I have very little internet access on the island, so I was absolutely shocked when I hopped on the information super-highway just moments ago and discovered that Bea Arthur passed away 2 days ago!
As you all know, I am an old, weary broad. And Bea Arthur is my role model.
Look at her: She is so sassy, and her shoulder pads give her the dominating appearance of a linebacker, which says 'don't fuck with me'. It also says, "don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like BEA?"
Yes, yes I do.
The way she sulks about, that dry laugh, that beautiful baritone voice in which she chastised Rose for her stupidity, and tried to reign in Blanche's wanton sexuality. She is a strong black woman in a white woman's frame.
There are now only 2 Golden Girls left for me to idolize. This is very stressful for me. Luckily, Bea has left me pearls of wisdom to take with me for the rest of my life. Here's a little nugget from the great Miss Arthur:
It's 2:17am. I write to you now from the Best Western Airport Hotel and Casino.
American Airlines can S a D. It is now, along with Delta, on my shit list.
In the last 6 weeks I have been on 8 planes, in 12 airports, and not once had a layover or delay...until now. And it's been more hardcore than I could have imagined.
I think you all know I have bad luck with flying. And while I always brace myself for some drama and foolishness, my recent rash of good luck on international journeys had me hopeful. Besides, my desire to get to the islands was so great, I figured I could will the airline into functioning normally.
Apparently, not. It started off smoothly, although the Metrocard machine ate the $5 I inserted for my AirTrain ticket. I shook it off, trying to maintain the relaxed vibe I'd cultivated in my time down under. A seemingly long line at security actually moved quite quickly, and my 3-oz. bottles of lotion and shampoo were FDA approved. I only had an hour before my flight, so I did what any normal person does when they have time to kill: read 'Twilight' at the newsstand. Everything seemed aces until 4:35--the boarding time--rolled around. "Ladies and gentlemen, there seems to be a problem with the fuel pump, and maintenance is checking now. We don't know how long it'll be, but we should find out shortly. Boarding will not take place now." Ruh-roh.
When they don't know what's up or how long it'll take to handle a scandal, it's never a good sign. 20 minutes later, chick explains that there will be an hour delay, making it impossible for me to make my connecting flight. How will I get my groove back now???? I thought as I waited on line to talk to the attendant. Just then, another voice came over the PA, telling us a new plane would be needed, and we wouldn't be leaving until 9:15.
Current time: 6:05. Awesome.
We finally get going at 10pm, and upon landing, a flight attendant informs us that there is a problem getting the door to the aircraft open, and asked for our patience. A chorus of moans ensued, and I had visions of the weird guy across from me staring at me with glowing red eyes before mauling me with his bare hands.
Airlines are so fucking annoying. You pay them alot of money. They make you show up ridiculously early and tell you it's for your own good. This you do after packing a bag so strategically that you'd have to be part terrorist to make it work. Then they make you wait on crazy lines and treat you like an unwanted third-marriage step-child by people who don't like their jobs, and then force you to take off items of clothing as they judge your sketch factor. If you make it through all this, it is their job to provide an aircraft and take you to a destination at a time that they've set, no less. But time after time, they disappoint and screw it up, providing lame excuses and no remorse.
Reminds me of every relationship I've ever had.
So now it's almost 2:30 am and I have 6 hours until my 40-minute flight to St. Croix. I'm going to take a quick shower and get some quick zzz's and hope there are no bedbugs. I will step off the plane bleary-eyed and confused, and demand a mojito. After a couple of those, this American Airlines debacle will be a distant memory.
Whew, being at home for a week and doing nothing has really wiped me out. I mean, it's hard making a Qantum Leap, being socially awkward around people you haven't seen in 6 months, and trying not to throttle a mother who loves to butt into your life but seemed to have no interest in filing your taxes or at least filing for an extension on your behalf.
So I'm off to the St. Croix, in the US Virgin Islands, to visit my boo, KWalsh. We've been friends since uni, and I've waited 7 long years for this friendship to pay off in a trip to her island home. Finally I get to walk on sandy beaches, drink rum punch with an umbrella in it, and possibly mate with an angry young native boy.
You know, like Angela Bassett did.
Blacktress Fun Fact: I think this is quite fitting because, at the age of 12, I auditioned for a role in the above film. No, not as Stella, but as her sassy niece who she takes with her on one of her island getaways. One of the lines from the screentest: "What, auntie Stella? [she says coyly] I didn't do nothin'."
I was playing a 12-year-old when I was actually 12, but due to my height and boobage, I was told looked too old for the part--but trust me, I had the sass down pat.
So now, as I head off to JFK for my island week, I hope to get my groove like Stella and the Emperor* combined.
*You're never too old for a Disney reference. Besides, after that hobbit photo, I've got nothing to lose.
