Hey Guys,
I'm getting a little worried about myself. I've become totally anti-social. Blacktress used to enjoy people, a good late-night story, and hearing the ramblings of a drunken stranger. Now, my eyelids are getting droopy at 9pm. Friends who I haven't seen in months want to hang out, and I, much like an angry toddler, DON'T WANNA!!! I pretty much only want to watch movies and sleep as often as possible. I was prompted to share this because, in yet another step forward, Jewboo has shared his Google calendar with me, allowing for easy stalking. I've been on the inside for a week, but he emailed me this morning, asking to give him access to mine--and I DON'T WANNA!!!
I asked for his calendar cause he's super busy, with his rehearsals and writing meetings, and film screenings (for an unemployed man, he really packs the time in).
If he were to see my google calendar, he'd see a whole lot of nothing, sprinkled in with therapy appointments and art workshops/classes I don't even want to attend. I tend to make myself busy at the last minute, if I feel particularly loser-ish--or, I just want to stay at home on the free nights. What if he looks at my free days, asks me to do something, and I can't make up an excuse? Will he get offended if I say, "Oh, I can't, I'm busy," and he sees a big fat empty space in my calendar? Then I'll have to explain, "I planned to go home and watch Angel reruns on netflix." That'd make me less attractive, yes?
My current state reminds me of a quote from one of the greatest films of our time--Wayne's World. Wayne, while wooing Cassandra in her hip car, says, "I thought I had mono for a year, but it just turns out I was really bored."
I think I can relate. Of course, seeing people should assuage my boredom, but to me it's just a lot of energy to expend pretending to care about the lives of folks I don't see often enough to really matter. Don't get me wrong--I like humans,they are nice, and their interests in the goings on of a blacktress is much appreciated. But, like, do I have to talk to them? Like, regularly?
Blurgh. Clearly, my autism is flaring up something serious.
Why don't I try to turn this whiny post around with an old episode of Planet Unicorn? It makes me laugh no matter what. Deep in my heart, I am an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
Who’s Got Two Thumbs and a Case of the Mondays??
THIS GIRL!
I am hating on my job, y’all, for serious. I know that I’m lucky to be employed in a recession, but let me have my Monday rant, mmmkay?
When it comes to New Massa, the bloom has faded from the rose, as they say. Like Ian McKellen in “The Da Vinci Code,” he started off nice and enthusiastic, quick to teach me about Leonardo and offer me refuge. However, just as quickly, he turned on me, ready to shoot me in a church and poison me.
(if you haven’t seen “The Da Vinci Code,” then this makes no sense at all. Apologies).
New Massa is a high maintenance older gay—you know, the kind who don’t have patience for your shit because they came up in a time when they weren’t even allowed to love openly? He’s an “I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become an upper-echelon intellectual at a time when I’d be called gay just for buying oil paints.” So, you know, he doesn’t have time for your, “I’m sick, I have to go home” bullshit. Or your, “it’s 5:30pm, I am done here” exodus. He also has no concept that other people could have things to do, and whatever pops into his head has to be done right away. Oh, and he also likes to schmooze out on the town, promise artists feature articles and things, and then leave us lovely editors to do the writing.
Of course, writing is my job. I enjoy it. That’s what makes this bearable. But when he wants me to spend my time going to events “just to make contact,” that infringes on my personal time. When he wants me to spend all day in Long Island at a workshop when I don’t even have the staff camera to take photos, that means I’ve got to make up that day’s worth of office work—when, exactly? On a weekend? Oh, in the words of Whitney, HELL TO THE NO!
You must keep in mind people: my dream is humor writing and blackting. I am a blacktress. But momma didn’t raise no fool, and it’s about having bennies and some income coming in! So, I work. I pay my bills—and it takes some of the pressure and insanity off the creative process. But let’s not get it twisted—I’m not here for the love of the linen canvas. I’m not in it for the watercolors. This is my job—not my career.
A career is a responsibility that combines interests you have and skills you possess. In exchange for providing your skills and sharing your interest, you are given monetary compensation, opportunity for growth, and steadily increase in your skills and responsibilities.
