Hey gang. Sorry I’ve been off the grid. I’ve been kind of down in the dumps. I won’t go into it, because it’s best to erase, replace, embrace THIS SPACE (hmm…what do we think of that? I’m not sure, but I’ll leave it out there).
I haven’t slept more than 5 hours a night for the last week, but I’ve gotten myself into quite the tizzy. Tomorrow afternoon, I head to Reading, Pennsylvania with the Jewboo to meet his parents!!!
I feel like Dr. John Wade Prentice must have felt—only, you know, without the confidence that comes with being a doctor.
(How did you do it, Sidney???? Was it your crisp suit, your fancy degree, and your voice, that could lend gravitas to a grocery list?)
The blacktress will go deep inside Caucasia, hoping to make a good impression.
Only, um, I’m not sure how to do that. What do middle-aged white people like to talk about? What outfits say, “your son and I have never had pre-marital sex”? I was just running around midtown, looking for a fancy box of chocolates, and they have to nerve to charge $41 dollars for a 4” x 4” box containing 8 pieces!! What do I look like to these Rockerfeller Center fools?!
What’s a good gift that will look nice (not some, tiny, overpriced box) but not cause clutter? He said his parents “have enough trinkets and crap” (and I’m now imagining a house full of unicorn figurines), “so they don’t need anything.” Then again, this is coming from a man who’s never really taken me on a formal date, so I don’t know if I trust his judgment. Obvi, momma didn’t raise no fool, so I know I can’t show up to spend two nights at a stranger’s home and have no gift!! Besides, I need them to love me and think I’m awesome so that Jewboo decides to marry me.
Okay, okay, it’s only been 4 months, I know. I partially jest. But, like, why is he bringing me home already if he’s not for serious about a blacktress? Add to this the fact that he dropped the L-bomb first, and I feel like this could be a really important step. But he’s being sooo friggin cavalier about this, acting like it’s not a big deal for me to cross state lines and show up on mama’s doorstep, spending the holiday weekend trying to prove my worth. Clearly, I’ll be celebrating Codependence Day.
See, the trick to getting someone to marry you is to become so embedded in their life that it’s simply more convenient to have you around. You know, like the song goes—it’s cheaper to keep her. I’ve already provided food and orgasms for three months, so now it’s about winning over mom, dad, and sis, so that every time he calls them up, Mama goes, “How’s blacktress? She’s a great girl, son, don’t fuck it up!” I want us to get so close during our 48-hour visit that after I get back home, mom starts me links to articles she thinks I’ll find interesting, and asks if she can speak to me when her son calls.
Is this too much to ask for?
I’m thinking of showing up in crisp bridal whites—you know, something that says, “pure, virginal, and makes a great in-law.”
I am Sidney Poitier. (as always, Photoshopping courtesy of JJSiii)
Seriously, guys, I alternate between excitement (getting out of New York! Getting to see pics of Jewboo when he was little! Thinking he may actually be so into me that he wants me to meet his parents!!) and nausea (What if they think I’m boring, and not as pretty as his previous girlfriends? What if they aren’t as down with the brown as they think they are? What if I wet the bed?!). I’m thinking of getting an assortment of Crumbs cupcakes in a fancy box. Nothing says, “love me” quite like mini cupcakes.
I don't want to leave you guys in D-hole (that's a 'depression' or 'downer' hole, for you folks who don't know the terms I make up on the spot), so here's a ridiculous internet video, starring a blacktress, my favorite Jewrican, and co-written and co-directed by my boo.
I play rabbi Humphrey Blowdart.
It's rather non-sensical, but perhaps it's randomness will take the edge off the previous post. Jewboo needs to learn a bit about lighting a negress, as I'm shrouded in darkness most of the damn film, but hey, we can't win 'em all.
