It's a Nice Day for a White (Person's) Wedding....

Who knew I was such a Billy Idol fan?

Tomorrow night Jewboo and I will be attending the wedding of two friends of mine. It's our first and, so far, only wedding of the year, so we're excited. This may also have to do with the fact that it's only 40 minutes outside of the city by train, which means we won't end up stuck in some godforsaken airport for 12 hours.

I've decided I really like going to weddings because I've learned how to make it all about me. Here's a quick tip sheet:

Making a Wedding Work for You: 2012 Edition, 
by Sojourner 'you can't handle the' Truth
(dictated but not read)


- You know there will be photos galore, so save yourself hours of de-tagging the following weekend and use the upcoming nuptials as an excuse to look your MOST FIERCE. I'm super excited to get a mani/pedi/waxi/everythingelseineedtobebeautiful this afternoon!


- After all the flight delays and drama last year, I've decided to only attend weddings within driving distance. With this power comes great flexibility to add a little more vacation to your destination. We're just staying at a hotel one night, but I called to request an early check-in. We'll get to hit the gym/pool, take a nap, and squeeze a brunch in! Who says it's not my special day?


- Ask the DJ to play a few Zumba tunes! You'll engage the fuck out of your core!


- Instead of drinking games, play eating games! Ever wonder how many buttercream cupcakes you can eat in an hour? Now's your chance to find out!


- Bring 250 business cards and 12 copies of your reel. You never know who's related to Ryan Seacrest!


- If you're like me and hate discussing your job/daily life/deferred dreams, stay away from people in your age group and find the oldest person in the room. Chatting up Aunt Irma is guaranteed to bring laughs--and maybe even a self-esteem boost (bonus points if the person is so old that they lived in the Jim Crow era and are shocked at your mere presence).

Now that the truth-telling is over, let's have a little Friday fun with a photo montage!

The Theme: Awkward Wedding Photos

Is this the cover of a Nickelback album?

Why is this supposed to be cute? She actually looks scared. 

CAPTION CONTEST! What do you think he's going through here?

Wake up, Rog! (his name is Roger, don't you think?) 

So what if it's your second marriage--give her your all!

I love everything about this. 

Okay, Japan, I get that the subservient woman is a thing 

but must she be pocket-sized?

F'd by FB!*

*(Fucked by Facebook, obvs)

The biggest challenge about moving in with Jewboo has been the sleep situation. I can't quite stretch out and his alarm goes off about 30 minutes before mine, which means I'm roused (but not aroused!) 30 minutes before I normally would. Then there are the cats, who are both soooo cute but so squirmy--except for the obese one, but he's so big that when he lays on the covers you can't move them at all--that I feel like I'm parenting 6-month-old twins. This morning was no different. After trying to go back to sleep--and having a weird lucid dream about a monkey appearing in my home and me repeatedly trying to jump from one high piece of furniture to the next (and then remembering that monkeys can jump and my attempts at escape were futile), only for the cats to appear and me worrying that the monkey would eat them--I decided to just get up and make my morning oats!

Clearly I was still delirious because I then thought that the best way to pass the time would be to see what was happening on Facebook. What began as a casual scroll through my newsfeed soon became a self-inflicted torture porn of albums celebrating engagements, weddings, pregnancies and babies. I don't know why I thought my day should begin with Facebook. I was already so fragile after a weekend spent in the D for G-unit's 96th birthday (more on that in the next post) and while I was gone I received texts informing me that one of my coworkers had given his notice (damn him for getting free!) and my Coyote Average co-host and co-producer would no longer be hosting, producing, or living in New York City. I know that in both cases these are the right decisions for both of them, but seeing people move closer to their dreams just reminded me how slowly I'm progressing.* Plus, I was gonna be losing my gal pal to the world of touring comedy! 

In other words: Go-go-gadget failure complex! Or, as Harry Potter would say, accio abandonment issues!

Wait--did I tell you the VO agent I met with decided they didn't want to "go forward with a relationship" and that I've gotten no other responses to my demo reel?

Yeah, that happened. 