A job is something you get to pay for your addictions! (you know, like shopping at Crumbs cupcakes) They do not pay me to care. I’m just here to pay for my HPV vaccine and therapy sessions, boo!
Quite frankly, I’m looking for a damn job that pays me more than I paid in college tuition! There is no reason I should leave one of the “top liberal arts universities in the country” with a shitload of debt and the inability to go to the movies without rearranging the finances. Blacktress is trying to break even—is that too much to ask?!
So, here it is, nearly noon on Monday, and I’ve already been at my desk 5 hours, and I’m trying to make sense of an article that is so annoyingly dry and pretentious—and I can only expect to do more of this, as this is the “new editorial voice” New Massa wants to go in. And tomorrow, I”ll be the only person to leave my desk before 5:30, because I have a 6 o’clock call time for a show I’m in. It’ll be blasphemous because, my god, shouldn’t I love art enough to want to stay here all day and into the night? As New Massa said when I went into his office to discuss this last week (I didn’t make it about him, but about “Artists sudden demands on my time”) he said two things that got me:
“Well, it comes down to putting in the hours,” and “It should, of course, be fun. It’s not meant to be painful.”
Well, sir, it is NOT fun—at least, not doing so regularly. And, unfortunately, I have other goals that prevent me from putting in the hours to a job that doesn’t pay overtime.
So, there you have it. Monday rants. How was your weekend, guys?
I am hating on my job, y’all, for serious. I know that I’m lucky to be employed in a recession, but let me have my Monday rant, mmmkay?
When it comes to New Massa, the bloom has faded from the rose, as they say. Like Ian McKellen in “The Da Vinci Code,” he started off nice and enthusiastic, quick to teach me about Leonardo and offer me refuge. However, just as quickly, he turned on me, ready to shoot me in a church and poison me.
(if you haven’t seen “The Da Vinci Code,” then this makes no sense at all. Apologies).
New Massa is a high maintenance older gay—you know, the kind who don’t have patience for your shit because they came up in a time when they weren’t even allowed to love openly? He’s an “I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become an upper-echelon intellectual at a time when I’d be called gay just for buying oil paints.” So, you know, he doesn’t have time for your, “I’m sick, I have to go home” bullshit. Or your, “it’s 5:30pm, I am done here” exodus. He also has no concept that other people could have things to do, and whatever pops into his head has to be done right away. Oh, and he also likes to schmooze out on the town, promise artists feature articles and things, and then leave us lovely editors to do the writing.
Of course, writing is my job. I enjoy it. That’s what makes this bearable. But when he wants me to spend my time going to events “just to make contact,” that infringes on my personal time. When he wants me to spend all day in Long Island at a workshop when I don’t even have the staff camera to take photos, that means I’ve got to make up that day’s worth of office work—when, exactly? On a weekend? Oh, in the words of Whitney, HELL TO THE NO!
You must keep in mind people: my dream is humor writing and blackting. I am a blacktress. But momma didn’t raise no fool, and it’s about having bennies and some income coming in! So, I work. I pay my bills—and it takes some of the pressure and insanity off the creative process. But let’s not get it twisted—I’m not here for the love of the linen canvas. I’m not in it for the watercolors. This is my job—not my career.
A career is a responsibility that combines interests you have and skills you possess. In exchange for providing your skills and sharing your interest, you are given monetary compensation, opportunity for growth, and steadily increase in your skills and responsibilities.
A job is something you get to pay for your addictions! (you know, like shopping at Crumbs cupcakes) They do not pay me to care. I’m just here to pay for my HPV vaccine and therapy sessions, boo!
Quite frankly, I’m looking for a damn job that pays me more than I paid in college tuition! There is no reason I should leave one of the “top liberal arts universities in the country” with a shitload of debt and the inability to go to the movies without rearranging the finances. Blacktress is trying to break even—is that too much to ask?!