After working the longest day ever (8am - 11:30pm), I was spent. When I got home after midnight, I anticipated passing out quickly, yet managed to wake up at 2am and 6:50am. When I finally woke up at 8am to get ready for work, I was groggy and out of it. My hatred of the plantation was already at full-speed, and I hadn't even gotten on the train yet.
As I turned on the tv to check the weather, Fox 5 News made the day worse than I could imagine.
I found out that my kindergarten teacher, now 84 years old, was killed yesterday.
I kid you not. There's no joke to this post.
The full story is here, but basically three wastes of space robbed a store and then sped down Lenox Ave, in Harlem, with the cops in pursuit. Of course, they ran a red light, injuring two pedestrians and killing Sister Mary Celine Graham--or, as I called her until I was 10, and when I saw her around the neighborhood, Sister Celine.
She was so nice (despite the occasional corporal punishment--but you know, they nuns were old school), and remembered my name 20 years after she had me as a student. Her convent focused on education, and I remember even spending summers in her house, waiting for my mom to get me after piano lessons. I would totally freak out when I saw her watching tv, cause in my child-brain, nuns didn't watch "The Price is Right" and they certainly didn't eat sandwiches or drink lemonade!
Anyway, I just had to put that out there into the ether, my little way of remembering someone who impacted my childhood, urged my mother to send me to private school when she saw I wasn't being challenged, and knew I was smart when other teachers just thought I talked too much in class.
The two suspects ran away from the scene of the collision, so I guess this means they're still at large. While this makes me sad and enraged, I have to think you can't just kill a nun and get away with it--there has to be some kind of justice in this world. I mean, what is going on in Harlem? I'd make some joke about how we're clearly not nearly as gentrified as people think, but this isn't really the post for it.
Hmmm...for some reason writing this post makes me feel a bit better. Sorry if it's too much of a downer, but even the blacktress' diary gets a little grim.
I'll follow up with a humorous internet video for your enjoyment.
You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life. There's a time you got to go and show You're growin' now you know about The Facts of Life, the Facts of Life. When the world never seems to be livin up to your dreams And suddenly you're finding out the Facts of Life are all about you, you. It takes a lot to get 'em right When you're learning the Facts of Life. (learning the Facts of Life) Learning the Facts of Life (learning the Facts of Life) Learning the Facts of Life.
Well, it seems I am, indeed, learning the facts of life, gang.
Let’s start by taking the good, shall we? Well, on Saturday, June 19th, at 2:19pm, I decided that Jewboo is going to be my LIFE boo. I won’t use the phrase “the one,” cause that kind of makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little. Let’s just say, I want to hang out with him forever and ever and have his baby Baracks. “How can you know this after three months, Sojourner?” you may be asking. Let me break it down.......
So, this past Saturday, we had plans to spend the day together, finally have some relaxing hang-out time when neither of us had a class, rehearsal, or show. I was pretty amped (as evidenced by the fact that my Google calendar reminder email read “reminder: 1-10pm. Magical Day With Jewboo—yay!!”).
Things started off a bit later than planned, as I had to wait for the exterminator to come spray the house (just, you know, for the fun of it). I had trouble sleeping the night before, so I started off the day pretty groggy and pissy. Luckily, at 11am, one of my favorite films—TEEN WITCH—was on ABC Family, and I was able to mellow out a bit. As I listened to “Top That” for the 187th time, I knew it’d be a good day.
I didn’t end up getting to Brooklyn until 2pm, and I'm ravenous and sleepy and overheated from my walk from the subway. Jewboo tells me the restaurant he planned was closed, so we decide to meet at another place “in 10 minutes.” He’s not there when I arrive, but I put our names down for a table.
Now, I don’t know about you guys, but when I’m hungry, I do NOT do well. Hungry AND tired, and I’m basically a high-functioning toddler. I start blowing up his phone like a crazy biotch, wondering where the flip he is, and get pissy that I’m waiting on the streets on Brooklyn like a common woman. I mostly want him to hurry up and get here to hold our spot so I can run to a bodega and grab a quick granola bar or something to take the edge off.
