Y'all, I cannot even believe my delicate blacktress eyes. I had an interview this morning with a temp agency, which took about two hours. I explained my previous experiences to a sassy corporate Australian woman, then spent about 1.5 hours taking "computer skills tests," in Word, Excel, Powerpoint, and then for general typing speed and accuracy.
Things I learned:
I do NOT excel at Excel.
When I said I was "proficient in Powerpoint," turns out I wasn't lying.
I can type 80 words per minute! (no wonder my blog posts are so long)
I think I'm totally ready to be a 1960s style secretary, in the vein of Mad Men. I love a high-waisted skirt and am excellent at.....dictation.....(teehee)
Speaking of men who are mad (see how I reversed that?).....after my interview/testing, I turned back on my cell and was surprised to see a text. It was from a number I didn't recognize and said:
"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things? All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have om fun let me know. I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"
OH MY FUCKING GOD, I thought as I re-read this insanity for the second time, IT'S FROM KEBAB BOY.
For those of you just tuning in, here's a bit of a recap:
On the night of my birthday, I met a boy in a kebab shop.
We went out three times. He was dull as dishwater, and I wasn't interested.
I became proper vexed when he showed up at my place of employment uninvited and unannounced. Maturely and respectfully, I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore.
Much to my surprise he showed up at my bar two weeks later, allegedly with mates, and came over to my work area to "just to say hi."
Um, that's when I knew bitch was straight trippin'. Why would you roll up at a bar you'd never heard of until me, and then come right up in my area to say hi? We aren't besties. In fact, if memory serves, I cut your ass loose!
So, you can imagine the utter confusion, humour, and--I'll admit--dash of horror I felt when I saw the above text message.
WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME?! Why can't these Aussie blokes just accept that I'm not falling all over them? Maybe they think because I'm a solo traveler and foreign, my goal is to have sex with every man in the country, or that I'm so lonely, I'm not exactly discerning. THE Australian pulled the same foolishness when I decided I didn't want to see him again. What's so hard to grasp about a girl you barely know not wanting you all up her George Foreman (grill), or determining that you're not a good fit? Why aren't I allowed that choice?!
Let's do a little textual analysis:
"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things?
Um, this was said nearly a month ago. Are you still being kept up at night with thoughts of me? I mean, you didn't even get to touch a boob, so I don't get why you're obsessed. We also had nothing in common, so there was no soul connection you were missing out on.
All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have some fun let me know.
If you just wanted fun, why did you show up at my job, wait outside online for 10 minutes, and bother me while I was working to ask me to have lunch. That certainly can't be fun for you, and I know it wasn't fun for me.
Let's also note the passive-aggressive phrasing. It's like if someone asks you out and you decline and they say, "what, you don't like food?" Doing this reduces the invitation to its basic components, thereby making the person feel strange for not accepting.
Um, I DO want to have some fun. But you, to me, are not fun. A boring guy lacking in a sense of humour whose idea of fun is going for a run does not connect with me.
I don't run unless I'm being chased.
I don't do camping, because I don't want to go outside and pretend to be poor.
We aren't on the same page of the same book.
I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"
Don't reverse psychology me, Mister. No, you're not going to get a reply. I don't care how much cell phone plans cost here, I'm not having a lengthy discussion about why I do or do not want you via text message. And if you can't sac up and pick up the phone, then I'm not doing you the service of sending some abbreviation-filled text message that explains that your behavior implied intensity and that I didn't enjoy hanging out with you all that much. And, if you've noticed, I'm not missing you or asking to be your friend, so there's no need to clear anything up.
Oh, and as for that damn winking-face icon-- fuck you and your little dog, too. It's like when someone says something racist, and then writes "LOL." It's doesn't make it funny, and it doesn't make you cute.
Okay, I'm done. Am I totally crazy for being so annoyed?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Step by Step on the Road to Recovery
For all of you dying to know, here's the latest on my foot scandal:
Still in pain after 8 days, I went to see a third doctor on Friday. I'd gone to him about a month ago when I had sinus issues, and he knew how to handle an ear-nose-throat-related scandal, so I thought I'd hollar at a scholar once more.
I get there and show him my foot, explain the situation, and his first question is, "Has anyone done an x-ray or ultrasound to see if there's glass in your foot?"