So, here it is, nearly noon on Monday, and I’ve already been at my desk 5 hours, and I’m trying to make sense of an article that is so annoyingly dry and pretentious—and I can only expect to do more of this, as this is the “new editorial voice” New Massa wants to go in. And tomorrow, I”ll be the only person to leave my desk before 5:30, because I have a 6 o’clock call time for a show I’m in. It’ll be blasphemous because, my god, shouldn’t I love art enough to want to stay here all day and into the night? As New Massa said when I went into his office to discuss this last week (I didn’t make it about him, but about “Artists sudden demands on my time”) he said two things that got me:
“Well, it comes down to putting in the hours,” and “It should, of course, be fun. It’s not meant to be painful.”
Well, sir, it is NOT fun—at least, not doing so regularly. And, unfortunately, I have other goals that prevent me from putting in the hours to a job that doesn’t pay overtime.
So, there you have it. Monday rants. How was your weekend, guys?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
It's Always Drama With a Blacktress...
Hey y'all. I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath to hear about what happened with the Jewboo's parents. Well, to make a long story short, it was great.
Wait a second--when have I ever made a long story short? Let me break it down....
We met up to get on the Bolt Bus at 2pm, and Jewboo arrived to find me freaking out because the assortment of mini desserts I'd purchased (all chocolate, since that's what he says the fam likes--holla!) were starting to melt and were all askew in the box, which wasn't the decorative box I'd asked for when I ordered. I imagined his mother feeding them to the cats because they were so hideous. Of course, this lasted through much of the train ride, despite repeated reminders that, "my parents are nice, normal people. Oh, and they're not retarded. They understand that frosting melts in heat."
The plan was for pops to pick us up around 7:30, when he got off of work. As we waited outside of the train station, I was nauseous. I suddenly became fidgety and had to pee. It was like the 6th grade recital all over again.
While we waited curbside for dad's car to pull up, I held Jewboo's hand. He suddenly pointed to a red car and waved. I saw a bald man in a suit with slick black aviators in the driver's seat. He was far too fashionable to be frightening. When he pulled up and jumped out to open the trunk, he hugged me before hugging his son. I instantly felt at ease.
Most of the hour-long car ride to Reading was father-and-son catch-up time, and I was glad to chime in occasionally and laugh at the right times. I found myself comfortable rather quickly, and I didn't feel forced to join in the conversation. I think the whole time I was more nervous about them grilling/interviewing me, and had been mentally preparing to give compelling answers and respond with thoughtful questions. Instead, I felt like they just treated me as though I'd been there all along, and didn't really make a fuss, which I liked. I knew I'd won dad over about 25 minutes into the car ride when he said,
"Blacktress, Andrew told me you were smart, beautiful, and funny, and I must say, he was not wrong."
Score!
Next up was mom, who was at home recovering from foot surgery. She was lying on the couch when I came in, and I shook her manicured hand. Although I'd been told over and over that mom was "chill," I didn't realize just how chill she was. She didn't say much, and seemed sorta perpetually tired--but not in a mean or glum way. She just had a kind of I've-been-laying-out-in-the-sun-all-day-and-I'm-wiped kind of vibe. She didn't really try to chat, but she also didn't make it seem like it was a big deal, so I didn't fight it.
Earlier that day, I'd gone to the lady doctor to get something for my business. She offered me a pill, which I find less messy than the other stuff (ladies, you know what I mean....). I went to take it before going to bed, as prescribed, and within an hour, I was coughing and wheezing. I went to sleep, trying to prop myself up on pillows to make breathing easier.
At 6:30am, after tossing and turning, I sprang up. I couldn't breathe, and I didn't know what to do. I try walking around the room, hoping to get air. My coughing wakes up Jewboo, but I tell him it's ok. I go downstairs, picking up the informational insert to my medicine on my way down. I call my doctor in NYC on the emergency line, but get no answer. I leave a message, but can't really wait for a response, as I read the insert:
Allergic reactions, though rare, may include: shortness of breath, difficulty breathing, tightening of the chest...should these occur, seek immediate medical attention.
