Since We're in the Mood for Change....

Hey guys, so I don't know if you heard, but America has a black president. He's really into change--and not in the begging-for-it-like-a-hobo kind of way. He's about making ish different the world over.

So, in that vein, I have a thought: why don't rich and famous white folks stop adopting brown children and go get some white babies? Seriously. I was kicking it in the Broadway Mall in Sydney and saw the cutest brown baby with his white mom (he called her mama, I'm not assuming). For some reason it got me thinking about how, when a white person adopts a child of another race, they are seen as extra-giving and self-less. But what about those white folks who live in poverty? Poverty breeds hate which leads to the dark side. Perhaps if we took some poor white folks out of their backwoods homes, there'd be fewer KKK members.

My plan is to get Brad and Angie to adopt some poor white babies from right here in America, cause nothing teaches cross-cultural acceptance like having siblings straight out of a United Colors of Benetton catalogue. Since Brad's stopped returning my calls, and Angie's mad cause I told her to get someone to handle Zahara's head, I'm going to just write an open letter. Here goes...

Dear Brangelina,

Hey guys, it's me, Blacktress! How are you doing? Brad, I was totes about you in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but I found the trope of the 'magical negro' to be off putting. At first I thought it was just F. Scott Fitzgerald, but it turns out the short story had no negroes at all, let alone magical ones! You got a black baby now, stop perpetuating stereotypes!!

Anyway, that's not what I'm writing about. I'm writing because you guys love adopting babies. Angie loves walking around with a baby on each hip and two on each side, much like a glamorous childcare worker. However, you seem to adopt brown babies only. While this is all well and good, there are several white children in our fair country that could use some wealth and the education that it brings. Brangie, what about going into some rural areas and picking up some kids who are 12 years old and still can't read? What about asking some angry racist white folks if you can borrow their babies for 18 years, and then sending their children back armed with knowledge of Vietnamese, African, and Cambodian culture? I'd love to turn to Page Six and see a glamour shot of a former farmhand turning his KKK robes into a dashiki while braiding Zahara's hair.

So, um, yeah, that's just what I'm wondering. How are things? Angie, you're looking a little rough around the edges, boo. No matter how rich you are, you can't raise 6 kids and make it through the day. I loved you in The Changeling, but I am wondering if maybe you need a kid or two to disappear just to take the edge off. Actually, give me the white twins. I'll have them coming back reading Audre Lorde and "See Spot Run When Your Eyes Are Done Watching God"--it's Zora Neale Hurston for kids. Expect it in fall 2009.

Okay, well, I hope you take my lesson to heart. I've got a list of some towns you can start in when you're ready.

xoxo,
Blacktress!

What do you think? Is this the kind of change we can believe in?

From the Mouths of MILFs

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Performance Anxiety

So, as I said in my previous post, there is a red-haired man that's got me swooning! As I also said, he is leaving me for my hemisphere. Other than the terrible irony and complete unfairness that is an Australian man leaving me when I'm in Australia, this now means two of my future husbands will be in Canada: him and Michael Cera.

I don't know how I'm supposed to live in a world where everything I love is sent to Canada. I'm gonna have to get Obama to do something about this.

Anyway, we were talking about exchanging some music to broaden his horizons and provide him with some new tunes as he embarks on a new voyage. I believe his exact words were, "I want some cruisey tunes."

Though he uses this word often, I'm still not quite sure what 'cruisey' means. This is one of those Aussie terms that I'm still grasping three months in. Like that time he said there was a "biffo at the cricket," which I assumed was some sort of foodstuff, but actually means "there was a fight a the cricket match."


Basically, I think "cruisey" means laid back, rhythmic tunes you can sort of bop to--the kind of jam that puts a pep in your step, but doesn't overwhelm an afternoon bbq. Regardless, I'm basing my CD creation on this theory.

Guys, this is a very high-pressure situation. Remember back in the middle-school days when you were totes crushin' on someone, and you wanted to show your luuurrvvv? You went back home, broke out a cassette, and got to recording tunes that you were convinced proved your coolness--and your ability to be the perfect partner. The result looked something like this:


Remember how hard making a mixtape was? Stopping, pausing, trying to keep the flow seamless, so you'd even rewind a little bit to make sure the time between songs wasn't too long? It was a labor of love, and by the time you handed over it was not unlike your still-beating heart--only way less gross.

To this day, nothing proves you're into a guy like rolling up to him slowly and whispering in his ear, "Damn boy, you so fine I wanna make you a mix tape."
Go ahead, try it on your next crush.