When he shows up about 10 minutes later, I’m totally pissy—but it’s not even his fault. I know it’s cause I’m hungry and sleepy and hot as balls, but I cannot seem to muster up a smile and all….that is, until Jewboo reaches into his bag and pulls out something wrapped in plastic. He hands it to me. I open it. Is he about to put a ring on it, I wonder? No--it's something even better—it’s a pastry from a Polish bakery!!!
“You sounded like you were in food distress,” he said. SWOON CITY, POPULATION: ME!!! I pretty much propose on the spot, eat the pastry like I’ve been held in Guantanamo Bay, and our magical day begins.
Guys, do you see how huge this is?! Jewboo can not only tolerate me being a psycho bitch when he’s made an effort to plan a nice day for us, but he can hear through the bitchiness to the hungry toddler underneath and provide the blacktress with what she really needs—FOOD!!!
I wonder if he’ll convert to Hinduism so that I can have the Indian wedding I’ve always dreamed of (for the last month).
Okay, so that’s the good. Now, how’s about we take the bad? Well, how about the fact that I can’t get a damn moment’s peace on this plantation, and I had to come into work 40 minutes early just to find some quiet time to get things done? The boss has me meeting with an elite Belgian gay visionary this afternoon, hitting up an artist’s workshop tomorrow, and then spending all of Friday on-site at a workshop in Long Island. While it may seem fun and exciting to get out of the office, I have actually articles to write, and they can’t get done if I’m never at my desk, or, if when I’m at my desk, he’s constantly emailing and calling me away to help bring to fruition every cockamamie scheme that pops into his head. Add to this the fact that the artists are boring (to me), pompous, and I could just as easily get the information I need in a series of emails or telephone calls, and I’m just simply at wit’s end.
It also seems like I’m the only person on staff who has a life outside of this office. There are other coworkers who are married with children, but that's an acceptable reason to have to leave. The fact that I'm a single lady who can't seem to devote all my time to work when the three other editors who are also in my age range jump up with reckless abandon to go to every opening and dinner, just makes me look like a hot mess. So the fact that I’ll have to cut this afternoon’s interview short so I can go to my improv class at 6:15, and the fact that I can’t hang out in LI with artists after the workshop because I have two stand up shows to get to makes me some sort of renegade who lacks professionalism. I spent much of Monday spewing work-related venom, and figured the only way to stop is to get on bored this train, suck it up, come in early, give him my free time, and make it work.
Okay, second bad: Did you know Indian youth are really into Hitler? This comes to me straight from the BBC News via a friend’s g-chat status update (which is how I get all my information, really).
Apparently, the land that brought us Bollywood and Naan is really down with Mein Kampf.
It's hard to narrow down what makes the dictator popular in India, but some young people say they are attracted by his "discipline and patriotism".
Most of them are, however, quick to add that they do not approve of his racial prejudices and the Holocaust in which millions of Jews were killed.
But the truth is that books, T-shirts, bags and key-rings with his photo or name on do sell in India. And his autobiography, Mein Kampf, sells the most.
W T F ? !
Choice quote: Dimple Kumari, a research associate in Pune, has not read Mein Kampf but she would wear the Hitler T-shirt out of admiration for him. She calls him "a legend" and tries to put her admiration for him in perspective: "The killing of Jews was not good, but everybody has a positive and negative side."
Um, I don’t know how to cope with this. It’s exactly what Alan Thicke wrote about in the “Facts of Life” theme song—“when the world never seems / to be living up to your dreams….” This is a NIGHTMARE, people! I only discovered I was meant to be an Indian woman last month, after the greatest wedding ever, but this now scares and confuses me. Can you imagine walking down the streets of Mumbai, with Hitler paraphernalia all around like he was Justin Beiber? What’s all this talk of “discipline”? It’s amazing how forgiving they are of his mass-killing tendencies. Maybe what India’s trying to tell us is that it’s really a haven for all. No, no, I can’t find a silver lining to this crazy-cloud.