I go back upstairs to tell Jewboo we need to go to the hospital. His mom and dad, who heard me coughing, are already up. Dad's getting dressed, just in case we need to go. Part of making a good impression means NOT forcing dad to spend his day off in the ER, so I ask Jewboo to take me to the hospital. He doesn't know where it is, so he and I get into the car and dad drives. He's totally calm about the whole thing, and we have a laugh (well, I just gasp repeatedly) about the fact that the ER entrance has moved since their last visit to the hospital.
We get to the ER at 7am and I'm immediately seen (thank you suburban hospitals!). My lungs don't sound congested and my oxygen levels are high, so it's unclear why I'm having such a reaction. I hand the nurse my prescription, and even bring the Benadryl I took, so they know everything. I'm placed in a room and put in a gown. Jewboo is by my side. It's a very tender/terrifying moment.
For the next hour, nurses buzz in and out, and info is taken. Jewboo is still half asleep, but he's being super chill about this whole thing. When I'm asked about my marital status, he says, dryly, "What if you were married this whole time and this is how I found out?" He's cracking me up, but that's actually doing me damage since I can't breathe, so I just shoot him fake-angry stares.
At around 10am, I'm given a breathing treatment to open up my airways, and blood is drawn. The doctor sees me, and he says they're going to test my blood for a chemical that'll indicate a blood clot. The breathing treatment ends up working, and I'm just waiting for results, taking mini naps the whole time. Jewboo is going back and forth between me and his dad, who he's keeping updated on the status. I keep telling him to send my apologies (and at one point, promise to get Dad a blizzard from Dairy Queen), and we're finally ready for me to be discharged. Although I found the hospital bed quite comfy, I felt bad that Jewboo got no sleep, and dad was spending his free time surrounded by sickies in the waiting room. I asked anyone who came my way about being discharged, and one nurse finally told me that I couldn't just leave--if I didn't sign my discharge papers, my insurance wasn't going to cover it.
That's all I needed to keep my ass right in that bed.
In the meantime, I got dressed, confident I was all well after the breathing treatment. I sat in bed, chatting with Andy, when my nurse, Celeste, came in.
"What are you doing dressed? Your blood test [indicating a blood clot] came back positive, you need a CAT SCAN."
HOLY FUCK.
As I change back into my gown, every episode of House I'd ever seen began to pop into my head. I was also surprisingly calm throughout the entire to-do, as I tend to be when faced with actual problems (not the emotional ones I make up), but suddenly I went into drama-mode. How could I have a blood clot and not know about it? Why did the test come back positive if nothing's wrong? My mother was in Mexico with her latin lover, Julio, and other than Jewboo, there was no one to call. Most of the week, no one had been calling me. I could go into that CAT SCAN, find out I'm on death's door, and no one would care but my boo. It all became very tragic in my head.
I went up for my scan, and came back down. Jewboo was being really strong and positive the whole time, and helped me every second of the way.
At around 2:30pm, the doctor finally came back in. The scan showed no sign of a clot, but I was sent away with an inhaler, in case I had breathing issues later on. He, along with all the nurses, were super apologetic about keeping me so long (bless the suburbs), but I wasn't even angry with them. We made it out a little before 3, and dad and I hugged in the waiting room. We went home and ate bagels and napped, and then had a nice family dinner.
As Jewboo put it, "The moral of this story: always go for the vaginal suppository."
With my life threatened, I think the family felt extra kindly towards me, and we were able to laugh about the whole incident by dessert. When we got home, mom and I had a real breakthrough when we discovered we both love the show Criminal Minds. I got way more excited than I should have, and me and his sis ended up talking about the hotness of Criminal Minds character Dr. Spencer Reid, for, like, 45 minutes.
All in all, I felt like the weekend was a huge success--although, with the ER visit, not exactly the relaxing time I'd hoped for. I feel like Jewboo and I took our relationship to a new level--I was able to see what he's like in a crisis; I know he comes from good people open to miscegenation and into a good police procedural drama; and he's now my official In Case of Emergency contact in the state of Pennsylvania. When we got home Saturday night, he had the following email from mom in his inbox:
From: Jewboo's Mom
Date: Sun, Jul 4, 2010 at 1:45 AM
Subject:
Mom
Yes!!! I won her over!! Is it wrong to start shopping for wedding rings?