Look, I know the TRUTH of the matter: What appears in a newsfeed doesn't capture anyone's daily life--of course everyone's photos are smiling, attractive, and showing milestones--those are the moments when someone actually has a camera! If we were really presenting our true selves, every album would pictures of people looking at other people's facebook albums. 

And we'd all look like this:

(This is how I look in my head)

But I can't help but feel like I missed a damn memo. Hetero weddings?! Babies?! Babies havin' babies?! Babies having gaybies?! Gaybies having Prada Pampers?! Guys, isn't the world going to hell in a handbasket? Do we really want to provide more energy sources for the Google-created robots that will take over in just a few short years? I don't know, maybe I'm just too narrow-minded, but I didn't see this coming. Did you?

*God, I'm so self-centered I disgust myself. 

Guys, I'm, Like, Really Well Spoken

Hey friends! I finally recorded my voiceover demo! It starts out with some solid stereotyping and then moves into my true self--you know, showing the range a blacktress needs in these trying times. Give a listen and pass it along to that uncle of yours who works in the biz:


 


I recorded it on May 24 and I already have a meeting with an agent scheduled for THIS AFTERNOON! I'm trying not to get too excited, since it really is all a crapshoot, but I must say it's validating to get such a positive--and prompt--response. Perhaps I can start to live the dream instead of living the dream deferred!

Abrupt transition:

Yesterday I went to a goodbye party for one of my favorite high school teachers (whose son I used to babysit and affectionately refer to as Lil' Massa), which was held in the place where it all began--high school.

(By "it" I mean the self-loathing and outsider tendencies that would eventually lead me to telling un-handle-able truths.)

I didn't know anyone except for a couple teachers and one other guy from my year. We caught up and it turned out he and his wife--a fellow high school classmate--just had a baby 6 weeks ago. As he showed me pictures of their cute baby in their bright, tastefully decorated Brooklyn brownstone (that they own), I realized how far removed I was from this world. One pic showed mom leaning over the baby with a camera.

"Funny story," my friendquaintance begins. "He needs a passport photo and it has to be of him with his eyes opened, not crying, not flailing, and against a white background, so this was a chill moment."

Yes, the baby needs a passport--why? Well, because he and mom are spending the summer in France, of course. #keepingupwiththekardashians

I'm not surprised, really. I understand that wealth begets wealth--and France isn't the pinnacle of 'success' (however you define it)--but I was immediately shuttled back in time to the bar and bat mitzvah days, when I wore the same dress to the afternoon and evening parties and no one else did the same. I mean, here I was, praying that my decision to pay for me demo wasn't a waste of my savings, and there's a fetus still reeking of placenta who needs a passport and all I've got to look forward to this summer is a trip to the D (where it's so, so cold).

Needless to say, I ate a slice of banana bread and two slices of chocolate hazelnut cake as I tried to make my day job sound as exciting as summering in France.

As he rattled off the list of classmates who'd come to see the baby, I was mostly just shocked that they were all still friends. It's crazy how shit doesn't change. I chimed in with whatever I'd managed to glean from Facebook, but my heart just wasn't in it. I knew that I didn't want to be a consultant or a VP or a lawyer (but I did wish I could work for Google), but the ability to navigate the world with the ease that financial security brings would be pretty dope right about now. Granted, I am part of the 99%, but I'd blocked out the fact that I spent most of my formative years with the 1%, and it's probably why I am obsessed with amenities.

Well, this isn't really going anywhere, so I'll stop typing. Here's hopin' I end up as the voice of Seagram's gin and guice, now with ginseng!

The Importance of Being Ernest

There are so many things to adore about this video, but I'll let you decide for yourself: I had no idea who Lana Del Rey was until I saw this video (and was prompted to look up several clips). I think that is a sign of a powerful YouTube clip--it inspired me to ACT. It also reminded me that we could all use an Ernest in our lives.

I Found More Than Just Containers....

I want to design my own t-shirt. I wouldn't sell it and no one besides myself would want it because it would say:

I just got back from 

and all I got was this AMAZING NEW BEST FRIEND. 

And underneath would be a picture of me and Ellen, the sales associate who made me feel like a better person.

This is what happens when I try to sneak out briefly during work to get a set of drawers.

