Wednesday, January 21, 2009
It's Been A Long Time Coming.....
I think my favorite part would have to be Malia's pre-inauguration pep talk. Here's a quote from the Prez, found on This Week With Barack Obama:
For Barack Obama's historic Inaugural Address:
"And then we go and look at...Lincoln's second inaugural'' etched on the wall of the memorial, Obama said, recounting his daughters' remarks to him. "And Sasha looks up, and she says, 'Boy, that's a long speech. Do you have to give one of those?' I said, 'Actually, that one's pretty short. Mine may even be a little longer.'
"At which point, then Malia turns to me and says, 'First African-American president. Better be good.''
Oh, Malia, it was SOOOO GOOD!!! While I wished I could have been at home--or, even better, in DC--watching it bleary-eyed at 4am, then again at the Democrats Abroad inauguration party, I felt the same chills I felt on election night.
So, um, Michelle, I'm sending in my application to be the girls' governess. I've got the reading list all set, and have no problem picking up dog poop.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The Accidental Cougar
Friday night I hung out with friends of the Swede, and had a gay ol' time!
Seriously, it was so gay.
We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?
After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"
"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.
Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.
I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?
Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.
Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.
Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.
However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.
We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.
"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.
Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.
Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."
Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)
I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.
OH MY FUCKING GOD.
I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?
This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.
I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.
I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.
It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.
I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.
Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.
Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?
Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.
Seriously, it was so gay.
We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?
After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"
"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.
Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.
I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?
Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.
Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.
Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.
However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.
We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.
"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.
Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.
Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."
Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)
I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.
OH MY FUCKING GOD.
I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?
This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.
I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.
I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.
It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.
I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.
Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.
Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?
Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
I Have a Fatty Girl-Crush On My Podiatrist
Yesterday I had an appointment with a podiatrist, which I was only able to get with the help of Linda from the IEP office--seriously, these IEP folks are worth every penny, helping a blacktress find assistance when all seemed lost. I called the doctor's office and managed to get booked for the next day to see 'Jo.'
"Um, blacktress, is this 'Jo' character's office located in a van down by the river??" You may be wondering. No, no, reader. You know how laidback the aussies are. It's quite Australian to call up for a doctor's appointment and have everyone refer to the doctor by his or her first name, just like you're meeting a friend for lunch and just sorting the details with his/her secretary. Equality, yay!!
I showed up awkwardly early, but took this opportunity to read the trashy mags made available. I was fully engrossed in InStyle Australia (reversed seasons, reversed fashions!) when I heard my name. I looked up and saw a blonde bombshell looking at me.
"Hi, Naomi, I'm Jo."
"Hi," I said back. For a brief instant, I just thought she was being really friendly, and I almost went back to my magazine before realizing she was the podiatrist I had made an appointment with.
When we went into the office, where the lighting was much better, her hotness became even more apparent. She was totally rocking the high-waisted skirt with the tucked-in blouse in the 1960s style I love. She had Angie Jolie lips but they didn't look fake. She was, like, porno hot. But, like, classy porn--the soft-core stuff you'd order after you checked into your room at the Radisson.
I explained the situation to her, handed her my ultrasounds, and she was instantly on the case. She removed my bandage to look at my wound (her touch was so gentle), and it looked all healed and not hideous. I thought I was finally in the clear, but she stopped me.
"I know it looks closed, but I don't think it is underneath, and we want to open it up so the body can continue to heal from the inside out. I'm just going to get a scalpel, don't freak out...."
After that, it was all a blur. Excuse me, hot doctor?! You think you can play Sojo?! I've heard this kind of backwards talk on the plantation--how are you going to get a surgical implement, apply it to my body while I'm fully conscious, and tell me to NOT freak out? That's like saying, "I just want to have fun" after showing up at my place of employment--does not compute!
But, as I do with most hot people, I quickly succumbed to her backwards logic and gave her the go-ahead to cut me open from groin to sturnum, figuring it'd all be worth it in the end.
