2011: The Year to Keep on Steppin'!

Hey y'all.

I feel like I haven't blogged in ages, when it's really been a couple days. That could be because the sinus pain and dizziness has made time stand still (yes, even as the room is spinning). Or it could be because I'm cramming mad stuff into each day, making it so that, by the time I got to my desk this morning I had already shoveled snow, paid my electric bill, and called my grandmother. G-unit was in top form, and she gave me a new phrase I will have to use. When I told her that I was shoveling the snow, she asked me why I didn't pay the neighbor boy to do it for me. When I said I could manage, she replied, "Oh, I know you can, but you got to be acting. You can't get all sweaty and hunched over. You need to pay someone to do it and keep on steppin!"

Okay, maybe it's not particularly funny because you can't hear her 94-year-old Mississippi southern accent, but trust me--it was brillz. So great, in fact, that I am making it my new philosophy. As 2009 was The Year of the Hot Ass Mess, and 2010 was the year I chose to save the drama for Obama, 2011 is the year I will keep on steppin'!

"Um, what does 'keep on steppin' mean, Blacktress? Is your grandmother really into the movie You Got Served?"

No, people! G-unit doesn't want me to join a step team or stomp the yard. When she says "keep on steppin'" she basically means "do you." You've gotta get the basics done, and then handle your business--in my case, that's writing and blackting.

I think I'm getting there, even though it's causing me to burn the candle at both ends. I had an interview for another job on Monday, and I think I'm highly qualified and have everything they're looking for. They also said they welcome people with "outside interests," and the interviewer referenced going on auditions and flexibility more than once. Although I haven't heard back yet, I'm hoping that they're just playing it cool, and I'll get a follow-up soon.

So, despite the random illness--and the inability to shake the sensation of swallowing, like, egg yolks or something gross--I'm doing well. Especially because last night I had commercial class number 2, and guys, I DIDN'T SUCK!!
I was, dare I say it, pretty darn good!

I went into the class with high energy, and vowed to get out of my own way (the blacktress's mind is like a bad neighborhood--you don't want to go there alone). I wore my glasses and comfortable (yet slimming!) black jeans. We were given a page with four pieces of copy, and almost all were comedic, and they made sense to me right away. I was excited, and instantly knew how to play with it. I went up second, and read a spot for Doritos. We were asked to improvise and play a character. The first take I did a shy, nervous, awkward girl, and it went well. Then, the two teachers went to give me direction at the same time, then fought over what kind of character I should play next.

“You totally look like you could kick my ass,” one of them said. (She totally reminds me on a real housewife of New Jersey.) “Just for fun, play a gym teacher.”

“Really? You want me to go all out?” She nodded.

So I did. I imagined Sue Sylvester, but without the snark and hatefulness. I introduced myself as Pat, and even improvised the copy a bit, so that it ended on: “Like any normal person, I ate the whole bag, I enjoyed it and then I dropped and gave myself 20.

I got a huge laugh; it killed! I felt great from then on. Don't worry; it wasn't like it was smooth sailing from then on—but I didn’t feel like I didn’t deserve to be there, you know? For instance, I was able to laugh at myself and not freak out when I had to play ‘Georgina, a cousin from Italy,’ and the other actor I was filming with flubbed the intro line ("this is my cousin georgina, from italy. word has it she loves...") and said “word has it, she’s from Italy”.

My response: I’m from the African part.

I talked to the agents after class, had them critique my headshots (alas, I’ll need to pay for new ones, since the current ones “don’t pop.”), and even made friends with a WHactress. I learned that comedy commercials might be my thing, and being an improviser actually gave me a leg up over the Meisner-trained, NYU and Yale School of Drama M.F.A. kids.

I will admit that I lost some of my steam an hour into it when I left to use the bathroom and hit myself in the face with the heavy glass door, leading me to spend the rest of class concerned that my brow bone and nose were swelling (you can take the blacktress away from the crazy, but you can't take the awkwardness out of the blacktress).

But even with my potential facial fractures and fears of looking like a hot mess, I got up and read the other sides. I was, as G-unit would say, able to keep on steppin’! Holla!

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.

The New Serenity Prayer

Of course, this was brought to my attention by my life partner and avatar, KWalsh. I believe her exact words were: "Thought you'd appreciate this," followed by "I think I need to frame this."

My blog is my bedroom wall, and I have hung it for you all to see.

Jesus, take the wheel!

When Sinus Pressure Hits....I don't know what to do.

Guys, I'm feeling a bit low after last night's commercial class. I thought I'd be great, and was told the casting directors would "just eat you up; they'd love a blacktress on their roster." Instead, I was directed to "not be so stiff," and after three tries was directed to sit down with a "better. that's better."
Like my mom says, "better isn't good enough."
She also says, "I didn't work so hard for this to be your life," and then it gets awkward.

