New Future Baby Daddy

No, not the kiwi. But the kiwi did bring this man into my life. Let me explain:

Tuesday night’s dinner started off a bit rocky. I arrived at 8:15—fifteen minutes late—only to find the kiwi had just started cooking and the other two guests hadn’t even arrived. (Luckily, I’d inhaled a slice of pizza after work, foreseeing this possible delay.) I was sort of nervous and fidgety, wondering what he’d told his friends about me and if they’d be friendly and welcoming. Could they handle Sojourner’s truth? I’d already hung out with his roommate a few times—a scrawny, precious Caucasian who’s down with the hip hop music and getting his drank on—so that was one less person to worry about. But there was a … couple.

Couples are always hard—you have to win over both of them, but approach them in totally different ways. The thing about this pair is that they weren’t particularly interested in getting to know me, and I’m not one to force my truth onto another.* Normally, if I’m with a group of friends and a new person comes into our midst, I pepper them with questions, not only to figure out if they’re a Commie spy, but to make them feel like they are worth getting to know, and by extension, more at ease. These two peeps—a 21-year-old Cali chick and her 26-year-old Aussie bf—initially reacted to me as though I were a piece of furniture … or the cleaning lady. The kiwi was in the kitchen slicing and dicing away (SO hot!), and his roommate, who I thought would support me, just sat on the couch watching humorous internet videos. So I did what any normal, non-awkward person would do during an intimate dinner party.

I drank red wine and read the newspaper.

Now, anyone who knows me would be shocked to hear of the blacktress exhibiting such autistic behavior. I wouldn’t normally do this, but I was tired and didn’t really feel like trying to impress anyone. I figured it’d happen organically (you know, like Whole Foods), and if I tried to sweet-talk his friends, the kiwi would think I was really into him or something—and we can’t get his panties in a twist. So, I just drank my 3-buck Chuck** and kicked it old school.

When the couple wasn’t all up in each other’s grill (dude was fucking flossing her molars with his tongue), I decided I’d woo the woman first. Only 6 months in NYC, she was blonde, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed, and relatively easy to talk to. I followed the three-step rule for making lady friends (see below), and soon she was putty in my hands. I used my impending move to Australia to woo the guy and get him to tell me all the hot spots (he warned me that even though I’d probably be a cool bartender, Aussies don’t really tip, so I might want to change my career plan).

After a lovely dinner of homemade, non-greasy, chicken fried rice (look at my kiwi, getting ethnic in the kitchen!), we continued to drink and chat.

And that’s when he appeared to me.

Jon Lajoie.

Future baby daddy.

He’s a Canadian comedian/musician who writes hilarious songs that can be seen on Funny or Die. Why I’d never heard of him, I don’t know. Why he isn’t in my bed right now baffles me even more.

His song, “Everyday Normal Guy” is basically a magnum opus written about the men I love. Check it out:

See more Jon Lajoie videos at Funny or Die

How can you not love this man?! He is a credit to his (Canadian) race. I think my favorite line is:

“I’m a pretty shy person and I’m average looking … I get nervous in social situations, muthaf*&!%@#”
Lord knows I love an awkward with anger management issues.

No, wait, I think my favorite line is: “And I like the show Grey’s Anatomy, mutha*&!%@#”

I bet he cried over Izzy and Denny, too.



* that’s a bold-faced lie, but I was out of my element!

** Trader Joe’s Wine Shop has a $3 bottle of wine that was made with the budget blacktress in mind.

THREE-STEP RULE FOR MAKING LADY FRIENDS
1. Compliment female on article of clothing or jewelry (you know, like Regina George in 'Mean Girls'--but don't make it a lie).
2. Make a funny-but-harmless joke about something innocuous.
3. Ask her about three questions about herself—if part of a couple, “how did you two meet?” always works.

Textual Seduction

So, the kiwi invited me over to his place for dinner tonight. It’ll be him and “a few friends.” I’m slightly nervous and slightly not really looking forward to it. I’m feeling sorta lukewarm towards this foreign man—and it’s not even a protectionist measure because I’m leaving soon. He’s really nice, friendly, straightforward, and relaxed, but I worry he may be a bit dim. Am I a bad person?
Yes, yes I am.

He kinda reminds me of a puppy--a scrappy, hyperactive golden retriever. You know how it is:
The cute puppy you just got from the pound is a bundle of joy, bounding all over the house. One day, after playing in the muddy woods, he’s so excited to see his new master that he jumps all over you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your favorite jeans.
“Bad, bad, puppy!” you say to him sternly.
He just pants and wags his (large) tail.
You can’t help but grin at his puppy excitement, but you’re still kinda pissed that he got carried away—not to mention that time he crapped on the carpet.

