I Am Not Limitless

Happy Monday, guys!

I’m really trying to blog more regularly, but sometimes I just don’t know where to begin. At the risk of ranting, I must share my latest un-handle-able truth:
We should have been the ones hit by a tsunami. Let me explain.

Reason 1:
On Friday afternoon I got an e-mail from Ticketmaster.com, alerting me to the availability of tickets to Charlie Sheen’s “My Violent Torpedo of Truth” tour. Apparently, for just $575 I can get a seat in the first 10 rows, an autographed photo of the CauCRAYsian, and shake his chapped, cracked, Gollum-like hand (I’m just assuming).
Why on earth would I want to do this? What skill does Sheen have that would warrant a live tour? Is he just going to get on stage and yell at people? Will he be offering to leave angry messages in the voice mailbox of audience members’ exes? Apparently this tour is already sold out.

Punto Numero Dos:
Half an hour later, I was sent a “music” video of “Friday Night,” by tween sensation Rebecca Black (I’d hyperlink you to it, but I don’t want to give her the press). With such lyrics as “Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday / Today i-is Friday, Friday … / Tomorrow is Saturday / And Sunday comes after ... wards,” I feel as though society is getting dumber, and can no longer tell the difference between talent and delusions of grandeur. Sadly, today’s tweens have very few options, as the covers of “Celebrity” magazines often feature teen moms from the MTV series. We all know I love the 16 and preggos, but since when has being a teenager mother warranted several magazine spreads? Do note that these headline-grabbing moms are CauCRAYsian. When one can be equally famous for having rich parents, winning an Oscar, or getting knocked up by a 16-year-old who works at StopNShop, I think it’s time to reassess our priorities as a nation.

Point the 3rd:
I left work on Friday to meet up with my girl Scribe to see Brad Cooper's latest flick Limitless. I hadn’t been to a movie in ages and was ready to be entertained--even though I do find Cooper to be a bit slimy (doesn't he seem like, before he was famous, he was the guy who'd corner you in a bar, going on and on about his "eye-opening experience" helping Hurricane Katrina victims, and then after bedding you that night, tells you "I've gotta get up really early tomorrow for a life-drawing class, so you might want to get a cab home now"?).

Alas, I found myself uncomfortable and confused much of the time. (SPOILER ALERT!)

The movie starts off with Bradley Cooper (or, as I like to call him, Coop) playing a struggling writer—not struggling because he can’t catch a break or because his work was plagiarized on Wikipedia, but because he just can’t seem to get anything written!!! AAAHHHH, SO HARD BEING A CAUCASIAN MALE!!! What to do with my book advance? Writer’s block is sooooooooooo hard to overcome! Maybe I’ll use it to buy pizza and grow my hair out really gross and scraggly.

He then gets dumped by his boo, which we don’t even care about because we never see them together. This makes him good and vulnerable when he’s offered a clear little pill that makes everything…. LIMITLESS. Suddenly the slacker can remember everything he’s ever heard, learn languages in a day, and learns the stock market (Move over Shia Leboeuf! I bet the ink's still wet on the script for Wall Street 3: Coop Never Sleeps!)

I won’t go into more detail, but basically he goes from zero to hero in three days, becomes a billionaire, and then starts to feel the side effects of this non-FDA-approved black-market drug. Without it in his system, he doesn’t remember a damn thing, and he’s basically an addict in need of 12 steps within the first 30 minutes of the film. At one point, he’s in such a bind that the only way he can save himself is to drink the blood of a Russian mobster that pools outward from his dead body.

Ew.

How does this relate to my rant? Well, quite frankly, Coop’s insistence that he have skills he was too lazy to cultiviate is an example of CauCRAYsian hubris! He’s no better than Charlie “I am the warlock of your destruction” Sheen. Who said you get to be limitless, Bradley? So what if you’ve got baby blues that I could drown in and a devilish smile that’s probably concealing herpes simplex I? If he was down and out at the start of the film and needed the money for, let's say, a liver transplant, or to get his mom in rehab, I might have rooted for him. As it was, when he laid there lapping up the dude’s blood I wondered why it was okay for Bradley Cooper to drink AIDS.