Anyhoozle, the class was just two hours, and there were 12 people--all white as the freshly driven snow, and even the boys were as thin as Justin Bieber's left thigh (they lacked Biebs' swoopy bangs, though). I went in with energy, but just couldn't shake the nerves and discomfort. We were on camera, but couldn't see our own face. Instead, two HUGE flat-screen tvs faced outward, giving all of the class access to every pore. "Dont' think about yourself here," one of the teachers said, voguing around her head to indicate a television screen. "We don't show you your tape because the point is to not think about how you look."

I just couldn't help it, though! I'm much more at home on a stage, with an audience I can't see because I'm blinded by bright lights--not a handful of folks that are looking at my face at 10x its normal size. I know that we were all there to learn, but there were some students who just "nailed it. great read." They had moved to NYC just for a moment like this, and knew how to bring the right amount of confidence and relief to a discussion about sinus pain and pressure. I will always be a type-A brown-noser (as evidenced by the immediate unearthing of a pen and notepad once we sat down), and blackting is what I love--I simply must be perfect!

I feel just like Bette Davis in Now, Voyager.

I know, I know--I need to stop worrying about what the gossip girls are doing and handle my own scandal. I just wish I hadn't had all that Upper East Side private schooling--I might have high self-esteem in situations like this. We're told not to practice, but I think I may have to have someone point a camera at me long enough that I cease to be nervous. We'll see what happens.

Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

Hey gang. It’s 9:34 am, and I’ve already been on the plantation for 90 minutes. Hell, I’ve already been up for over THREE HOURS. And in that time I’ve exercised (and I don’t mean my demons!), showered, ate oatmeal and watched my morning progrums, AND read all the work emails sent over the holiday break. 2011’s gonna be my year, I tell ya!

Ugh, okay, I can’t keep this energy up. Let’s be real: Yes, I did all of the aforementioned things, but only because I was dreading coming to work. I was walking down the subway platform like it was the green mile, and got in an hour before everyone just so I could get acclimated before all of the "How was your vacation?!" talk started. The three unplanned days in Detroit (and sharing a bed with mom) put a real damper on things, and the hullabaloo of New Year’s left little sleeping opportunities this weekend.

Despite my fatigue and job bitterness, however, I am ready to make 2011 the Year of the Blacktress (I’ve got the Chinese government on line 1, hoping it’s not too late to make the change). I started off NYE with a piece on The Hairpin, which is the beginning of my crossover success (leave a comment to help kickstart the blacktress whisper campaign!). The article put me in touch with another strong black woman who has a Jewboo, and now we’re internet besties.

I found a $100 bill on the ground in the early hours of 2011, and then kicked off the second day of the new year with a meeting with three ladies to start writing a sketch show! They are young, gifted, and white, and I think we’ve really got the start of something good. We all have assignments for the week, we’re meeting on the regular, and we’re ready to kick ass and take names. Tonight is the first of four on-camera commercial acting classes, where I hope to learn how to land a national ad campaign and never have to work in this craphole again! I'm kinda nervous--I haven't been around actor-y actors in a while, and hope I’m not the only one without a BFA. I'm also imagining the two teachers as aged, gravelly voiced, take-no-prisoners Hollywood types, who gesture with their cigarettes, tapping ash on you when you fail. They’ll say things like, "You're gayer than Rock Hudson on a telephone! Now sell me that face cream and MAKE ME WANT IT!!!”


I’ve got my hair did, contacts ready, and having been practicing my soothing, news-anchor voice while saying things like, “side effects may include constipation, explosive diarrhea, low self-esteem, and dry mouth.” We’ll see how it goes—I’ll definitely give you an update.

I'm Gonna Need Some Serious Ujamaa Up In Here

Hey Y'all,

I write to you in my final hours in Detroit. I worked hard to make the best of it, but this city refuses work with a blacktress. Yesterday's foolery was manifold:

1. I wanted to go to the gym real bad, because I feel like I've been eating hypertension and type-2 diabetes ever since I got here. My cousin's a member of LA Fitness, a national gym chain that she joined in the ATL. We found the location nearby and when we got to the front desk we were told we had to pay because: 1) her membership wasn't valid in this state; 2) I couldn't use a guest pass unless I lived within 20 miles of the gym.
What kind of fuckery??????? I mean, who joins a national chain and doesn't think they can use it anywhere in the nation? They give out guest passes like they're candy, yet I can't, as a visitor, get my treadmill on if I come in with a member who pays a monthly fee? And why on earth would you a member pay an additional usage fee each time she visits the chain instead of just transferring the account to Michigan?
To top it all off, when my cousin asked to cancel her membership, the girl behind the desk printed out a form that had to be mailed in--stamp not included!! Since when is an in-person cancellation not valid? I can't even cope with this madness.