Ever since the blog stopped being a safe space, I've been unable to tell my personal truths in the cathartic way that this blog once offered. I can, however, talk about how I'm feeling, since that doesn't sully anyone's good name and feelings aren't facts. 

In short: I'm having a hard time. 

See, I'm not very good at "organizing," "making efficient use of my time," or "being a functioning member of society." Whenever I manage to get anything together it's usually because I've been guilted or shamed into behaving in a socially acceptable manner.* Which, of course, means that I'm having trouble living in close quarters with a man and two cats—all of whom I love—that remind me every day that I'm just taking up too much space. 

I know that I need to get rid of the half-full Ikea bags full of clothing that I've hidden in the closet—I mean, it's because of them that I've worn the same 6 outfits for the last 3 weeks! And I can't complain about Jewboo's unpacked boxes when I'm using a stack of three of them as a desk for my laptop. As RuPaul used to say: If you can't love [living with yourself], how in the hell are you gonna love [living with your Jewboo]??? 

She also said, "Don't fuck it up," which I should also take to heart.

With that in mind, I started looking through shelving options on the Container Store's website. I was immediately overwhelmed (do you know there are containers for holding your double-A batteries???) and finally decided to just walk the 50 feet from my office to the actual store. 

Actually, what I said to myself was "THIS. ENDS. NOW." before I grabbed my credit card and keys (they won't know I've really left if my purse stays!)

[Yes, I like to think of myself as Bruce Willis in everything ever.]

When I got there, it was all too much. For a store that was all about containing, I felt it was overflowing with stuff that was just out of control! I was about to walk out when I spotted a smiley sales associate with a hip haircut and very subtle blue-grey eyeshadow.

"I need help!" I said, much like a lost child at a county fair. (I've found this is the best way to get a stranger's attention and immediate sympathy.)

"What are you looking for?" Smiley Lady said, much like a kindergarten teacher addressing someone who she knows has just peed his pants. 

"I need shelving because I just moved in with my boyfriend and my shit's a hot mess and if I don't get it together we're over, and I was on the website and saw this shelving unit that I want and I was at my desk and decided, 'THIS ENDS TONIGHT' but I can't find it."

Her name was Ellen. She was very patient and had no problem with TMI, which means we're meant to be BFF. 

Elllen got married last year and she and her husband have been living in a studio apartment—and they're making their love work!!

"How, Ellen? HOW?" I asked as we stood by the mesh Elfa drawers sold exclusively at The Container Store.

Ellen explained that she's pretty chill and just says exactly what she's thinking.

"Yeah," I said. "I don't see you as one to fly off the handle." I just got her, you know?

 Unfortunately the item I saw online actually looked like it was based on the novel PUSH  by Sapphire, and I was back to square one, but Ellen helped me figure it out before I had a Mariah Meltdown.

As I left without a drawer unit for my clothes, but with a jazzy clothes hamper, I felt hopeful. I'm ordering some drawers to pick up in store, which is both high-tech and less stressful. I'm probably going to pick them up on Saturday, which is the next day that Ellen's working.

Yes, she told me of her own volition. We're going to start going on coffee dates at Bed Bath & Beyond's cafe and I'll probably get her to "Like" my Facebook fan page. #BFFnotonNBC

*We all know that if I had my way I'd be the star of next season's new show "Biggest Hoarders Loser Intervention," where obese men and women are made to lose weight by kicking their drug addiction and cleaning their health-code-violating compounds.

Summertime and the Dressin' is Shitty....

As the weather stays warm, everyone's dressing for the season--and many are looking fierce. I mean, I work in Chelsea, so every block and a half I see a young model on her way to a go-see (yep, I know the lingo), but even the normals are bringin' their A-game.

Except for the men.

I've discovered that I have several prejudices against certain fashion choices that men make. In fact, they offend me with their grossness.
I would like to share them with you now.
As with my fears, I believe that as I say them, I release them.

Hipster mullet.


                             

I came across this just yesterday while getting lunch with a gal pal. It was one of those hip restaurants where all of the waitstaff look like runaways from Oregon, and the guy asked us how many we'd be before reserving our table with a flame-patterned kerchief. So typical.