As Scribe and I walked to a post-movie dinner, we were so busy chatting we momentarily forgot about traffic laws. We almost stepped out in front of on-coming traffic, but I looked up and put my arm out. “We are not limitless,” I said. “But we do have options.”
And that, folks, is where I’m at today. I am not limitless like Sheen and Rebecca Black and Cooper’s latest character, but I do have options. The world is not owed to me (and oftentimes behaves as though I took out a loan and am in forbearance) but I know on which side my bread’s buttered—the worlds of blackting and blogging.

Was this a rant? I don’t know. My brain feels a bit fuzzy because I just spent 15 minutes on the phone with an elderly reader who mailed in a printed page of her Google search for a book from our online store—she made sure to underline “YOUR SEARCH DID NOT MATCH ANY DOCUMENTS” before writing, “I followed the instructions in the issue with NO SUCCESS. PLEASE HELP!”
It took me 12 minutes to explain to her—and then her husband, who she put on the phone—that she can’t type the URL into a search engine, but must instead type it into the nav bar. The call ended rather oddly:

Husband: What's your name?

Me: Sojourner

[I have to say it three times before he gets it, spells it back to me, and tells me to go on. I have nothing left to add.]

Husband: And this is about the flowers?

Me: I believe so, that's what your wife said.

Husband: And today's date is?

Me [silent. I'm not sure if he's testing me or what]

Husband: Hello? Today's date is?????

Me: March 21.

Husband: And the time is now????

Me: 3pm.

Husband: Okay, thank you, bye-bye!

Do you think he'd been sitting in the dark with his wife for days, wondering what season it was?

******TIME LAPSE******
AAAHHH, sorry to be so all over the place, but I just got a call from the agent, sending me in for an audition tomorrow!!! EEEPPPSSS.
I better go get my hair did. Blacktress out!

Happy Women's History Month!

Study Undercuts View of College as a Place of Same-Sex Experimentation.

The National Survey on Family Growth found that women with bachelor’s degrees were actually less likely to have had a same-sex experience than those who did not finish high school.
“It’s definitely a ‘huh’ situation, because it goes counter to popular perceptions,” said Kaaren Williamsen, director of Carleton College’s gender and sexuality center.

[Two women sit on a couch after a delicious meal. Two half-empty bottles of wine (one for each othem, obvi) sit on the table in front of them. The lights are dimmed.]
Woman 1: Did you know that most women who graduated a four-year college probably haven’t ever had a homosexual encounter?
Woman 2: HUH?????
Woman 1: I said, if you didn’t graduate high school, you probably know how to go down on some downtown.
Woman 2: HUH????? What if you have an associate’s degree?
Woman 1: I don’t know. But I do have a certificate in special education.
[She leans in to her guest, lips parted. Woman 2 jumps back, flustered.]
Woman 2: I went to Dartmouth, I—
Woman 1: Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.

That, ladies and gentleman, is a classic “'huh' situation”.

This Shit is BANANAS!

Whew!

The time is now 4:19pm and, boy, am I beat! I’ve been working so non stop that I haven’t even had time to check the latest tweets or go to the bathroom, y'all.

The day started off STRONG AND WRONG, with an email from a higher-up that was full of attitude. He flagged the message as “HIGHEST PRIORITY!!!!” and the body text included such gems as “yes I DO need to see the proofs and I CANNOT WAIT” in capital letters and bold font, like I'm some baby monkey who should cower before him. When I forwarded the letter to the massa, just to keep him in the loop (you know I can hold my own, y’all) and included my thoughts on the condescension, boss man replied to my e-mail and cc'd the other dude, leaving my harsh words for him to see! Massa then gets mad at me when I call him out, saying, "You gotta delete trails, come on, what do you want from me?!"
Um, what I want is for you to think before you email. It's up to him as the sender to delete the trail, not me.
The condescending man allegedly said he would call me and apologize, but that was 6 hours ago, so I doubt it. I’ve been busting my butt trying to get this article done all day long, y'all-- all I’ve had is a banana and a protein bar since breakfast—which, if you know a blacktress’s appetite, is saying something.

Speaking of bananas and being treated like a monkey, I wanted to share the following NYTimes.com article I received from The Lonesome Lumberjack:
Woman Goes To VA Court With Tiny Monkey in Bra. Talk about Victoria’s SECRET, y’all!!!

