I Have a Fatty Girl-Crush On My Podiatrist

Yesterday I had an appointment with a podiatrist, which I was only able to get with the help of Linda from the IEP office--seriously, these IEP folks are worth every penny, helping a blacktress find assistance when all seemed lost. I called the doctor's office and managed to get booked for the next day to see 'Jo.'

"Um, blacktress, is this 'Jo' character's office located in a van down by the river??" You may be wondering. No, no, reader. You know how laidback the aussies are. It's quite Australian to call up for a doctor's appointment and have everyone refer to the doctor by his or her first name, just like you're meeting a friend for lunch and just sorting the details with his/her secretary. Equality, yay!!

I showed up awkwardly early, but took this opportunity to read the trashy mags made available. I was fully engrossed in InStyle Australia (reversed seasons, reversed fashions!) when I heard my name. I looked up and saw a blonde bombshell looking at me.
"Hi, Naomi, I'm Jo."
"Hi," I said back. For a brief instant, I just thought she was being really friendly, and I almost went back to my magazine before realizing she was the podiatrist I had made an appointment with.

When we went into the office, where the lighting was much better, her hotness became even more apparent. She was totally rocking the high-waisted skirt with the tucked-in blouse in the 1960s style I love. She had Angie Jolie lips but they didn't look fake. She was, like, porno hot. But, like, classy porn--the soft-core stuff you'd order after you checked into your room at the Radisson.

I explained the situation to her, handed her my ultrasounds, and she was instantly on the case. She removed my bandage to look at my wound (her touch was so gentle), and it looked all healed and not hideous. I thought I was finally in the clear, but she stopped me.

"I know it looks closed, but I don't think it is underneath, and we want to open it up so the body can continue to heal from the inside out. I'm just going to get a scalpel, don't freak out...."

After that, it was all a blur. Excuse me, hot doctor?! You think you can play Sojo?! I've heard this kind of backwards talk on the plantation--how are you going to get a surgical implement, apply it to my body while I'm fully conscious, and tell me to NOT freak out? That's like saying, "I just want to have fun" after showing up at my place of employment--does not compute!

But, as I do with most hot people, I quickly succumbed to her backwards logic and gave her the go-ahead to cut me open from groin to sturnum, figuring it'd all be worth it in the end.

Again, her touch was quite tender, and I didn't feel any pain as she went to work. I was half-tempted to ask her if she came here often, but decided against it. She explained that I didn't have an infection anymore, and that I've torn the tendons that are responsible for movement of toes, which explains why, you know, they aren't moving. One of these tendons also runs down your leg into your foot, which explains why I've been having leg pain. Between initial infection, the tearing, and not being stitched, it's just a slow healing process, and I'm going to have to go back for follow-ups to make sure I regain movement. She also said I had to stay off my foot as much as possible and to ice it every night.

After finally having a handle on what was going on, and getting to bask in the hotness of Jo, I was feeling good. The sun was shining, I'd be able to walk soon enough, but still wasn't ready for work--doctor's orders! With this newfound excitement, I called up my manager and just told him flat-out that I QUIT!!!

I AM FREE, Y'ALL!!!

No more pouring of Tooheys. No more making quick fucks. No more getting yelled at by incoherent d-bags. No more 5-am bedtimes without the fun that's supposed to come before. And, most importantly, I will never have to hear "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry again.

Now, here's hoping a temp gig opens up post-haste. Yay for freedom!

This Bloke Ain't No Joke!

Y'all, I cannot even believe my delicate blacktress eyes. I had an interview this morning with a temp agency, which took about two hours. I explained my previous experiences to a sassy corporate Australian woman, then spent about 1.5 hours taking "computer skills tests," in Word, Excel, Powerpoint, and then for general typing speed and accuracy.

Things I learned:
I do NOT excel at Excel.
When I said I was "proficient in Powerpoint," turns out I wasn't lying.
I can type 80 words per minute! (no wonder my blog posts are so long)

I think I'm totally ready to be a 1960s style secretary, in the vein of Mad Men. I love a high-waisted skirt and am excellent at.....dictation.....(teehee)

Speaking of men who are mad (see how I reversed that?).....after my interview/testing, I turned back on my cell and was surprised to see a text. It was from a number I didn't recognize and said:

"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things? All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have om fun let me know. I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

OH MY FUCKING GOD, I thought as I re-read this insanity for the second time, IT'S FROM KEBAB BOY.

