If All Press That Came to See Me Were Gay Men With Petite Dogs

Handing the mic to writer/comedian [Sojourner 'You Can't Handle the' Truth] (“you had me at hello”), who has coined a new term by describing herself as a “Blacktress,” riffed on her “fish out of water” experience here in the Upper Delaware valley (“I am sooo not a nature girl”) and the sea of “lily white” faces in the room. Funny and fresh, [sojourner]’s set “killed” (as they say in comedy) and her act segued nicely into headliner Yannis Pappas’ high energy, hilarious performance that made me an instant fan. ... once again, The Laugh Tour hit a home run. Future dates can be found on the website. Pappas’ observation that the “old days of Catskill comics has been revived” is accurate.

For the full article, holla at the website. I must say, Dharma the dog was so silent during my set, I thought that she didn't approve. Then she let me pet her near her bedazzled turquoise collar and I knew we were cool.

The Angelina Jolie of Cat Ladies

You know this is my safe space and the receptacle for all my deepest thoughts and memories--it's my pensieve, if you will. (Will you????) So I feel like I can tell you that yesterday afternoon I spent much of the day looking at photos of cats.

Yes, cat pics. 

Ever since I became a stepmom to Jewboo's cats, I've become such an animal lover! Nothing makes me feel better than a cat cuddle and I never want to leave the house. The obese cat and I have some issues (mostly cause he shit on the mattress last week and his food issues hit too close to home), but when he rolls over for a rub, looking like a little baked potato, my heart just melts a little bit.

What prompted this was my coworker telling me about the cat she's going to adopt. Apparently she's 5 years old, been in a foster home, and "struggles with her weight." AKA, she's obese like my stepson. I passed along some suggestions, but mostly questioned this cat's history. 

My coworker didn't like it when I asked, "is she the Precious of cats?"


She sent me a link to the cat's photo on petfinder.com, a website I hadn't even heard of (it's basically a match.com for pet lovers). Well, let me tell you, I'm officially hooked. I mean, look at these frackin' kittens:

COME THE FUCK ON!!! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DO MY DAMN JOB WHEN THESE CUTE-ASS BITCHES ARE EXISTING?????

And they even have a video of the momma cat and the babies playing:

Seeing all these cats in need of a home, I can sorta see how those ladies on A&E end up as cat hoarders. I mean, the ad says that the momma cat is just over a year old herself!!! That's basically the cat equivalent of 16 & Pregnant, and you know how much I want to help those girls. And these cats lookin' all cute and bi-racial--who knows what man cat knocked her up! Is there a cat version of Audre Lorde or Lucille Clifton that I can read to her to lift up her soul??? 
I'd totes change her name to Shiloh and and call the rest Maddox 1-3.


If you like cats and live in NYC, they're a great pet to have. Go and adopt one from this website or foster one until it can get a permanent home.
And then let me come over over day and play with them.


Oh, and FYI: Tonight at 11pm I'm performing at The People's Improv Theater (The PIT) on Skinny Bitch Jesus Meeting's monthly show. Come on down!

Weighed Down

Before I get into my Marie Osmond-esque testimonial, let me say this: I know that it's common to gain a few lbs after you settle into a romantic relationship. Trading vodka-sodas for pad thai dinners, and no longer worried about whether you'll ever have sex again, one can get a little doughy. And when you eat to feel nothing, like I do, it's a recipe for a fat-saster.* I've had weight issues for as long as I can remember, and enrolling in an Upper East Side private school where your daily calorie intake shouldn't exceed the grade on your final exam didn't help matters.
Here are a few quick facts that'll make my relationship with food a bit clearer:

• At the age of 9, while inhaling food at my grandmother's house and being told to slow down, my response was, "I'm a growing boy!" which was meant to be a joke--plus, I'd never heard "she's a growing girl" when a young female wanted seconds.
• My first week of college I was terrified to have to eat meals with my hallmates because I hadn't eaten in front of boys in years.
• My mother regularly went on 3- to 5-day crash diets and I would try to do them with her and could only last 5 minutes. I hated myself for my lack of willpower.

So, as you can imagine, when Jewboo admitted to noticing my recent weight gain, I went into a bit of a shame spiral. After all, the only thing that's made coitus acceptable is remembering that he thinks I'm thin. Now that neither of us are in a fantasy world, there's no going back!


I know this is kind of a random post. But what prompted it was this NY Times OpEd.**  That, and the fact that when I was in the D a couple weeks ago, my cousin and I reminisced about how, when I was 10, I would cry when they teased me for having "a white-girl booty" (you know, flat). I wanted curves in the right places, as the OpEd discusses. That was right before I started my new school and fell into a different cultural stereotyping.


Now I want the happy medium. You know, something like

Teehee--I can't help the puns!




But it's all looking up! I finally got one of them 'smart phones' the kids have been on about, and I'm trading in the fun apps (like fried ravioli) for some good-for-you apps, like "Noom," which helps you stop being a chubzo. Yay for taking positive actions!


How are you? What's the haps? Any tips on how to keep the weight in my boobs but make sure it leaves my thighs?


* (a fat disaster, obvs).
** I mean, other than the fact that the writer's "go-to meals" sound depressing, there's a lot there that I agree with.

Sojo's Lost her Mojo!

To give you a sense of where I'm at lately, here's an excerpt from this morning's conversation with a coworker. 

Coworker: How are you doing? 

Me: You know...as well as as can be expected at my age. 