"I KNOW!!!" I scream--way too much like Chandler from Friends. We have a good ol' laugh, and he reckons there's glass in my foot, which is why it's infected and not healing. He makes me an appointment for an ultrasound three hours later, then tells me to come back to him with the results about two hours after that.
So I'm hobbling around Sydney, trying to get it all together. It's a damn shame that it took an Asian Doogie Howser to get on the ball, and the two old doctors I went to before weren't even trying to help a blacktress out--just like a White man.....
Anyway, I'm lying down for the ultrasound while the guy puts sterile jelly over my wound (oh, and he totally didn't think it was funny when I said, "Um, I don't think I'm ready for this jelly"). He runs his magical ultrasound wand all around my foot and seems to look a bit confused, which is never any good. After a few minutes he gets up, and, attempting to sound casual, says, "I'm going to go get the radiologist."
Now you know it's not a good sign when the doctor's gotta get another doctor before he can tell you what's up. Clearly something's not looking good.
The radiologist, a spunky Asian woman, comes in and they start talking about me in low tones. I try to explain that I'm just American, not Deaf, but they don't really pay attention. I hear something about "tendons....snap....20%, no 40%" and wonder if I'm going to end up an amputee playing a didgeridoo at Circular Quay just to make ends meet. They finally address me and say that there's no glass in my foot (yay!), but that it's going to take a while for this wound to close (boo!).
I get up, head back home, and then return in 2 hours to pick up my results and take them to Asian Doogie. When I get there, he reads the results and explains that some of my tendons were cut, and the infection I can't seem to shake could be in the tendons.
Score one for the blacktress.
He then asks me to bend and flex my toes, and to both our surprise, I can't.
Can't move my damn toes, y'all.
WTF?!
And why was this not discovered sooner?!
So, I'm on another round of antibiotics, hoping the ability to move my toes returns, and making an appointment with a podiatrist on Monday.
So, in summation: still a hot mess, but now with answers, and if you want anything done right in this town, get an Asian.
Still in pain after 8 days, I went to see a third doctor on Friday. I'd gone to him about a month ago when I had sinus issues, and he knew how to handle an ear-nose-throat-related scandal, so I thought I'd hollar at a scholar once more.
I get there and show him my foot, explain the situation, and his first question is, "Has anyone done an x-ray or ultrasound to see if there's glass in your foot?"
"I KNOW!!!" I scream--way too much like Chandler from Friends. We have a good ol' laugh, and he reckons there's glass in my foot, which is why it's infected and not healing. He makes me an appointment for an ultrasound three hours later, then tells me to come back to him with the results about two hours after that.
So I'm hobbling around Sydney, trying to get it all together. It's a damn shame that it took an Asian Doogie Howser to get on the ball, and the two old doctors I went to before weren't even trying to help a blacktress out--just like a White man.....
Anyway, I'm lying down for the ultrasound while the guy puts sterile jelly over my wound (oh, and he totally didn't think it was funny when I said, "Um, I don't think I'm ready for this jelly"). He runs his magical ultrasound wand all around my foot and seems to look a bit confused, which is never any good. After a few minutes he gets up, and, attempting to sound casual, says, "I'm going to go get the radiologist."
Now you know it's not a good sign when the doctor's gotta get another doctor before he can tell you what's up. Clearly something's not looking good.
The radiologist, a spunky Asian woman, comes in and they start talking about me in low tones. I try to explain that I'm just American, not Deaf, but they don't really pay attention. I hear something about "tendons....snap....20%, no 40%" and wonder if I'm going to end up an amputee playing a didgeridoo at Circular Quay just to make ends meet. They finally address me and say that there's no glass in my foot (yay!), but that it's going to take a while for this wound to close (boo!).
I get up, head back home, and then return in 2 hours to pick up my results and take them to Asian Doogie. When I get there, he reads the results and explains that some of my tendons were cut, and the infection I can't seem to shake could be in the tendons.
Score one for the blacktress.
He then asks me to bend and flex my toes, and to both our surprise, I can't.
Can't move my damn toes, y'all.
WTF?!
And why was this not discovered sooner?!
So, I'm on another round of antibiotics, hoping the ability to move my toes returns, and making an appointment with a podiatrist on Monday.