The woman tells the newspaper she bought the animal on an online auction site and had its clothes specially made in West Virginia.

Y’all, what is up with this monkey shit?! If you recall from Friday’s post, Virginia is the same place Justine flew to to purchase her MONKID on the hard-hitting expose “My Child Is A Monkey”. Is this state the head of an underground monkey-breeding ring? I’ve decided VA needs a new t-shirt:

I Feel Like Lady Gaga

Let me explain.

So, last year LG did a concert at Madison Square Garden, and one of her many magical grotesque diva moments involved her pretending she’s Tinkerbell—ugh, there’s no way I can describe a GAGA moment. Roll the tape (start at :30):

I never thought I’d say this, but I totally get where she’s coming from. I NEED THE BLOG!!!!! I WILL DIE WITHOUT THE FORUM FOR EXPRESSING MY INANITY!!!!

My dearest blog darlings, how I’ve missed you (or, I guess, missed myself writing to you?)!!! I’m blogging to you now with one hand after having minor surgery on my left wrist on Monday. It was local anesthesia, and I was out in 15 minutes, but having three needles poked into your hand as a burly, ethnically ambiguous doctor asks, “Are you gonna pass out?” isn’t exactly a party on fountain. I’m on the mend, but have been trying not to aggravate it, which means I’m hunting and pecking on the keyboard like the keyboardist in Flock of Seagulls. As if I wasn’t bored enough on the plantation, it’s taking me thrice* as long to do everything! It’s really put a cramp in my bloggery, and there’s really so much to share.

Let me begin with the information that I’ve been bursting to share since Tuesday.
Monday night, when I was hepped up on painkillers and realizing I’d poorly planned this surgery, I decided to console myself with a documentary on genetic anomalies, which you know that always brightens my spirits. I turned on the boob tube just in time to catch “My Child is a Monkey”—score! I tucked in, expecting to learn about a Mogley-esque child who learned the bare necessities in a third-world country (I swear, the anomalies are almost always in the third world) and drift of too sleep with the knowledge that things weren’t so bad in my one-handed world.

My dear readers, what I witnessed on my television screen was more terrifying than any episode of “born without a face” or “to catch a predator” and a hotter mess than all three seasons of Teen Mom. The documentary wasn’t about children raised by animals or children with some sort of animal feature—it was about White women who adopt monkeys and raise them as children!!!

No, these women aren’t Michael Jackson-level wealthy. These chimps do not walk the red carpet with Brooke Shields. These are regular-ass middle aged members of Caucasia (yes, I said it!) who spend thousands of dollars on an animal that should not be domesticated, plucking it from its mother just days after birth only to put it in a diaper and stick it in a cage for the rest of its life—which can be upwards of 40 years.

Why would people do this? Why is this an actual acceptable business? Do you think it’s because slavery’s now illegal and Caucasians love to cage something? (not you, my readers—but you know some of your people are a hot mess!) As a leathery-skinned middle-aged British woman rode to a Capuchin monkey breeder in Virginia, she talked about how nervous and excited she was, and I’ve never wanted to punch my television set more. As that cute little monkey clung to the stuffed animal they’d put him on (no doubt to make him appear more infant-like), I felt like a misspent youth in a movie theater watching a horror flick. “RUN, RUN, MONKEY!!! THAT WHITE LADY COMIN FO’ YO’ ASS!!!” I screamed. As she and the breeder laugh at the fact that the monkeys know their babies will be taken and the woman hands over $5,500 in cash (in this economy?!), I was about ready to cut a bitch.

Y’all, I can’t do it justice. Here’s a clip (the British woman starts at 8:50):

She named her monkey George. How tacky.
I feel like even the narrator is judging—can’t you hear it in her voice?

It was when we cut to “Monkey Whisperer” Lisa, who helps domesticate the monkeys (called ‘monKIDS’—yes, y’all!) that I almost had a stroke. As Lisa exited the airport with her monkey on her back, I wished it was metaphorical. Two passersby stopped to coo at the animal. “Is he your pet?” one of the girls asked. “No, he’s not my pet, he’s my partner for life,” said Lisa.