So, um, folks, there you have it—the good, the bad, the facts of life. Go forth into the world with this knowledge—of potential love for a blacktress, of workplace oppression, and Mein (UN)Kampf(ortable) trends in India. As they sang: There's a time you got to go and show/ You're growin' now you know about/ The facts of life….
Ok, so you guys know how much I love my new daddy, right? Well, the bloom is starting to fade from the rose, as they say. (does anyone actually say that besides my mom?)
He is sort of fabulous, but also enfuriating—sometimes I feel like I’m in a deleted scene from The Devil Wears Prada. Take, for instance, this morning’s conversation.
New Daddy: Okay, I’m thinking out loud here. We need to get a super issue of Watercolor mag out as soon as possible.
Me: How many additional pages of content would that require?
ND: I don’t know, 40?
Me: That’s roughly 4 extra articles, in addition to the 9-10 that appear in each issue. And you want that by when?
ND: For the next issue.
Me: That’s not possible.
ND: How long is that acrylic article? 250 words? what were you thinking? [he has now moved on to another topic entirely, with no regard for what I said was not possible.]
Me: The article hasn’t been written or sent to me yet. You told you wanted a spread, so no more than 400 words—depends on how many images we get.
ND: Okay, okay [he pauses]. I’ve got the advertisers up my ass, I’ve inherited this clusterfuck, I don’t know. [note: he says the above with complete nonchalance.]
[I don’t know what to say.]
ND: Okay, is there any way we can get this in to the next issue of the monthly?
Me: It ships on Thursday, and we don’t have any of the content. If the artist gets it to me on Monday, that still requires a scramble.
ND sighs and rubs his temple. I am fearful he’ll throw his hot coffee in my face.
ND: I need to please these advertisers. [pause] Okay, I’ll make a call to advertising, see what I can do. I’ll try to work some queer magic.
Naturally, his laugh line is my cue to exit, as he turns his seat back to his desk as he shoos me away.
I don’t know how to handle him. He’s very stream-of-consciousness, and he goes from pissed and hilarious at the drop of a dime. An older gay is the kind of breed that can turn on its hag, and I’m fearful of him. I need his approval as both my massa and an older gay, but I also need him to stop trippin’ and let me get my basic shit done. Toeing the line with this one will require a bit of finesse.
Thank god it’s Friday. I need to take a nap.
[aaahhh, New Daddy came over just as I was googling images of 'Angry Ian McKellen'--you know, basically Magneto in X-Men]
Your friends--with the help of someecards--are there to help you get through it....
God bless you, KWalsh, for helping me get through this rough patch. I shouldn't be surprised, considering KWalsh is the woman who I collaborate with to bring the world Scorned Woman Ecards. We've been on hiatus for forevs, but it's good to know she's still thinking!!!
uh-oh. in the time it took to type this, my victoria's secret order arrived. why won't this boy do me???? do i have to give it away?!
This is what happens when I stop blogging regularly.
I'm sorry, guys. I've just been really busy. I was in Detroit this past weekend, celebrating G-unit's birthday--the big 9-4!! You know that party was off the chain!
We totes got crunked. We mixed Ensure and Efferdent and got wiz-asted!!!
Of course, I jest. The trip to Detroit was actually quite painless, as I was there about 72 hours, and slept til noon two days in a row. My mom and I actually got along, as we tend to do in Detroit--it's like we band together when faced with our extended family's dysfunction. As you all know, when it comes to visiting the Detroit fam, Sojourner is the black(tress) sheep of the clan. What, with my "talking white" and my having a passport and all, my family doesn't quite know what to do with me.
I spent every summer in Detroit until I was 14, and started private school when I was 10, making those last 4 years especially painful. Up until then, I was mocked for being too dark and for being chubby and wearing glasses. Add in my clipped diction (I was preparing myself for the stage, clearly) and my love of the film “Little Women” (to this day, my cousins mock my love of Winona Ryder), and I just couldn’t win.