Do you get the analogy?

Anyway, I can’t really complain about the kiwi. The last thing I need is stress, and that’s the last thing he can bring to the table. Besides, I like being involved—it keeps me off the single streets and out of trouble. For real, y’all. For an example of what kind of shenanigans I get into when I’m on the market, check out the following text messages I’ve received from a certain “suitor.”

He is a 29-year-old PhD student at a prestigious New York university—New York University, to be exact. I point this out because these credentials imply that he’s a grown-ass man with more than ½ a brain.
Alas, I may be wrong.

After one date three weeks ago where we had a couple of drinks and he kept asking me to come over to his house (to which I said, “homeslice, slow down! Does my vag have an expiration date?!”), he has been blowing up my phone with pathetic attempts at textual seduction (I heart Snoop Dogg*). For example:

Received 07/19/2008, 7:05 pm: so are you comin over to be crapped on or what?
(my complete response: “No.”)

Received 7/19/2008, 7:15 pm: what about for some sex?

Seriously, these are real text messages I have received from an educated adult male pursuing an advanced degree.

Just when I thought the madness was over, I got this one over the weekend:

Received 08/02/2008, 6:04 pm: is there a reason i haven’t fingered u yet?

I KID YOU NOT.

Um, what should I have said-- "because you are an insane man lacking in propriety and respect, and possibly a sexual predator" ?

I didn’t even respond. I don’t even know how to. I feel like he is beyond reason, completely vulgar, and possibly autistic (at the very least, he’s got Aspberger’s).

But, I have found a silver lining:
Normally, in such circumstances, the blacktress would lament her fate, wondering “Why God, Why?!” would such a terrible person seek her out. She’d blame herself for somehow “making” this PhD student this way.

Not anymore.

As I fortify myself for my international journey, I realize that, at 29 years old, this dude’s got about 28 years, 8 months, and 14 days worth of issues that were there before I cropped up on the scene. There is no way that my dazzling conversation, rapier wit, and pretty green dress got him so beside himself that the only way he could express his interest was through crazy texts.

He is, in summation a HOT ASS MESS.

And that is certainly one thing the sweet, hyperactive kiwi is NOT. He may not believe in spelling words completely or properly via text, but everything he has to say is in good clean fun. He invites me to meals that he will prepare in the presence of other people, proving that he has both social and culinary skills. He is also keeping me off the single streets of this cray cray city, where apparently PhDs are still Playa-hating Degrees!


* if you have not seen the music video or heard the song on which my clever title is based, please click here.
If a man came at me with Snoop's level of mojo, I'd probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet by now.

Pearls of Gay Wisdom/The Importance of Gchat

Last week, I was gchatting on the plantation with one of my good friends, who shall remain nameless. For the purpose of today’s post, let’s just call him the ELITE GAY VISIONARY. He’s a fine-ass intellectual homosexual (the best kind), and from the shores of San Francisco or Miami, he’s ready and willing to offer his advice to all a blacktress' romantic queries. Here’s an excerpt from one of our recent chats. I think the words of wisdom here are useful for all of us.

me: miguelito
i have date #2 with the new zealander tomorrow
i mean, TONIGHT
Elite Gay Visionary: eek!
me: we've already done the dirty*
how do you act on a "date" when you've already done the dirty?
EGV: well
i only go on dates with people i want to do the dirty with again
so you can act like you want it again, but pending any new information
me: hahaha
EGV: the way i judge too is i count the number of drinks before i want to do it
me: hahah, what do you mean?
EGV: okay
with HOT guys
i want to do it before i drink
with good looking guys it takes 1 drink
with okay guys 2 drinks
with ick guys 3 drinks
i only date the first 2
if it takes 2 drinks i'm over it
well except for that night because i've already had the 2nd drink
so it's too late by then
but that will be the last time
me: you know this is going on my blog, right?!
EGV: hahaha
does my SLUTINESS UPSET you?
me: hahaha, i love it
it's BRILLZ
this is going to be called "reasons why gays should be allowed to adopt"
i mean, you make sense
EGV: and we'll only adopt children if we want to before the 2nd drink
me: exactly


*yes, we did the dirty. honey, time is of the essence--all bets are OFF!!