2. After the gym was a bust, we headed to the nearest Payless so that I could return the cheap gym shoes I purchased. With box and receipt in hand, I waited in line at the Payless in the Northland Mall. I did my best to be patient and pleasant as the tweens in front of me had all sorts of issues. When I finally got to the register, the woman sank her head in her hands and said, "Please don't tell me you're doing a return."
"Um....ok. I'm not doing a return. Here are the shoes and receipt. Can I have my money now?"
"I been doin' returns all day, I can't do no more," she said. I assumed this meant she was fatigued, or maybe her manager wasn't around to punch in the proper return codes, but she certainly couldn't have been serious.
"We don't got no more money," she said as she chewed on her acrylic nail.
So.....what am I supposed to do? Grammar aside, how on earth does a store in a mall run out of money? And, if that was really the case, couldn't she have said that to me during the 10 minutes I waited in line so that I could have been on my merry way? (#whyblackbusinessesdon'tthrive)
"There's another Payless down the road you can try."
Okay, fine. I leave without an attitude and have my cousin drive me to the next Payless a few minutes away.

It didn't bode well from the moment we pulled up, as the lights were on, but no one appeared to be home. Good lord--they didn't close for another 2 hours. Look alive, people!
I walk in and call out to someone. A woman in the back of the store says, "Hey," like we're old friends.
"Um, I have a return." I yell to her from the front, near the register.
"We been doin' returns all day; we don't got no more money," she says without moving a centimeter closer.

WHAT THE FUCK???? WHERE IS ALL THE MONEY IN DETROIT???
The worst of it is that such shady business operations are completely against yesterday's principle, Ujamaa (Cooperative Economics): To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.

Payless was certainly refusing to economically cooperate with a blacktress, instead sending her on a wild goose chase for some basic funds. I can't build, maintain, or profit from a damn thing if you don't have at least 18 dollars and 1 cent in your registers!
As we drove to the third Payless (I kid you not), I wondered when Detroit became the streets of Calcutta. I felt like a slumdog millionaire without the millions. I was about ready to cut a bitch.

I was finally given my $18.01 at the third Payless, and vowed to destroy Cuntinental Airlines once and for all (it has officially replaced Delta as the worst airline ever) for leaving me here.

As we commiserated in the car, my cousin told me about this "music video" called "It's So Cold In the D," which is all about Detroit. "Nay Nay, it's kinda Antoine Dodson-style, but kinda sad-funny" she explained, referencing the "Bed Intruder" jam I introduced her to on Christmas. Of course, after a long day of foolery, I had to see it.

What I witnessed on her laptop was unlike anything I've ever seen. It really encapsulates Detroit--and clearly struck a chord, based on the more than 2 million YouTube views. From the lead singer's neon-orange braids (that match her hoodie--um, if it's "so cold in the D," why isn't anyone wearing a coat?) to the still photos of slain family and friends to the crew walking through the graveyard, it reminds me of how my cousins and I would spend our summers "making movies" (I'm trying to find the footage of "Life in the Ghetto" so that it can be burned before my bio-pic).

OK, enough explaining. Let me just embed it. This, gentle readers, is where I've been for the last 5 days:

Detroit is Deadly

What up, gang! It's another dysfunctional day in Detroit. My cousin, who works in auto insurance, just came in from work to visit my grandmother. He immediately goes into the kitchen and begins frying chicken (I swear, I'm not being racist). As his chicken fries, he sits down and takes off his sweatshirt (my grandmother keeps her house a cozy, menopausal 80 degrees). A turn to the left reveals the gun on his right hip. I have to share the following exchange:

Mom: Jay, you got yo' gun on you today?
Jay: Yeah, auntie. I had to go to the bank.

Um, are we in the wild wild West? Why on earth would you need a gun to go to the bank unless you're about to rob it? I didn't see a red kerchief, so I assume he was making a routine deposit. When his sister comments on the foolery of this, he replies:

Jay: It's not loaded like that.

"Loaded like that"? What does that mean? It's either loaded, or it's not. My fear mounts as I realize that anyone who has their own rules of what qualifies as "loaded" probably shouldn't own a firearm.

Jay [in a condescending tone]: To actually shoot, the gun has to be engaged.

OK, so what he's saying is that there are bullets in the gun, but the safety's on. I think that qualifies as "loaded."

I have no idea how Detroit expects to engage in Ujamaa* when a routine trip to the bank requires "back up."

Y'all, I still have another 24 hours here. Meanwhile, my mother is angry at me for a facebook post that my cousin mentioned (family has officially put on the limited view), and is not speaking to me. I need a kwanzaa prayer for patience.




*Ujamaa: Cooperative Economics-- To build and maintain our own stores, shops, and other businesses and to profit from them together.