Okay, blacktress out.
Peace!
Wait a second--when have I ever made a long story short? Let me break it down....
We met up to get on the Bolt Bus at 2pm, and Jewboo arrived to find me freaking out because the assortment of mini desserts I'd purchased (all chocolate, since that's what he says the fam likes--holla!) were starting to melt and were all askew in the box, which wasn't the decorative box I'd asked for when I ordered. I imagined his mother feeding them to the cats because they were so hideous. Of course, this lasted through much of the train ride, despite repeated reminders that, "my parents are nice, normal people. Oh, and they're not retarded. They understand that frosting melts in heat."
The plan was for pops to pick us up around 7:30, when he got off of work. As we waited outside of the train station, I was nauseous. I suddenly became fidgety and had to pee. It was like the 6th grade recital all over again.
While we waited curbside for dad's car to pull up, I held Jewboo's hand. He suddenly pointed to a red car and waved. I saw a bald man in a suit with slick black aviators in the driver's seat. He was far too fashionable to be frightening. When he pulled up and jumped out to open the trunk, he hugged me before hugging his son. I instantly felt at ease.
Most of the hour-long car ride to Reading was father-and-son catch-up time, and I was glad to chime in occasionally and laugh at the right times. I found myself comfortable rather quickly, and I didn't feel forced to join in the conversation. I think the whole time I was more nervous about them grilling/interviewing me, and had been mentally preparing to give compelling answers and respond with thoughtful questions. Instead, I felt like they just treated me as though I'd been there all along, and didn't really make a fuss, which I liked. I knew I'd won dad over about 25 minutes into the car ride when he said,
"Blacktress, Andrew told me you were smart, beautiful, and funny, and I must say, he was not wrong."
Score!
Next up was mom, who was at home recovering from foot surgery. She was lying on the couch when I came in, and I shook her manicured hand. Although I'd been told over and over that mom was "chill," I didn't realize just how chill she was. She didn't say much, and seemed sorta perpetually tired--but not in a mean or glum way. She just had a kind of I've-been-laying-out-in-the-sun-all-day-and-I'm-wiped kind of vibe. She didn't really try to chat, but she also didn't make it seem like it was a big deal, so I didn't fight it.
Earlier that day, I'd gone to the lady doctor to get something for my business. She offered me a pill, which I find less messy than the other stuff (ladies, you know what I mean....). I went to take it before going to bed, as prescribed, and within an hour, I was coughing and wheezing. I went to sleep, trying to prop myself up on pillows to make breathing easier.
At 6:30am, after tossing and turning, I sprang up. I couldn't breathe, and I didn't know what to do. I try walking around the room, hoping to get air. My coughing wakes up Jewboo, but I tell him it's ok. I go downstairs, picking up the informational insert to my medicine on my way down. I call my doctor in NYC on the emergency line, but get no answer. I leave a message, but can't really wait for a response, as I read the insert:
Allergic reactions, though rare, may include: shortness of breath, difficulty breathing, tightening of the chest...should these occur, seek immediate medical attention.
I go back upstairs to tell Jewboo we need to go to the hospital. His mom and dad, who heard me coughing, are already up. Dad's getting dressed, just in case we need to go. Part of making a good impression means NOT forcing dad to spend his day off in the ER, so I ask Jewboo to take me to the hospital. He doesn't know where it is, so he and I get into the car and dad drives. He's totally calm about the whole thing, and we have a laugh (well, I just gasp repeatedly) about the fact that the ER entrance has moved since their last visit to the hospital.
We get to the ER at 7am and I'm immediately seen (thank you suburban hospitals!). My lungs don't sound congested and my oxygen levels are high, so it's unclear why I'm having such a reaction. I hand the nurse my prescription, and even bring the Benadryl I took, so they know everything. I'm placed in a room and put in a gown. Jewboo is by my side. It's a very tender/terrifying moment.