He's going to judge me based on my musical taste! What if he listens to it and is like, "oh em gee, she sucks balls. but not mine. no sir, not mine." ?!?!??! This is very stressful. He will be listening to these tunes as he backpacks the Canadian wilderness. I will use these tunes to keep myself on his mind even when we are separated by thousands of miles. I can NOT have him remembering that I'm kind of lame.

As you can see, I'm really into him. So into him that I did not blog about him for a week and refuse to talk about our actual interactions because the only comedic fodder comes from my giddiness, not his foolishness. So into him that he left his man-deodorant at my place before his flight, saying that I should hold on to it cause he can't take an aerosol can on the plane, but I'm pretty sure he's leaving it here because he wants me to sniff it and think of him.
So into him that I almost told his brother how I felt.
I IM'd the friend of mine who got me in touch with him, and our conversation would have gone something like this:
me: HEY GIRL
HOW DO I GET [FRED WEASLEY] TO MARRY ME?! IT'LL BE LIKE IN HARRY POTTER BOOK 5 WHEN THEY ALL NEED DATES FOR THE YULE BALL AND FRED ASKS OUT ANGELINA, THE BLACK GIRL!!!
my friend: roofies. [i think she would have said this]

Instead, it went like this:
me: HEY GIRL
then, for some reason unbeknownst* to me, I paused and waited for her to respond. I never do this, seeing as I have a lot to say at all times.
my friend: hey Sojourner, this is her boyfriend [and my Weasley twin's brother!!!]. she's out right now.
me: oh, hey, sorry about that.
her boyfriend: no dramas.

AAHHHH! Can you imagine how that would have gone if I'd kept talking?! I'd be the mayor of Awkward City!!!

So I'm sitting here at 11:30 am on Australia Day trying to get some cruisey tunes. I made one sure-fire winner only to discover that the disc won't play in a CD player. I AM BEING FOILED BY TECHNOLOGY!!

I now have to go buy new blank CDs that are more versatile. This is way hard, guys.

As I wipe the sweat off of my brow, I try to remember that this is just a nice thing, and he'll appreciate my follow-through-- even if he thinks I have the musical taste of an emo 14 year old.

But, um, seriously, how do you record music so that it plays a subliminal message that makes him want to wed me in a rushed Canadian ceremony?

Whoever's got the answer gets to be the flowergirl.


* I'm trying to bring this word back into the general lexicon. What do we think?

I Cannot Watch This Without Cracking Up

The rhymes aren't the cleverest, but the hook just has me rolling.

Clearly I spend way too much time on youtube.

Oh, and these last few posts are my way of stalling since I don't know how to begin to write about the fact that I am totes crushing on my very own real-life Weasley twin. Like, for serious. This is an even bigger crush than the one I have on my podiatrist.

And, in line with the tragedy of my life, he is leaving Sydney in about 10 days to spend the next TWO YEARS in Canada!

Fucking Canada.

I Cannot Watch This Without Tearing Up

It's Been A Long Time Coming.....

I think my favorite part would have to be Malia's pre-inauguration pep talk. Here's a quote from the Prez, found on This Week With Barack Obama:

For Barack Obama's historic Inaugural Address:

"And then we go and look at...Lincoln's second inaugural'' etched on the wall of the memorial, Obama said, recounting his daughters' remarks to him. "And Sasha looks up, and she says, 'Boy, that's a long speech. Do you have to give one of those?' I said, 'Actually, that one's pretty short. Mine may even be a little longer.'

"At which point, then Malia turns to me and says, 'First African-American president. Better be good.''

Oh, Malia, it was SOOOO GOOD!!! While I wished I could have been at home--or, even better, in DC--watching it bleary-eyed at 4am, then again at the Democrats Abroad inauguration party, I felt the same chills I felt on election night.

So, um, Michelle, I'm sending in my application to be the girls' governess. I've got the reading list all set, and have no problem picking up dog poop.

The Accidental Cougar

Friday night I hung out with friends of the Swede, and had a gay ol' time!
Seriously, it was so gay.