For those of you just tuning in, here's a bit of a recap:
On the night of my birthday, I met a boy in a kebab shop.
We went out three times. He was dull as dishwater, and I wasn't interested.
I became proper vexed when he showed up at my place of employment uninvited and unannounced. Maturely and respectfully, I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore.
Much to my surprise he showed up at my bar two weeks later, allegedly with mates, and came over to my work area to "just to say hi."

Um, that's when I knew bitch was straight trippin'. Why would you roll up at a bar you'd never heard of until me, and then come right up in my area to say hi? We aren't besties. In fact, if memory serves, I cut your ass loose!

So, you can imagine the utter confusion, humour, and--I'll admit--dash of horror I felt when I saw the above text message.

WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME?! Why can't these Aussie blokes just accept that I'm not falling all over them? Maybe they think because I'm a solo traveler and foreign, my goal is to have sex with every man in the country, or that I'm so lonely, I'm not exactly discerning. THE Australian pulled the same foolishness when I decided I didn't want to see him again. What's so hard to grasp about a girl you barely know not wanting you all up her George Foreman (grill), or determining that you're not a good fit? Why aren't I allowed that choice?!

Let's do a little textual analysis:
"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things?

Um, this was said nearly a month ago. Are you still being kept up at night with thoughts of me? I mean, you didn't even get to touch a boob, so I don't get why you're obsessed. We also had nothing in common, so there was no soul connection you were missing out on.

All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have some fun let me know.
If you just wanted fun, why did you show up at my job, wait outside online for 10 minutes, and bother me while I was working to ask me to have lunch. That certainly can't be fun for you, and I know it wasn't fun for me.
Let's also note the passive-aggressive phrasing. It's like if someone asks you out and you decline and they say, "what, you don't like food?" Doing this reduces the invitation to its basic components, thereby making the person feel strange for not accepting.
Um, I DO want to have some fun. But you, to me, are not fun. A boring guy lacking in a sense of humour whose idea of fun is going for a run does not connect with me.
I don't run unless I'm being chased.
I don't do camping, because I don't want to go outside and pretend to be poor.
We aren't on the same page of the same book.

I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

Don't reverse psychology me, Mister. No, you're not going to get a reply. I don't care how much cell phone plans cost here, I'm not having a lengthy discussion about why I do or do not want you via text message. And if you can't sac up and pick up the phone, then I'm not doing you the service of sending some abbreviation-filled text message that explains that your behavior implied intensity and that I didn't enjoy hanging out with you all that much. And, if you've noticed, I'm not missing you or asking to be your friend, so there's no need to clear anything up.

Oh, and as for that damn winking-face icon-- fuck you and your little dog, too. It's like when someone says something racist, and then writes "LOL." It's doesn't make it funny, and it doesn't make you cute.

Okay, I'm done. Am I totally crazy for being so annoyed?

Step by Step on the Road to Recovery

For all of you dying to know, here's the latest on my foot scandal:

Still in pain after 8 days, I went to see a third doctor on Friday. I'd gone to him about a month ago when I had sinus issues, and he knew how to handle an ear-nose-throat-related scandal, so I thought I'd hollar at a scholar once more.

I get there and show him my foot, explain the situation, and his first question is, "Has anyone done an x-ray or ultrasound to see if there's glass in your foot?"

"I KNOW!!!" I scream--way too much like Chandler from Friends. We have a good ol' laugh, and he reckons there's glass in my foot, which is why it's infected and not healing. He makes me an appointment for an ultrasound three hours later, then tells me to come back to him with the results about two hours after that.

So I'm hobbling around Sydney, trying to get it all together. It's a damn shame that it took an Asian Doogie Howser to get on the ball, and the two old doctors I went to before weren't even trying to help a blacktress out--just like a White man.....

Anyway, I'm lying down for the ultrasound while the guy puts sterile jelly over my wound (oh, and he totally didn't think it was funny when I said, "Um, I don't think I'm ready for this jelly"). He runs his magical ultrasound wand all around my foot and seems to look a bit confused, which is never any good. After a few minutes he gets up, and, attempting to sound casual, says, "I'm going to go get the radiologist."

Now you know it's not a good sign when the doctor's gotta get another doctor before he can tell you what's up. Clearly something's not looking good.

The radiologist, a spunky Asian woman, comes in and they start talking about me in low tones. I try to explain that I'm just American, not Deaf, but they don't really pay attention. I hear something about "tendons....snap....20%, no 40%" and wonder if I'm going to end up an amputee playing a didgeridoo at Circular Quay just to make ends meet. They finally address me and say that there's no glass in my foot (yay!), but that it's going to take a while for this wound to close (boo!).