For the next hour, nurses buzz in and out, and info is taken. Jewboo is still half asleep, but he's being super chill about this whole thing. When I'm asked about my marital status, he says, dryly, "What if you were married this whole time and this is how I found out?" He's cracking me up, but that's actually doing me damage since I can't breathe, so I just shoot him fake-angry stares.
At around 10am, I'm given a breathing treatment to open up my airways, and blood is drawn. The doctor sees me, and he says they're going to test my blood for a chemical that'll indicate a blood clot. The breathing treatment ends up working, and I'm just waiting for results, taking mini naps the whole time. Jewboo is going back and forth between me and his dad, who he's keeping updated on the status. I keep telling him to send my apologies (and at one point, promise to get Dad a blizzard from Dairy Queen), and we're finally ready for me to be discharged. Although I found the hospital bed quite comfy, I felt bad that Jewboo got no sleep, and dad was spending his free time surrounded by sickies in the waiting room. I asked anyone who came my way about being discharged, and one nurse finally told me that I couldn't just leave--if I didn't sign my discharge papers, my insurance wasn't going to cover it.
That's all I needed to keep my ass right in that bed.
In the meantime, I got dressed, confident I was all well after the breathing treatment. I sat in bed, chatting with Andy, when my nurse, Celeste, came in.
"What are you doing dressed? Your blood test [indicating a blood clot] came back positive, you need a CAT SCAN."
HOLY FUCK.
As I change back into my gown, every episode of House I'd ever seen began to pop into my head. I was also surprisingly calm throughout the entire to-do, as I tend to be when faced with actual problems (not the emotional ones I make up), but suddenly I went into drama-mode. How could I have a blood clot and not know about it? Why did the test come back positive if nothing's wrong? My mother was in Mexico with her latin lover, Julio, and other than Jewboo, there was no one to call. Most of the week, no one had been calling me. I could go into that CAT SCAN, find out I'm on death's door, and no one would care but my boo. It all became very tragic in my head.
I went up for my scan, and came back down. Jewboo was being really strong and positive the whole time, and helped me every second of the way.
At around 2:30pm, the doctor finally came back in. The scan showed no sign of a clot, but I was sent away with an inhaler, in case I had breathing issues later on. He, along with all the nurses, were super apologetic about keeping me so long (bless the suburbs), but I wasn't even angry with them. We made it out a little before 3, and dad and I hugged in the waiting room. We went home and ate bagels and napped, and then had a nice family dinner.
As Jewboo put it, "The moral of this story: always go for the vaginal suppository."
With my life threatened, I think the family felt extra kindly towards me, and we were able to laugh about the whole incident by dessert. When we got home, mom and I had a real breakthrough when we discovered we both love the show Criminal Minds. I got way more excited than I should have, and me and his sis ended up talking about the hotness of Criminal Minds character Dr. Spencer Reid, for, like, 45 minutes.
All in all, I felt like the weekend was a huge success--although, with the ER visit, not exactly the relaxing time I'd hoped for. I feel like Jewboo and I took our relationship to a new level--I was able to see what he's like in a crisis; I know he comes from good people open to miscegenation and into a good police procedural drama; and he's now my official In Case of Emergency contact in the state of Pennsylvania. When we got home Saturday night, he had the following email from mom in his inbox:
From: Jewboo's Mom
Date: Sun, Jul 4, 2010 at 1:45 AM
Subject:
Hi Andy,
[Blacktress] is terrific, so treat her well.
Love,
Yes!!! I won her over!! Is it wrong to start shopping for wedding rings?
Okay, blacktress out.
Peace!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Guess Who's Coming to Seder?
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.
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 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.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Bones of Crazy Randy
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.
Enjoy this morning's distraction!
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.
Enjoy this morning's distraction!
Laugh Stains #6: The Bones of Crazy Randy from Wrestling Team on Vimeo.
Remembering A True Sister Act
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Facts of Life (A LOOONG POST to make up for lost time)
You remember those, right?
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."
For the full article, go here
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….
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."
For the full article, go here
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….
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