So, in summation: still a hot mess, but now with answers, and if you want anything done right in this town, get an Asian.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Happy Birthday to My Favorite Boo Who I Don't Know!!
As you know, I'm from the future, and today is January 8th. Yesterday, BCB came over with some gossip magazines to help keep me busy while I try to avoid becoming an amputee, and I flipped through one just to see what's happening in the celebrity world. I was checking out celebrity birthdays, and was surprised to see ZAHARA JOLIE-PITT listed.
YES, SHE HAS MADE IT!!!
I am obsessed with Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and the fact that she is Brad's favorite. The first time I saw Benjamin Button holding that black baby, my ovaries jumped, and I knew my world would never be the same again.
Although I do get worried about Zahara's hair (Angie, I know you can afford a braider), and hope she doesn't grow up with any self-loathing or inferiority complexes, I have high hopes for ZJP. I see a collabo with Oprah, perhaps a few excellent black power books-- maybe even a tell-all in the vein of Mommy Dearest.
Look at that cute face! I bet Angie thought she got off easy when Zahara was all bald and whatnot--No, Angie, get homegirl some Just for Me or get a pocket African to handle her scandal!
What I love most about her is the alter-ego Sallie Sellasie, as outed by SCAN--The Secret Council of American Negroes.
"Sojourner, what is this 'Secret Council of American Negroes', and why haven't you told me about it sooner?" You may be wondering.
Listen, Caucasia (you know you are), I can't give away everything. Although the blacklash is still here, I want to try to keep some things incognegro, in hopes that they will one day accept me as one of their own. But the truth of Zahara and her power cannot be denied. F Oprah, Tyra, and Halle--it's Zahara who is making things happen--and homegirl is still rocking Pull-Ups!
Check out my favorite quote from her work in the field as secret agent Sally Selassie:
Sally: We're OK to talk. I hotwired my Play Skool phone for Wi Fi. The Man suspects nothing. As always. The Woman, she is suspicious, but has no proof. She almost found last month's communique so I had to cram it down the toilet to cover my tracks. Things got messy, but I was able to blame it all on Pax. The woman totally gave me a look that said she knew I was lying, yet she punished Pax anyway. As if that would break me. I'm from Ethiopia. You've got to come with harder shit than taking away the "Dora the Explorer" tape from my fake brother.
OH MY GOD, SO GOOD. For more on the Sally Selassie Files, holla at this.
YES, SHE HAS MADE IT!!!
I am obsessed with Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and the fact that she is Brad's favorite. The first time I saw Benjamin Button holding that black baby, my ovaries jumped, and I knew my world would never be the same again.
SWOON!!!!!
Although I do get worried about Zahara's hair (Angie, I know you can afford a braider), and hope she doesn't grow up with any self-loathing or inferiority complexes, I have high hopes for ZJP. I see a collabo with Oprah, perhaps a few excellent black power books-- maybe even a tell-all in the vein of Mommy Dearest.
Look at that cute face! I bet Angie thought she got off easy when Zahara was all bald and whatnot--No, Angie, get homegirl some Just for Me or get a pocket African to handle her scandal!What I love most about her is the alter-ego Sallie Sellasie, as outed by SCAN--The Secret Council of American Negroes.
"Sojourner, what is this 'Secret Council of American Negroes', and why haven't you told me about it sooner?" You may be wondering.
Listen, Caucasia (you know you are), I can't give away everything. Although the blacklash is still here, I want to try to keep some things incognegro, in hopes that they will one day accept me as one of their own. But the truth of Zahara and her power cannot be denied. F Oprah, Tyra, and Halle--it's Zahara who is making things happen--and homegirl is still rocking Pull-Ups!
Check out my favorite quote from her work in the field as secret agent Sally Selassie:
Sally: We're OK to talk. I hotwired my Play Skool phone for Wi Fi. The Man suspects nothing. As always. The Woman, she is suspicious, but has no proof. She almost found last month's communique so I had to cram it down the toilet to cover my tracks. Things got messy, but I was able to blame it all on Pax. The woman totally gave me a look that said she knew I was lying, yet she punished Pax anyway. As if that would break me. I'm from Ethiopia. You've got to come with harder shit than taking away the "Dora the Explorer" tape from my fake brother.
OH MY GOD, SO GOOD. For more on the Sally Selassie Files, holla at this.
This Just In....
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!
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!
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.
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