I get up, head back home, and then return in 2 hours to pick up my results and take them to Asian Doogie. When I get there, he reads the results and explains that some of my tendons were cut, and the infection I can't seem to shake could be in the tendons.

Score one for the blacktress.

He then asks me to bend and flex my toes, and to both our surprise, I can't.
Can't move my damn toes, y'all.
WTF?!
And why was this not discovered sooner?!

So, I'm on another round of antibiotics, hoping the ability to move my toes returns, and making an appointment with a podiatrist on Monday.

So, in summation: still a hot mess, but now with answers, and if you want anything done right in this town, get an Asian.

Happy Birthday to My Favorite Boo Who I Don't Know!!

As you know, I'm from the future, and today is January 8th. Yesterday, BCB came over with some gossip magazines to help keep me busy while I try to avoid becoming an amputee, and I flipped through one just to see what's happening in the celebrity world. I was checking out celebrity birthdays, and was surprised to see ZAHARA JOLIE-PITT listed.

YES, SHE HAS MADE IT!!!

I am obsessed with Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and the fact that she is Brad's favorite. The first time I saw Benjamin Button holding that black baby, my ovaries jumped, and I knew my world would never be the same again.

SWOON!!!!!

Although I do get worried about Zahara's hair (Angie, I know you can afford a braider), and hope she doesn't grow up with any self-loathing or inferiority complexes, I have high hopes for ZJP. I see a collabo with Oprah, perhaps a few excellent black power books-- maybe even a tell-all in the vein of Mommy Dearest.

Look at that cute face! I bet Angie thought she got off easy when Zahara was all bald and whatnot--No, Angie, get homegirl some Just for Me or get a pocket African to handle her scandal!


What I love most about her is the alter-ego Sallie Sellasie, as outed by SCAN--The Secret Council of American Negroes.

"Sojourner, what is this 'Secret Council of American Negroes', and why haven't you told me about it sooner?" You may be wondering.

Listen, Caucasia (you know you are), I can't give away everything. Although the blacklash is still here, I want to try to keep some things incognegro, in hopes that they will one day accept me as one of their own. But the truth of Zahara and her power cannot be denied. F Oprah, Tyra, and Halle--it's Zahara who is making things happen--and homegirl is still rocking Pull-Ups!

Check out my favorite quote from her work in the field as secret agent Sally Selassie:

Sally: We're OK to talk. I hotwired my Play Skool phone for Wi Fi. The Man suspects nothing. As always. The Woman, she is suspicious, but has no proof. She almost found last month's communique so I had to cram it down the toilet to cover my tracks. Things got messy, but I was able to blame it all on Pax. The woman totally gave me a look that said she knew I was lying, yet she punished Pax anyway. As if that would break me. I'm from Ethiopia. You've got to come with harder shit than taking away the "Dora the Explorer" tape from my fake brother.

OH MY GOD, SO GOOD. For more on the Sally Selassie Files, holla at this.

This Just In....

Good morning gentle readers! The sun is shining today, January 8, 2009, the birthday of Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and I'm up with the dawn...at 10 am.

My foot's still delicate, and I woke up to make a follow-up appointment with yet another doctor. I'm in for tomorrow at 10:45 am, so wish me luck, guys. Here's to hope, change, and not becoming an amputee in 2009!

I'm feeling optimistic, though--but that could be due to the youtube clip my homegirl just sent me a link to.

Now, I'm not a Gossip Girl fan, as it brings back too many memories of my days at en elite Manhattan private school and the damage done to me emotionally, but I do love musical comedy and when genres are done spot-on by an unlikely duo ('Flights of the Conchords,' anyone?)

Check out this Gossip Girl rap done by Southern Mothers featuring Matt Pearson (A John Legend-like character). My favorite line includes a shout-out to my alma mater--I think you can guess what it is. The images of the Upper East Side bring me back, but luckily, being on the other side of the world, I am able to truly distance myself.




HILARITY!!!!
Now, back to baby Zahara!

Playing Footy

I went back to the doctor last night, seeing as my foot was still bleeding, which I knew couldn't be a good sign 4 days later. The doctor was different from the first one I'd seen. He was a Santa-like figure whose jolly beard and portly middle instantly put me at ease. Well, put me at ease until he told me my foot was INFECTED and the wound wasn't at all closed.