Warning: These Images May Not Be Suitable For Children

So, one of my lovely duties on the plantation is sorting the mail—as you can guess, this is why I often get first dibs on all the great letters from cray cray artists. Today, I got the usual announcements for shows, press invites to openings, and random magazines. One such mag is called Arts & Activities, and contains all sorts of fun craft ideas for those who teach youngsters. The subscription was for a former employee, so I’m not even bothering to renew, but we just can’t seem to get off their mailing list.

What I wouldn’t give to get off this mailing list.

Today, instead of a magazine or renewal notice, they sent a piece of advertising so terrifying that it can only be described as pure evil. Look:



Why would a magazine about art projects for youngsters have such a hideous monster in its advertising? What kind of response do they expect to get from me by showing me the drawings of some twisted youngster who most likely sees dead people? This is why we have to stop "nurturing children's creativity"--they are dangerous, warped, and deadly.


So, what do you expect to come after the ellipsis when you flip over the card?

a. …For the sweet silence death brings.

b. …Or the grim reaper will come for you.

c. …To let the glue dry on your papier mache watermelon.

d. All of the above

e. BOO!!

Ha, I tricked you!! The correct answer is:

...to show off your products this fall!!!

Um....
W
T
F
?
!

Something to Blog About

So, I don’t know what’s particularly interesting nowadays, so here’s a look at the past week’s highlights—let me know which you’d like to know more about, dear readers.

1. The blacktress is officially booked on Quantas flight 740, departing San Francisco on October 11, 2008. I arrive in Sydney on October 13*-- holla!!! Eli Reed and other Aussie friends: I expect you to have 12 rugged men and 7 koalas waiting for me.

2. Tonight is date #2 with a hottie from NEW ZEALAND!!!
I mean, that’s practically like Australia (don’t tell him I said that—there’s apparently beef between the two countries), so it’s great preparation for the big trip. It also allows me to pretend like I'm dating Jemaine from "Flight of the Conchords" (let me look at my list....living the dream? CHECK! hot accent? double-check! love for a blacktress? mutha-CHECKIN' yes!)

He has even asked me to be his “summer girlfriend”—yes, please!! Best to go out with a bang, I always say!

3. This morning, I was on the Underground Railroad heading in the wrong direction (to the plantation), when a petite pregnant lady got on the train. Being NYC at rush hour, of course there were no seats left. She quietly stood and grabbed the pole, and I looked around momentarily. Not a single man, woman, or child got up. I got the woman’s attention and offered her my seat. She immediately accepted and I stood up over the young, able-bodied hipster guy who I had been sitting next to. He looked momentarily sheepish, then went back to reading his book on social theory.

I was so annoyed by this turn of events. Well, yes, I would have liked to sit, but I was more put off by the fact that I, a young blacktress, was the only person who offered to give this clearly-8-months-pregnant woman a seat on the train. She’s holding life in womb, for Christ’s sake! I can barely stand up in a pair of heels, so lord knows the day I accidentally get knocked up, I’m gonna need to take a knee every ten seconds!! And, on top of that, I noticed that when she sat down she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring—is she a single mom, struggling with the worry of how to raise this incoming fetus on her own?! My lord, if I had that weighing on my shoulders in addition to the baby weighing on my torso, I would probably be in a Jazzy Electric Wheelchair, much like this one:

It’s actually called a “Jazzy.”

The refusal of any man to get up off his ass and give her a seat reminded me of the words of a great poet—Nelly Furtado—in her hit opus “Promiscuous”:

“Roses are red / some diamonds are blue / chivalry is dead / but you’re still kinda cute.”

I mean, if that ain’t the gospel truth, I don’t know what is. If it was 1956, everyone with a Y chromosome would have gotten up when that woman came on the train, and some probably would have removed their bowler hats. Alas, those days of propriety are gone.

I guess I shouldn’t be so upset, though—if the old days were still around, I’d be sitting at the back of the bus.



*What happens to me for a whole day???? It’s like I’m in some transcontinental vortex where I cease to exist…..I smell a Sci-Fi channel original motion picture!

Total Request BLOG

I was at a loss of what to blog about the last couple of days, until I received the following letter/g-chat message from a loyal reader. I thought that in helping her, I could post my response and help countless* others as well. Please, read on.


Dear Sojourner,

I really like your blog. Even though I am white and sometimes delicate, you make me want to be a strong black woman. I was wondering if I could ask you to do me a favor. I think you should blog something inspirational for a friend of mine who has recently given up on men.
You can lie if necessary.

Please? Yes? Okay, thanks!

-Anonymous (person you are friends with)

PS: Also, did you SEE the youtube clip I sent you from Sesame Street with Aaron Neville singing with Ernie? That is like the song of my childhood, and Aaron Neville's musical stylings are just outrageous.