OH HELL TO THE NO! Partner for life?! What kind of partner requires you to wipe their ass for the next 40 years? If that’s love, I’d like to pass right now. And Lisa’s just rubbing the monkey’s butt, trying to make it callous so that he gets used to diapers, and has the nerve to say, “It’s not cruel what we’re doing. The mothers jump with them on their back from tree to tree.”
Um, you’re not a monkey mom, you’re a random lady with monster claws trying to harden up his butt.

Y’all, this is like Losing Isaiah x 100.


Okay, y’all, there’s even more to report, but it’s taken me over an hour to write this and I’m sure your eyes have glazed over (or you’re now watching every Lady Gaga YouTube clip you can find). I’ll fill you in on the latest mama drama and the one-year anniversary of Blacktress and Jewboo later!!!

Glad I'm not a Monkey Mom!
-Blacktress


*can we make that word? Let’s get Merriam Webster on the horn.

I Want to Be a 5-Year-Old White Girl When I Grow Up

I know I'm a week behind, but I gotta share this YouTube:



This chick knows what's up! Did mom play Ani Difranco next to her belly when this precocious gem was in the womb?
I remember being this bold and brash. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I stabbed a boy with a spork in pre-K because he tried to kiss me?

Well, yeah. That's basically it.

And I was the one who got sent to time out! I still remember it like it was yesterday.

The year was 1988. We'd just woken up from nap time and were getting our snacks--a fruit cup, I believe (hence the spork). This boy--whose name I can't remember, but I think it was something lame--came and sat right next to me, and I immediately got annoyed. He then leaned in and tried to kiss me, and I used the only weapon at my disposal--the plastic genetically modified utensil hybrid found in cafeterias and KFCs everywhere (is it still given out at KFC? I stopped going there once I decided I didn't want to die young). I weakly stabbed at him through his shirt, and didn't even leave a mark, but he yelled for one of the nuns and told them what I did. I tried to explain that I was being assaulted, but at the age of 4, I didn't have such a vocabulary. My teacher instantly put me in the time-out corner. I was 4 years old, and I was trying to Take Back the Afternoon and I was denied!

So, basically, if I had this girl in my class back then, I might have had some support--you know, a Susan B. Anthony to my Sojourner.

On the Last Day of BHM, My True Love Gave to Me….

The chance to finally be FREE!!!

Hello internet friends!!!

I write to you now with a feeling of levity and freedom that can only come from working for one’s rights. After being bombarded with black mama drama Friday and Saturday, I had to end the pain. Her e-mails were legen—wait for it—dary*, and although this may incite drama, I can’t help but mine the molten earth of mom-induced guilt to reveal the comedy gold that is the following piece of advice she offered in an email.:
It's about an image, a brand. If you're doing voice over about baby stuff they don't want your name and vagina being associated with that.
MY NAME AND VAGINA!!!!!!

I swear, Mama Bear is hilarious.

“Sojourner, how could you just put your mom on blast after the drama of which you speak?” you may be wondering.

Well, gentle readers, not only did Mama Bear say I could blog about her (tender quote: … you can talk about me all that you want. That was the funniest. LOVE MOM ), but just minutes ago I created a new email account for this site, changed my username, AND instructed robots not to crawl to the site—resulting in a full-name search that comes up with NOTHING INCRIMINATING!!! (Well, until Google caches out)

Guys, do you know what this means???

It means I can blog with confidence, knowing that anything I say can’t and won’t be used against me in a court of law!
Well, unless some potential employer decides to start googling “Blacktress”—in which case, they got what’s comin’ to them.

What I do on my own time under my alias is, to quote the great rappers Salt ‘n’ Pepa, none of their business!



If I want to write a blog / about some dirty dog—it’s none of your business!
If I wanna spend my work day / talkin' 'bout what's cray cray -- it's none of your business!
A boss shouldn't even get into / who I'm givin' skins to -- it's none of your business!
etc.

With the monkey off my back, I can now fill you in on the other anxiety-inducer of the last few days: Jewboo’s birthday!!