So, yeah, apparently there will be no walking in 2009. I'm supposed to really stay off of it if I want it to close up, especially cause it's in the most awkward place ever--right where the foot bends. This means that when I walk into my 2pm interview with a temp agency today, I'll have to find a clever way to explain why I'm dragging my foot much in the manner of Quasimodo. I may even suck it up and force myself to walk normally, since, you know, no one hires the disabled.

I'm way over the Swede, seeing as nothing good can come of stressing over someone who clearly doesn't appreciate the goodness that is the blacktress. Unfortunately, this means he'll have to be deleted from Facebook, because reminders of my transgression--and his rejection--aren't what I need when I'm trying to write witty wall posts consisting of inside jokes about things that happened hours earlier.

I think what I most need to shake off is feeling so lonely. I wish I had someone who could come over and hang out, just chat with me while I'm sitting around. Or I wish I was on the same time zone as my friends so that we could g-chat all day long and I'd maybe forget that I'm on the road to becoming a goddamn amputee. For some reason, since the incident, I've become addicted to the TV show "How I Met Your Mother," and it's the only highlight of my day. I think it's mostly because, after watching most of my Buffy DVDs, I need more Alyson Hannigan in my life and just try and pretend she's still a lesbian witch.

I just feel like I am spending my time in this city just wasting money on rent for a place that isn't so great and not doing much else. I feel like James Caan in Misery, and the city of Sydney is like Kathy Bates, torturing me into staying with her even though I must get out to see my daughter. I'm trying to save for trips, then I have to run to the medical centre every ten seconds and pay out of pocket cause, you know, "I'm not a citizen," or whatever the surly lady is trying to explain to me through my grumbling as I look for my credit card.

Okay, guys, this can't be my life. I've got to get it together in 2009. Maybe I should use this immobilization period to write a major novel, or a screenplay.

Or maybe I should just chat with every single person on OasisActive.com until I get one of them to wire me all the money in their bank account as part of a sham marriage (I'll say I'm a Nigerian prince, of course).

Back In the Saddle/ Dickheads

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 5 January 2009.

Went in to work tonight--had a 6pm- 2am shift. I was walking around with my pimp limp, doing my darndest to serve customers. Luckily, Sunday is relatively quiet, but it was still more than I could handle with my rough foot.

We also had a new girl on a trial shift--a really perky 19-year-old Canadian girl whose optimism and energy offended me in every way. I didn't let it show, though, seeing as since I was last in, we'd lost 5 employees (which puts a monkey wrench into my plan of quitting). Three girls went traveling, one guy quit for visa reasons, and one girl was fired after she left a bag of weed in the handicapped bathroom.

Clearly, we need all the help we can get.

For some reason I keep thinking of the wise words of the nurse who applied my dressing at the medical centre on New Year's day. Perhaps it's the bloody wound that keeps her still so fresh in my mind. Perhaps it's merely the ring of TRUTH that speaks to Sojourner.

Referring to the ambulance that treated me on New Year's Eve, she said:
"Oh, the ambos are great. God bless 'em. And I bet people were being real dickheads, weren't they?"
I said yes, recounting the tale of the drunkards who decided to hop on the back of the ambulance as it attempted to get through the crowd.
"Oh, dickheads," she shouted, as though they were in the room with us. "I just hate dickheads. People come in here and I say to them, 'Are you gonna be a dickhead, or are you gonna be nice? If you're gonna be a dickhead, get out. And you know what they say? 'I'll be nice.'"
We share a laugh, and I wonder what I can do to make sure I can be her when I grow up.

I mean, who does like dickheads (or, as I'm currently calling them, Swedish men)? I can't say she's really taking a renegade stance on that one. What I do admire is the fact that she calls people out and tells them to handle their scandal or to get the hell out of her medical centre. I think I need to adopt this kind of attitude, even if I'm not a surly elderly British woman with a surprisingly soft touch. I may have to start yelling at customers who come in the bar, making sure they're not dickheads before I serve them. And I may have to ask dudes if they're dickheads before...um...serving them--if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

I came home and attempted to wash away the grit and grime of a long hard day of bartending, but it was difficult with one foot hanging out of the shower wrapped in a plastic bag. As I dressed and dried I saw that my foot was bleeding again--this is 4 days later, guys! WTF? I think I'm really going to have to stay off it if I want it to get better. Or, even worse, may have to go back to the medical centre--which my wallet won't really appreciate.

But first, I sleep. it's now 4:09am, and once the birds start chirping, it's hard to nod off.