Dear Anonymous,

I am more than happy to support your “friend’s” recent decision to renounce man-love. I am quite flattered that in a time of weakness, you have come to the blacktress for the ultimate boost. Here’s why I think it’s a good thing to give up on men—at least for a year or two while you get your head right.

One of the best things about swearing off the gender of your desire is that you suddenly have a wealth of time on your hands. No longer spending hours on the phone, obsessing over every detail of a 4-minute conversation,** or running to parties in the depths of the outer boroughs in hopes of playing it cool,*** you can focus on making the world a better place for you and your loved ones.

I’ve created a pithy list of all the things you can do instead of thinking about men. Feel free to print it, cut it out, and laminate it—you can keep it in your wallet next to your safety condom.


When You Let Go of Man-Love, You Can Spend More Time:

• Baking
• Doing needlepoint and other crafts
• Sleeping
• Animal Rescue
• Canvassing for Barack Obama
• Journaling
• Listening to Ani Difranco while crying into a pint of Haagen Daz
• Going to the gym (where I like to eat whole pizzas while sitting on the exercise bike)
• Blogging
• Traveling to foreign lands and starting a pop-music career.
• Sending Facebook messages to that friend from high school you’ve been meaning to call, but haven’t gotten around to ‘cause of all the worrying about men you were doing.
• Engaging in discourse
• Singing along to the soundtracks of Broadway musicals (dudes hate that)
• Writing your first major motion picture—a period piece set during the Franco-Prussian War.
• Applying for jobs you actually might want.
• Saving your money for that big trip to Malta and/or Australia.
• Fighting the power
• Attending rock concerts and other live performances
• Re-reading the Harry Potter series and/or Searching the internet for still photos of naked Daniel Radcliffe in Equus.

This is just a small sampling of all the things you’ll be able to do with your newfound emotional and temporal freedom. In fact, I would say you’re not “giving up on men” so much as “giving in to yourself!”

Congratulations. I think you are on your way to becoming a strong black woman.

Love,
Sojo

PS: I have seen the Aaron-and-Ernie duet, and I must agree that it is uplifting on so many levels. Let's relive the magic:






* Actually, I think the exact number is 345.

**“Oh my god, I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he paused—but was it more of a comma kind of pause or a semicolon?!”

*** Girl, we all know you came from Harlem to Sunset Park for one reason only…

Visa: It's Everywhere You Want to Be

Remember that old slogan for Visa credit cards? Well, I’m now using it to apply to Work and Holiday visas, because quite frankly, everywhere I want to be is DOWN UNDER.

I sent in my application and paid my $195 Australian dollars (which is, sadly, about $194.50 US dollars) this morning, guys—Australia, here I come!!!
As I went through the 8-page application, I gave them all my personal biznass, and half expected to have to submit a blood sample and/or provide a retinal scan. Luckily, they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t a thieving immigrant looking to have major surgery done on their shores. Sample questions included:

What is your usual occupation?: BLACKTRESS
What employment do you intend to seek in Australia?: Michelle Obama and/or Beyoncé impersonator
Do you intend to perform medical procedures during your stay in Australia?: Only if you consider making people HANDLE THE TRUTH a medical procedure


Seriously, though, I’m really excited. And nervous. Where will I live? Will I find work? Will I find people to make out with so that my blog can thrive down under? What if I get attacked by one of the many venomous creatures that only exist in Australia (the only island that is also a country and also a continent!)?! I’ve been reading up on my soon-to-be home, and I’ve discovered many interesting factoids, which I will share with you:

• Victoria is home to Megascolides Australis the GIANT EARTH WORM! Measuring up to 12 feet long, it’s huge and gross, and I think might have been the basis for the movie Tremors.
• Australia did not become a proper nation until 1901, when the 6 colonies decided to come together.
• The notion of Australian citizenship didn’t exist until 1949; before that, they were British citizens.
• The average population density in Australia is only 6 people per square mile! The world average is about 117.
• I plan on visiting the following places simply for their names: Wagga Wagga, Poowong, Burrumbuttock, and….wait for it….wait for it….Tittybong! I am hoping to become the mayor of one of these places.
  

It also has a temperate climate, a population full of young, strapping lads, and a great healthcare system. I also hear the Melbourne Comedy Festival is the jam and the jump-off, and perhaps I’ll go there and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the TRUTH!

Sidebar: In Australia, comedians are known as ‘crackers.’ When I first heard the term used to describe Kathy Griffin, I thought it was quite racist and more than a little bit rude—until I got down with the lingo.