I planned a surprise party for him that was unlike anything I’d ever undertaken. I reached out to 3 friends of his from out of town and arranged for them to come in to the city. The plan was this:

6pm – Arrive at Jewboo’s house.
6:30pm – long-time childhood best friend arrives. Jewboo is shocked and moved. They proceed to bro-out until it’s time to go to dinner.
7:30 – We go to dinner with friend, roommate, and another improviser—a nice Thai place in the neighborhood.
7:45 – We arrive at restaurant and find TWO OF JEWBOO’S GRAD SCHOOL FRIENDS!!!
7:46 – Jewboo weeps with joy. They proceed to catch up and hold each other close. I become best friends with the black lesbian with the locks from the ATL.
9:00pm – Other friend leaves dinner to “stop by a coworker’s party”—which is really going to the bowling alley to put our names down for a lane.
10pm – we arrive at bowling alley, where other friends are waiting!! SURPRISES!
Jewboo can no longer contain it. In front of everyone in the bar, he announces his plans to marry me. Just then, a writer from Comedy Central offers him a job—writing for the TV show they’re going to offer me. “Any woman who can plan a party like this is someone I want to get behind!” the hipster-y producer says, holding his monocle (ironically, of course).

Everyone rejoices and we stumble home at 2am, drunk on love and accomplishment.

Okay, I might have planned a little too much. But it really went well. He had no idea anyone was coming (although his emotional repression prevented the weeping I’d hoped for), and even though bowling was a bust (a 4-hour wait for a lane—wtf?!), we went to a random divey bar and dominated the jukebox. His out-of-town friends stayed til the end, and when his parents visited the next day, I received many accolades. I think my favorites were:
“You have the best girlfriend ever.”
“You put up with our son; the least we can do is give you a ride to the subway.”
[Bless these chosen people for getting me out of Greenpoint in 15 minutes flat.]

Considering this was the first time I ever had a boyfriend with a birthday**, I think I did pretty damn good.

Blacktress out!


*(h/t Barney Stinson/NPH—aka, Heterosexuality’s Greatest Loss)
**they’ve all been genetically engineered.

A Blacktress in Crisis

Good morning, gentle readers.
I come to you today with a heavy heart.

This morning I received an e-mail from my mom, in response to my blog. Apparently, she “googles me from time to time,” and found a couple of things that weren’t meant for her eyes. You know, like The Best Time I Hooked Up With Someone Because I Cut My Foot.

Awkward Town, Population: ME.

Ok, y’all, here’s my newest initiative:
You know how there are parental controls for televisions and computers that allow parents to block sites and channels so that their children aren’t sullied by adult content? I propose MAMA DRAMA CONTROLS, that prevent parents from looking up their children on the internet. Seriously. She wouldn’t even know how to use the damn thing if it wasn’t for me. There has to be a way to stop her from accessing Google, YouTube, and Altavista.

Being the Claire Huxtable that she is, she proceeded to call me and lecture me on the legal ramifications of my “raunchy” and “work-hating” content. I can be fired for saying negative things about my job, and I could be denied acting gigs if my name is associated with talks of hooking up and what not. We all know that I’ve already felt the repercussions firsthand, as a work-related post had to be taken down recently.

So I come to you, my “followers”. It seems that I, your leader, has gotten us lost. But I am not too proud to ask for directions—and I ain’t too proud to beg. Although I don’t use my real name on the blog, I can’t shake Google’s wandering eye. It seems I have only the following options:

1. Find some way to move this site to another domain (by “find some way,” I mean, “figure out how to move all the content”) and set up a different account that is managed by an alias (I think I’ll call her Glorious Jones).
2. Maintain the blog as it stands, but delete any “raunchy” or “working-hating” posts, and from this point forward only put up links to funny videos and articles, with no mention of my personal life, feelings, or observations.
3. Take down the blog. Remove the BLACKTRESS from the public record permanently.
4. And, what I’ve currently done: changed the settings so that the blog doesn’t come up in search engines, and removed the “rating” that I used to have. The drawback to the former change is that fewer people will stumble upon me and my readership will dwindle. I guess I can still hyperlink to the blog from other websites to direct traffic, but I’d have to make sure that all other sites honored my request to use my alias—and there’s no guarantee.

I can’t believe this is happening—what a sad way to end BHM. If any of you are tech savvy or know a guy who knows a guy, please leave a comment and let me know. To stay with the metaphor: I will stop at every gas station and roadside dive in Awkward Town, asking for directions until I get back on the Highway of Dignity and Future Employment Opportunities (just off of Route 4).