Again, her touch was quite tender, and I didn't feel any pain as she went to work. I was half-tempted to ask her if she came here often, but decided against it. She explained that I didn't have an infection anymore, and that I've torn the tendons that are responsible for movement of toes, which explains why, you know, they aren't moving. One of these tendons also runs down your leg into your foot, which explains why I've been having leg pain. Between initial infection, the tearing, and not being stitched, it's just a slow healing process, and I'm going to have to go back for follow-ups to make sure I regain movement. She also said I had to stay off my foot as much as possible and to ice it every night.
After finally having a handle on what was going on, and getting to bask in the hotness of Jo, I was feeling good. The sun was shining, I'd be able to walk soon enough, but still wasn't ready for work--doctor's orders! With this newfound excitement, I called up my manager and just told him flat-out that I QUIT!!!
I AM FREE, Y'ALL!!!
No more pouring of Tooheys. No more making quick fucks. No more getting yelled at by incoherent d-bags. No more 5-am bedtimes without the fun that's supposed to come before. And, most importantly, I will never have to hear "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry again.
Now, here's hoping a temp gig opens up post-haste. Yay for freedom!
"Um, blacktress, is this 'Jo' character's office located in a van down by the river??" You may be wondering. No, no, reader. You know how laidback the aussies are. It's quite Australian to call up for a doctor's appointment and have everyone refer to the doctor by his or her first name, just like you're meeting a friend for lunch and just sorting the details with his/her secretary. Equality, yay!!
I showed up awkwardly early, but took this opportunity to read the trashy mags made available. I was fully engrossed in InStyle Australia (reversed seasons, reversed fashions!) when I heard my name. I looked up and saw a blonde bombshell looking at me.
"Hi, Naomi, I'm Jo."
"Hi," I said back. For a brief instant, I just thought she was being really friendly, and I almost went back to my magazine before realizing she was the podiatrist I had made an appointment with.
When we went into the office, where the lighting was much better, her hotness became even more apparent. She was totally rocking the high-waisted skirt with the tucked-in blouse in the 1960s style I love. She had Angie Jolie lips but they didn't look fake. She was, like, porno hot. But, like, classy porn--the soft-core stuff you'd order after you checked into your room at the Radisson.
I explained the situation to her, handed her my ultrasounds, and she was instantly on the case. She removed my bandage to look at my wound (her touch was so gentle), and it looked all healed and not hideous. I thought I was finally in the clear, but she stopped me.
"I know it looks closed, but I don't think it is underneath, and we want to open it up so the body can continue to heal from the inside out. I'm just going to get a scalpel, don't freak out...."
After that, it was all a blur. Excuse me, hot doctor?! You think you can play Sojo?! I've heard this kind of backwards talk on the plantation--how are you going to get a surgical implement, apply it to my body while I'm fully conscious, and tell me to NOT freak out? That's like saying, "I just want to have fun" after showing up at my place of employment--does not compute!
But, as I do with most hot people, I quickly succumbed to her backwards logic and gave her the go-ahead to cut me open from groin to sturnum, figuring it'd all be worth it in the end.
Again, her touch was quite tender, and I didn't feel any pain as she went to work. I was half-tempted to ask her if she came here often, but decided against it. She explained that I didn't have an infection anymore, and that I've torn the tendons that are responsible for movement of toes, which explains why, you know, they aren't moving. One of these tendons also runs down your leg into your foot, which explains why I've been having leg pain. Between initial infection, the tearing, and not being stitched, it's just a slow healing process, and I'm going to have to go back for follow-ups to make sure I regain movement. She also said I had to stay off my foot as much as possible and to ice it every night.
After finally having a handle on what was going on, and getting to bask in the hotness of Jo, I was feeling good. The sun was shining, I'd be able to walk soon enough, but still wasn't ready for work--doctor's orders! With this newfound excitement, I called up my manager and just told him flat-out that I QUIT!!!
I AM FREE, Y'ALL!!!
No more pouring of Tooheys. No more making quick fucks. No more getting yelled at by incoherent d-bags. No more 5-am bedtimes without the fun that's supposed to come before. And, most importantly, I will never have to hear "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry again.
Now, here's hoping a temp gig opens up post-haste. Yay for freedom!
Monday, January 12, 2009
This Bloke Ain't No Joke!
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?
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?
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.
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