TEVAS

OF COURSE this guy would have a fish is a lava-lamp-shaped tank and a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge as his screensaver. No, buddy, I don't want to hear about that time you went to India with your parents for vacation!

This same character is usually found wearing another gguuhh--ross item: 

the short-sleeve button-down. 

I know, I know, this may polarize many of you, but this is my blog and my truth!

It doesn't matter how attractive you are, this screams LAME DAD!

Jaunty Caps (with unkempt hair)

No, you're not cool, you're not a 1940s jazz musician, and you don't have to get up early tomorrow and go to a life-drawing class. 

Winter Hats in Non-Winter Weather.    

Not even on Zefron.

This makes me want to vomit.

This makes me want to vomit--and not because it's Howie Mandel.  

FYI: it doesn't look good on non-white guys, either. 

While we're on the face, let's discuss WAXED MUSTACHES. 

Kill yourself.

The man below is basically the stuff of my nightmares.

Frosted Hair; 1990s-swing-music-revival-style T-Shirt; BLEACHED SOUL PATCH; sculpted facial hair AROUND the soul patch; TWO hoop earrings; AND A PINKY RING.

On the Twelfth Day of Not Blogging, My True Love Gave to Me....A Blog Post!

Twelve days since my last blog post?! That's a fuckin' abomination.

How are you guys? I'm a bit weary, but that's nothing new. I've had a lot of potential posts in mind but never really thought they were worth following through--or, rather, I was up against deadlines for work and after cranking out articles with such titles as "WaterMedia Meaning," I didn't think I was fit to walk the earth, much less sully the blogsphere. Luckily, the magazine has gone to the printer and I've got some breathing room for a week or so. And you know what "breathing room" means: lunches with my main gays, doctor's appointments to check on my brain (remember that ish last year?), doing some creative writing, and engaging in bloggery. So here we are!

Here are some things I wanted to share last week, presented in "mini-post" form:

Title: A POST-RACIST AMERICA?

Abstract

The 30 Rock role for which I auditioned was played by a WHITE WOMAN.

I can't even write more lest I end up writing a 30-page post.

Title: THE WAR ON TERROR

Abstract
Last weekend, I was lazing around the house and calling it organizing when I turned to Jewboo, who was washing dishes.
"Will you judge me if I take a nap now?"
He turned to me, with the confused look of a person being asked an interview question that's clearly a trick (you know, like, "What's your greatest weakness?"). "Um....are you asking my permission?"
"I don't know. Yes? Is that bad?"
As you can imagine, I'm having a tough time with cohabitation. Not because of anything Jewboo has or hasn't done--it's all in my head. You know how I like to dissect everything and try to figure out why so that I can, in turn, manipulate in hopes of achieving my dreams (usually fame and undying love)? Well, that's cute when it's pithy and can be closed in a Firefox tab. And it's acceptable when it happens once a week on the nights that I spend with my lover. But when it's a daily occurrence, it not only strains the relationship but it also taxes the mind. And I don't know how to stop. 

The innocuous question, "What do you want for dinner?" reaches my hammer, anvil, and stirrup sounding like, "Are you seriously going to just eat ice cream as a meal?" I then feel the need to over-explain my behavior and request unnecessary approval.

Guys, it turns out I'm a terrorist--relax, government Google spies--I'm a "process terrorist." I learned this phrase from an insightful older gay gentleman who has been with his live-in Latin lover for nearly two decades. While explaining my new domestic status, he said, "You know, when I first met [Juan] I thought he was a bit dim cause he was so drama free. Turns out that he just doesn't feel the need to analyze everything to death. You're destroying everything by trying to dissect it. You're making everyday life fearful. You've got to stop."
Lord knows I have no desire for 72 virgins,* so I really do need to get it together.


*What woman wants to spend the afterlife saying, "No, not there. Up. UP! Okay...no, it's fine."?

Title: FAMILY VALUES

Abstract

I received the following text not once, not twice, but three times (the cray cray) from my cousin who writes hood tales:

[Title removed] the sexiest erotic thriller is now available 4 sale b4 mothers day. set in a web of lust lies love deception drama and abortion.

And here I was, wondering what on earth to get for the mother who has everything!