Honestly, though, I’m not bitter. We’re all adults now, and have come to accept each other. We’ve even added each other as Facebook friends. And even though I maintain strict privacy settings with the fam, it warms my heart when my cousin wishes me a happy birthday via wall post. I also think that my time traveling solo in foreign lands has steeled me—I have no qualms about sitting in the midst of people speaking Swedish, and don’t need to be filled in, or be liked. And, quite frankly, my extended family may as well be speaking Swedish, because the shit they say is so cuckoo bananas, I don’t even know how to respond.
Of course, when I told my cousin I had a new boyfriend, she instantly asked if he was white. I showed her Jewboo’s pics on FB. “Oh, he’s cute. He puts [family friend’s white boyfriend] to shame.” Apparently, we’re in some sort of interracial-romance competition. My other cousin believes I’m a failure to my race for dating a white guy, but doesn’t blame me, because “it’s how you grew up. You been around white folks. It make sense, you been confused.” This, coming from the man who suggests I find "high-functioning" crackheads to help with household chores.
Um, when’s our return flight?
I learned how young the madness starts when someone’s 4-year-old son came over, and he took a shine to Sojourner. For some reason, he needed my attention all throughout the birthday party, and at one point, found a pencil sharpener shaped like a nose. It was beige-colored. When a random guest, trying to engage him, asked, “Whose nose is that?” the young boy replied, totally nonchalantly: “It’s a white devil’s nose.” From the mouths of Detroit babes.
Detroit is the city that god forgot on so many levels. As we passed burned down buildings and desolate streets, it’s not hard to see why it has a population of less than 1 million. As we drove by “Lil’ Poo Poo’s Auto Body Repair,” it’s not hard to see why my family thinks I’m uppity—clearly, their expectations are skewed.
Who is “Lil’ Poo Poo,” and why on earth would he put his nickname on his business? WHAT IF IT ISN”T A NICKNAME????
This didn’t really surprise me, seeing as, when we couldn’t find the gate for our flight to Detroit, I was able to locate it by following the girl wearing a full head of curlers in the airport at 12:30pm. Clearly, she was bound for the D. And when she asked the flight attendant if the plane had a plug so she could charge her phone, I knew she wasn’t making any connections.
I’m sorry if I’m sipping on Detroit HATE-orade. The trip wasn’t even as bad as it could have been, or as it’s been in the past. It’s just that it’s so frustrating to feel like I’m the odd one, the crazy one, when all I do is read books and have a Jewboo. It’s total Twilight Zone sometimes.
I was talking to my grandmother, and she’s asking me about my travels, and she goes:
“Have you been to that place where they make the stuff?”
Okay, now I’m not even about to make fun of G-Unit, cause she’s 94 and all, but, um, WHAT? She’s actually quite sharp, and this was the most vague sentence I’d ever heard.
What threw me off even more was when my mom, who was sitting next to me says, completely nonchalantly, “She’s asking if you’ve ever been to China.” WHAT? HOW DOES SHE KNOW THAT? Clearly, they exist on a wavelength I cannot access.
This moment was only surpassed by grandma's follow-up. “Cause Will’s boy was over there for a time, practicing.”
Who is Will’s boy? Practicing what? I’m so confused. Where am I?
“She means Will Smith’s son was in China filming the new ‘Karate Kid’ movie," mom explains.
My mother is an ambassador, bridging generation gaps.
The one bright spot was that my toothless, schizophrenic aunt has started taking her meds, so she did way less ranting than usual. My mom thought she wasn’t well because she was going into OCD overdrive in terms of planning my grandmother’s party. However, we just think she’s a party planner—for her son’s college graduation party, which consisted of about 15 people, she rented a hotel banquet hall, hired a harpist, and had a meat carver. We think she just likes to go all out, meds or no.
I am Sidney Poitier. 