We started our drinking in Surry Hills, a fabulous gayborhood that I've yet to truly discover. I was excited when the Swede's friends asked me to hang out earlier that week, as it not only gave me plans but proved that our short-lived liaison wasn't all for naught. Now (f)unemployed and 75% mobile, I am allowing myself to have fun--you know, dance like no one is watching and all that shit. The Swede's friends (now mine, yay!) are a hetero couple in their mid-30s who pretty much only roll with gays. Seeing as I'm suffering a gay shortage, I am glad to find this hidden world of fabulosity. I'd had two glasses of rose before I left the house, then had three jack and cokes at their friends' house before heading to the bar. We went to a place called the Clock Hotel, and that's where I first noticed that you cannot tell gay and straight men apart in this town. All the dudes are pretty and coiffed and buff and tan, so how can one really tell?

After one drink there, we went to The Colombian, a gay club where I instantly felt at home. This could be because a few gay men were staring at me, and one approached and asked, "Are you famous?"

"Why, yes, I am a blacktress," I said sincerely.
He nodded, then ran back to whisper to his friends.

Phase One of "Operation: Make Everyone Think I'm a Big Deal in America" is complete.

I then started dancing with a petite, sassy gay, and we're having fun. After a few minutes, he starts rubbing me up and down, and, you know, I'm still not put off yet, cause he doesn't want to buy what I'm selling. Then, after a few more minutes, he's sticking his tongue down my throat.
WTF, mates?!
If a gay club isn't a safe space for a blacktress, what is?

Turns out, this gay club is actually mixed, and many straight guys pounce on the hags whose defenses are weakened. In fact, many of the guys use their gay friends as an in. When they first started talking to me, I had dreams of becoming a Diana Ross-like figure, but then I realized they were acting on behalf of their mate, who wanted to take a dip in the Chocolate River.

Anyway, we were rolling about 8 deep, and I'd met a few of the people in the group on New Year's Eve, post-ambulance/pre-Swedish-coitus. One such character was Simon, a smiley British lad who just sort of wandered around and came in and out of the group all night. About 6 wines later, Meg informs me that Simon thinks I'm gorgeous.
"But I thought he was gay?" I ask, totally confused.

Maybe it was the 7 drinks, but for some reason, I thought I'd hook up with Simon. Clearly, flattery will get you everywhere with me-- especially if you're too shy to tell me. I LOVE AN AWKWARD.

However, I do NOT love erectile dysfunction.

We went back to his place and started making out, and it was just as awkward as I'd envisioned. Simon's English accent just lent a sense of "Notting Hill" to the whole thing, and I got way too giggly for a woman of my age. We start to....physically express our emotions....and Simon is as limp as a wet sock! Luckily, my lack of interest in him made this okay for me--but he was quite stressed out.

"Ugh, this always happens," he said as he struggled to not fail at sex.
"It's all right," I said.
He then went on and on about how a guy is expected to perform, and how he wants to but just can't. I tried to calm his fears, and just held him as he recounted various sexual experiences that went awry.

Things I Learned That Night:
Never ask a man if he's a homosexual while he is inside of you.

Yup, I did it. He didn't let the question phase him, saying, "No, no, I've thought about that and that's not it. It's just, you know, hard sometimes."

Or soft, as the case may be. (oooh, call the burn unit, cause that one was fierce!)

I asked him how old he was, trying to piece together a history.
"I'm 20," he said.

OH MY FUCKING GOD.

I was in bed with a 20 year old. I am an accidental cougar. He didn't look very young, and besides, we had been out with 30-somethings--how did his underaged behind slip through the cracks?

This is what happens when you live in a country where the drinking age is 18. You could very well end up in bed with someone who didn't even grow up on 90210 version 1.

I forgot what happened after that--I think my body blacked out to spare myself the trauma.

I woke up the next morning to him trying to wake me up for more--you've got to admire his pluck. I realized I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor.
I was, like Danny Glover, too old for this shit.
I quickly got up to get some water, and saw his roommate downstairs. She was a nice gal, and we'd chatted a lot the night before. She was heading to a friend's place in Glebe, and asked if I wanted a ride.

It was 10:30. My breath reeked of penis and red wine (yeah, I said it.) and I wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

I ran upstairs, grabbed my bag, and gave Simon a half-hearted kiss on the cheek. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name.

Let's just quit while we're ahead, I thought.

Now, a few days later, I don't feel so terrible, though I am a bit disappointed in myself. I am really trying not to do things just for the sake of doing them--and that includes sleeping with underaged randoms who may or may not be homosexual. I should be writing, hiking through the Blue Mountains, or having love affairs with dynamic artists who know how babies are made, you know?

Ah well. This is, like, the foot injury, a minor setback.
From now on, I'm checking ID.