I went out to dinner with mamadukes tonight since we haven't had one-on-one time since I've been home and I head off for a week starting tomorrow. It went pretty well, as I have discovered how to get her to direct her anger and criticism towards other members of our dysfunctional family instead of asking me about my life. After our lovely Chinese food, we were given fortune cookies. Mine said:
I don't know what this means for my life. As if starting 2009 in an ambulance wasn't enough, now I can't even rely on Asian sweets to provide me with solace or advice.
I am finally back in the blogsphere. I'm sorry it's taken me so long, but seriously, guys, it's been hard getting my energy up. I feel like Quantum Leap's Scott Bakula, having shuttled through time, with a flight at 10am on Wednesday, landing in LA at 6am on Wednesday, and then getting to NYC at 6:20 on....THE SAME WEDNESDAY. I am from the future.
Okay, maybe I'm not as cool as Scott Bakula--Sam? Can I be Sam?
It is now 12:45am on Tuesday morning and I have more energy than the hyped-up gremlins on my flight from Sydney to NYC.
Seriously. I'd like Qantas to rethink its new "Kids Fly Free" promotion. My plane ride was like a fucking Gymboree.
I'm really quite cracked out. After nice, low-key goodbye drinks Tuesday night in Sydney, I decided the best way to ensure that I slept on the plane (and didn't leave behind any of my stuff) would be to stay up all night. This plan was foolproof, as not sleeping often makes people fatigued. And sitting in an air-o-plane for 15 hours leaves little to do besides sleep.
I forgot that I find it impossible to sleep with a stranger only 2 millimeters away from me. This left me with ample time to watch such films as: The Changeling, Rachel Getting Married, In Bruges, and Four Christmases. Yes, Four Christmases. I'll post some erudite film reviews soon.
I got home Wednesday at 7pm NYC-time to find that my uncle and his 4 children were staying with us until Saturday. No, no one bothered to tell me in advance.
I wondered if Qantas had some promotion with my house--"kids fly free to Harlem" or something.
I know it's family, but seeing as I'd been on an aircraft for 22 hours and hadn't slept in 2 (maybe 3?) days, I wasn't in the mood for surprise guests. I was even less in the mood to take all four children to the Museum of Natural History on Friday--which I had to do. My 12-year-old cousin thought it was hysterical when I fell asleep standing up for a second and almost fell over the railing onto the elephant exhibit below. The 7-year-old thought it was a great idea to take his dad's digital camera and then make me chase him around the dinosaur skeletons. At some point during our outing I ducked into the women's restroom and tied my own tubes.
Friday evening, my plans to sleep were broken by the most exciting event ever--a surprise party FOR ME!! Can you imagine? My dreams of mauling my mates like Christian the lion came true, as the small but solid contingent rolled up to everyone's favorite West Village spot, 99 Below, for a "Welcome BLACK" party. I stayed up til 3am, feeling happy to be home for the first time.
My buzz was killed when, on Saturday afternoon, I called up the Weasley twin and learned that he is seeing someone in Canada. Oh h to the no! And, the best part--I had to ASK HIM if he was with someone! Can you imagine if I'd rocked up the Canadian tundra with fresh-baked brownies and the cutest outfit ever, only to be introduced to Sarah, boring girl who likes to climb trees?
I played it breezily enough on the phone (after all, I AM a blacktress), but I'm still a bit shaken by the whole thing--mostly feeling embarrassment. I mean, how do you have me come meet your parents, pack your damn suitcase (rollin' up your man-panties and everything!), and within 6 weeks inCanada find someone that you're WITH??? Clearly, he didn't appreciate me. I think I'm starting to understand why New York has her contestants sign a "blood oaf." (more on that here) And on the phone, he had the nerve to chat like we're friends, even asking me if I met someone on my travels. Wtf?! Look, mate, we are NOT mates. I'm trying really hard to break the cycle, but sweet jesus, how many love-corpses must I leave strewn across this globe? This is actually getting to ri-goddamn-diculous!
Sorry. You can tell by my excessive use of italics that the wound is still fresh.
Perhaps, if I truly wanted to maintain the upper-hand and hoped for him to think that it was his loss, I shouldn't have put up this pic of me during my "Lord of the Rings" tour in New Zealand on the interwebs:
Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me????
Nothing like Lauryn Hill quote to kick off a farewell post.
It is now 4:30pm on Tuesday, April 14. In exactly 16 hours, I will board a Qantas flight bound for NYC. My feelings are as mixed as the drinks I will be having at my farewell jam in a few hours.
I got back from my 5-week journey on Easter--I like to time my resurrections with those of the Lord. I was taken in by Meg, who recently moved into a new house, complete with three bedrooms and a dungeon. I kid you not. Luckily, I wasn't forced to sleep there.
