside and watch tv, and I may have even gotten New Year's Eve plans out of this. Yay for doing things!
Oh, I should also add that, while looking at the red pandas, we met a lovely Caucasian family from Boston. How? Well, I hear a little girl whispering and the dad saying "ask her!" And I turn around.
"Excuse me, but we were wondering how you get your hair like that?"
Ah, another lesson in black hair care. I leaned down to the girl's level and took it slow, explaining that no, I didn't do it myself, and that it took 6 hours. I'm glad I caught her early, to educate her on the black plight before she embarrassed herself at a liberal arts university.
*Note to self: never order vegetarian lasagna at a backpacker bar. It does all sorts of bad things to you.
C'mon Ride the Train
Yeah, so just wanted to put this up in case you didn't believe me. JAGER TRAIN!!!!!
Saturday, December 27, 2008
I May Be A Quitter, But At Least I Don't Litter*
I have to quit my job.
For serious.
This place is just a bizarro world in which I'm the town crazy, only I'm the one walking around thinking logic and spouting talk that makes sense.
My first inkling that this was getting to be too much was when I started my shift at 8pm on Tuesday to find the place packed. I was shocked; the drunkards don't arrive until 10pm at the earliest. I then followed the crowds gaze and discovered that there was a bikini contest going on. Ladies from all over the world paraded around in their finest beachwear as the crowd clapped and hollered.
The announcer introduced each girl as she walked across, praising her virtue.
"Sarah is from England, she likes vodka-lemonade and Italian men!!!!" At which point Italian men would whistle and English guys would boo.
After the contest, I noticed a few of my female coworkers were wearing bathing suits under their work shirts. Apparently, they had participated in this contest. Ah, to be 18, pierced, and full of confidence.
My next tip-off was on Christmas Eve, where I worked 6pm-3am, and the night started off with a "Jager Train." For only $6 (down from the $9 normal price) patrons could buy a shot on the jager train, which was set up all along the bar. The goal was to break the Australian record for longest Jager train. Instead, it just meant that people got drunk and annoying way earlier than usual.
I've also been sick like whoa recently--probably because I sleep odd hours and eat way too much fast food at 4am. My body is rejecting this lifestyle and telling me to sit my ass down. I even had to leave my 10pm shift on Friday after only 2 hours, because I could not breathe and the bad house music was making my head pulse even more.
Last night (Saturday) I worked 7pm - 3:30am, without a single break. What's curious about this is that the cute blonde girls always get breaks, and sometimes get to even skip out on clean-up if they start work before 8. One of the girls, who started an hour after me, was told to go out for a cigarette break and no one even told me we were shutting down my side of the bar. Um, I think I'm being oppressed, and I'm hella pissed. I'm gonna have to bring this up with Obama, cause these white folks are straight trippin'! This shit's reminding me of plantation days.
And if those aggregious crimes against the blacktress weren't enough, the DJ last night played terrible music, the worst of which was a.... dance remix of Tracy Chapman's 'Fast Car'. I kid you not. It was horrible, and I think Tracy, if she were dead, would have rolled over in her grave. In fact, I bet she had nightmares last night which caused her to roll over in bed.
And this song was played TWICE--along with a dance version of 'Wonderwall' by Oasis.
Clearly this is not my element. I did not come down under to spend most of my waking hours reeking of beer, insecurity, and work visas. I can't even do a weekend getaway, and the city is hella wack (um, don't know why I went late-90s-California on you, sorry), and I'm in desperate need of an escape. With an ever-changing schedule, even taking a class is out of the question.
And remember mom's old saying: when you start taking shots of whiskey to get through your day at the office, you know it's time to get the hell out.
TRUTH.
*trying to find the silver lining here, and figured rhyme was the way to go.
For serious.
This place is just a bizarro world in which I'm the town crazy, only I'm the one walking around thinking logic and spouting talk that makes sense.
My first inkling that this was getting to be too much was when I started my shift at 8pm on Tuesday to find the place packed. I was shocked; the drunkards don't arrive until 10pm at the earliest. I then followed the crowds gaze and discovered that there was a bikini contest going on. Ladies from all over the world paraded around in their finest beachwear as the crowd clapped and hollered.
The announcer introduced each girl as she walked across, praising her virtue.
"Sarah is from England, she likes vodka-lemonade and Italian men!!!!" At which point Italian men would whistle and English guys would boo.
After the contest, I noticed a few of my female coworkers were wearing bathing suits under their work shirts. Apparently, they had participated in this contest. Ah, to be 18, pierced, and full of confidence.
My next tip-off was on Christmas Eve, where I worked 6pm-3am, and the night started off with a "Jager Train." For only $6 (down from the $9 normal price) patrons could buy a shot on the jager train, which was set up all along the bar. The goal was to break the Australian record for longest Jager train. Instead, it just meant that people got drunk and annoying way earlier than usual.
I've also been sick like whoa recently--probably because I sleep odd hours and eat way too much fast food at 4am. My body is rejecting this lifestyle and telling me to sit my ass down. I even had to leave my 10pm shift on Friday after only 2 hours, because I could not breathe and the bad house music was making my head pulse even more.
Last night (Saturday) I worked 7pm - 3:30am, without a single break. What's curious about this is that the cute blonde girls always get breaks, and sometimes get to even skip out on clean-up if they start work before 8. One of the girls, who started an hour after me, was told to go out for a cigarette break and no one even told me we were shutting down my side of the bar. Um, I think I'm being oppressed, and I'm hella pissed. I'm gonna have to bring this up with Obama, cause these white folks are straight trippin'! This shit's reminding me of plantation days.
And if those aggregious crimes against the blacktress weren't enough, the DJ last night played terrible music, the worst of which was a.... dance remix of Tracy Chapman's 'Fast Car'. I kid you not. It was horrible, and I think Tracy, if she were dead, would have rolled over in her grave. In fact, I bet she had nightmares last night which caused her to roll over in bed.
And this song was played TWICE--along with a dance version of 'Wonderwall' by Oasis.
Clearly this is not my element. I did not come down under to spend most of my waking hours reeking of beer, insecurity, and work visas. I can't even do a weekend getaway, and the city is hella wack (um, don't know why I went late-90s-California on you, sorry), and I'm in desperate need of an escape. With an ever-changing schedule, even taking a class is out of the question.
And remember mom's old saying: when you start taking shots of whiskey to get through your day at the office, you know it's time to get the hell out.
TRUTH.
*trying to find the silver lining here, and figured rhyme was the way to go.
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