That wasn't ironic, guys. I am feeling more broke down than my 96-year-old grandmother! I think it's because my most recent shows have been lackluster. I feel like I'm not funny anymore. Now that I'm cohabiting, I'm basically hanging out with cute cats and making lists of furnishings to buy--snoozefest! I mean, Jewboo does the dishes without being asked. He sweeps regularly. When I call his name, he usually responds "Yes, dear?" WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF COMEDIC FODDER IS THAT??? 

Oh lordy lordy (look whose forty!)--leave it to me to find a problem with an agreeable live-in lover.
I jest, gentle readers--things are good with him and they shouldn't be any other way. But this creative wall has got to come down. I know I can't be tapped out--and I'm certainly no flash in the pan. After all, ain't I a woman and ain't I a blacktress?

Maybe I need to take another international journey into Caucasia? Or I need to re-read the complete works of David Sedaris? WHAT CAN REJUVENATE MY SOUL??????


Suggestions are most welcome.

Does it actually get better? Cause this is a F'D UP.

I've been on the fence about having kids for years now, but this latest display of horrendous bullying has me tying my tubes in a figure-eight knot my damn self, Prometheus style. I can't even sit through the whole thing, but just look at this video taken on a school bus in Greece, New York: kids are saying vulgar things to the bus monitor! 




 We can't go telling kids that "it gets better" when a 60-something-year-old woman is being ripped apart!

What happened to, at the very least, respecting (and fearing) your elders? If you even looked at my grandmother sideways, you were going to get put in your place and mom wouldn't even flinch. I'm not into corporal punishment, but as the great truthteller Chris Rock says, every kid needs a good whooping on four key transgressions: lying, stealing, cursing, and disrespecting. Just set it straight once and it's never happening again. It's what I like to call terri-fucking-fy you. If you just invoke a stress response, a Pavlovian fear, it's a wrap. When I was hanging with my old-lady friend (she's 86) and some of her peeps (that's how I roll--with the Soft Food Crew), she was telling me about a kid being rude on the subway. Her friends chimed in with other stories about rude young adults.

"I've found that there are two groups of people who are consistently courteous and helpful: European tourists and young black men." BOOM! Are you shocked to hear it, readers?! Can you handle the truth?! I wasn't surprised, but I wanted to know more.
"It's because many of them were raised by women and particularly their grandmothers--they were either in their home or their sole caregiver."

Socioeconomically speaking, that checks out (and here, too). No doubt the kids in this video have little home training. I hope they suffer the consequences for their actions--and get some intensive therapy. Or maybe Greece, New York, should bring back the fucking gladiators and have these kids fight to the death--you know, separate the wheat from the psychopaths.

What do you think?

How do you know when you've found "the one"?

When he tweets:


@Blacktress Every month, Tyler Perry’s Madea goes through her minstrel cycle.

Whose Got Two Thumbs, One One of Which Isn't Working? THIS GIRL!

I must be honest and say that part of the reason I haven't blogged about the D is because of a medical condition. For weeks now, I've had intense-yet-sporadic pain in my dominant hand that effects all five fingers and even extends up to my elbow! But on this high-deductible "health-insurance plan" I'm not running to the doc unless there's oozing or hallucinations. When I got back the results from my physical and heard that my white blood cell counts were extra-low, I figured with the hand pain and the wack immune system it could only be one thing--bone cancer (natch). Still suffering PTSD from last year's medical madness (and ensuing debt), I was still trying to get answers without running to the doc every ten seconds.

Plus, you guys know how much I love genetic anomalies and medical mysteries. Well, add to that a dash of hypochondria and an apathy toward my day job and I really can get to the bottom of a host of personal ailments.  Here is an email I sent to my doc last week:

Yes, y'all--I created my own visual aids. These are the lengths I will go to in order to avoid a co-pay in these trying times.

And yes, I called my doctor "K-Cho." We're cool like that.

Unfortunately, my excellent PowerPoint presentation couldn't get me out of living life on life's terms. Doc replied a couple hours later:

Wow, that’s an impressive email with nice illustrations! Unfortunately, hand and wrist pain is much better diagnosed by exam than xray. Plus the xray will be useless without correlation to the exam if an xray is even needed. Most hand/wrist pain don’t require xrays if there hasn’t been any trauma/injury.


And boy, was she right! I went into her office yesterday and a few simple tests revealed De Quervain's tenosynovitis. 


"I had a feeling that's what it was based on your description," she said.
"So what you're saying is that my diagrams were an excellent representation of where my pain was and I should perhaps enroll in medical school?"
K-Cho didn't answer, but I'd like to think that's because the answer was obvi.

Apparently this is common among athletes who grip tools (rackets, ski poles, etc) and those who do frequent manual labor, such as hammering. Since I fit into neither of those categories, I can only assume it's because of all the typing and playing Bejeweled on my bootleg phone--or....
"Um, could it be from too much....texting?" I asked tentatively.
Doc looked up knowingly and said, "Could be."

Guys, I have a textually transmitted disease (TTD). 


I thought I was careful. I always used T-Mobile protection! My phone is so broke and busted, it's always been tough to text, but I was willing to stick it out because we'd been through so much together. But now it's destroying my ability to pursue my livelihood! How can I hold a microphone with this level of pain?!

I've been prescribed a regimen of RICE, advil, and even rehabilitation exercises--and I am dedicated. I'm not dying, I'm living with DQT--a TTD that will no longer hide in the shadows.
But this means I've gotta lay off the hard stuff (emotional texts) and the soft stuff ("running 10 min late!"). But I've got one of those ergonomic cushions at the office, so I'll try to get in as much blogging as possible while I can!

I miss you. Call me!