Much of yesterday I was dying to go home, frustrated because of the inability to get someone to drive me to pick up my luggage, especially when one friend had already offered, but then backed out by pretending like it wasn't happening. It really hit home the sense of helplessness I'd felt many times in Sydney, not being able to do the simplest things--like laundry, for instance--without paying excessive amounts, or asking someone I'm not really close to for a favor.
I know that, although the last thing I want is to shack up with my mother and her latin lover, I also can't wait to sleep in my own bed, not wear thongs--oops, i mean flip-flops!--in the shower, and come and go easily.
But today, as I ran errands around the city, I found myself quite nostalgic, and actually sad. The sun is shining, I was actually too warm in my long-sleeved top, and Sydney was beautiful--and I felt like I'd made it my place, in a way. I have friends here and know where to go, and have made memories. I also have six months left on my visa, and there is a part of me that wonders if going home is a bad idea. I just found out my main gay may be leaving NYC in mere weeks, and my sister from another mister is heading to grad school in the fall. Add to this the fact that I've spent 6 months being a total selfish loner, not having to do anything but stay afloat and answer to no one, and you have a blacktress with a deep-seated fear of returning to reality.
I mean, 6 months is nothing in the grand scheme of life. Granted, I missed a few births, engagements, a black president and a global financial crisis--but, you know, the bars will be the same, and the dudes I hate won't have gained the 50 pounds I hoped they would as punishment.
Will folks actually have missed me? I want my reunion to be like that of Christian the lion and his old owners. You know, like this:
Is that too much to ask? I just want to maul you with my LOVE!!
When it comes to Sydneytown, there are some THINGS I WON'T MISS: -trying to get home after midnight and paying a crapton. -paying for condiments. Seriously, don't you think it's sort of passive aggressive to sell someone french fries and then charge them 50 cents for a package of ketchup? -explaining my hair to total strangers. -hearing the songs 'Save Tonight' and 'Land Down Under' at least once a day. I mean, 'Land Down Under' in Australia?????????
But really, when I think about it, there are so many THINGS I"LL MISS LIKE WHOA: -Sweet, sweet, Eli Reed. You began as a reader, and you became a soul sister. -Oh, dear, dear Meg. You have taught me much about the side hustle, and the ability to be a rockstar.
Wedges with sweet chili and sour cream--the most unlikely-yet-heavenly combination in the history of cookery.
-Lemon, lime, and bitters. Best. drink. ever. -Meeting random strangers on public transportation and then being facebooked by them. -Telling people I'm a blacktress and not being asked 'where do you wait tables?' -Suzy Q, who always tried to get me out of the house when I was depressed, and told me I should stay in Sydney. Her optimism is precious. -Abbreviating every word possible.
-Sushi Train. Delicious, delicious Sushi Train. Above shows where I ate on the regular, including my last lunch in Ausland.
-And, of course, Aussie accents. I'm still holding out for my foreign husband!
Okay, off to dranks with peeps. Next posts will be the tales of my travels--soooooooooo worth the wait!
I am totes crushing on this town. I got here after midnight on the 26th, and from the moment I stepped out on Friday, I felt the buzz. My stomach was doing excited flips, the way it does when I get excited about seeing someone I haven't seen in a long time. Even though I was walking down a street that mainly consisted of warehouses, I felt like I could get down with this vibe--I was instantly feeling Welly's flava. It's kinda hipstery, and reminds me of Melbourne and NYC's East Village, but people are actually nice. Take for instance, the clerk at the jeans store, where I was on a hunt for some cute black jeans--we chatted for 20 minutes, he helped me find the cutest pair, and even gave me a gig guide so I could see what's on around town. We also talked about Kanye West being cray cray, and I think if I'd stayed around, he would have proposed to me just so he could come to NYC.
I'm trying to hunt for Bret and Jemaine, my FOTC boyfriends, but it's hard. Mainly because most people think I'm crazy when I ask where I can find them. As I walk the streets of Welly, I think to myself, "This is where Bret walked as he wrote 'Ladies of the World'" Can you imagine?! As I search various thrift stores, I try to find those cool sweaters Bret wears with pics of wolves on them, but so far, no luck. Nothing says "you could be a part-time model" like wolf art.
Ozzies always make fun of the kiwi accent, but only now, after 4 months of Ausland, can I tell the difference. The Kiwi accent is hilarious to me, as 'e' becomes 'i' and 'i' becomes 'u.' Take for instance, this gem I overheard: "I sint him a tixt. I was tixting and tixting, and he niv-eh risponded. He's bin' a total duckhead."
'Duckhead' = 'Dickhead' Although I really wish she actually meant that he had the head of a duck. That would have been a way lower blow.
Okay, I should stop being a table-nine, indoor kid and go explore this big wide world of Wellington.
