Friday (Lack of) Focus

Hey y'all,

I'm a total bum today. I got all of 5 hours of sleep, after a night that was a mixture of shock, awe, and aaawwww. There were laughter, tears, and plenty of self-loathing. Let me explain:

So, Jewboo and I hadn't seen each other since Sunday, which ended in a terrible fight (basically, I'm a mentally unstable biatch--think Halle Berry in Introducing Dorothy Dandridge). I was seriously in the dog house, and after some brief phone chats during the week--and more than one visit to the Italian restaurant next to my job for eggplant parmesan sandwiches (food = love)--I was scared I was on relationship probation.

I was so scared, in fact, that I was nervous to see him. Add to that the fact that I was doing a set that night, and I had more butterfly in my stomach than Mariah Carey's 15th album. We met up around 6:30pm, and parted after seeing a mutual friend's show. The plan was for him to come stay at my place after my show--yay! Jewboo sleepover on a weeknight!

We held hands during the show, and I felt heartened. I went to my set downtown and in walked BCB, who was visiting from Sydney town--and she brought a Hollywood agent TO SEE ME!!
Seriously. She talked me up and dragged him downtown! He represents many famous actors and produces films--they met on a set where she was the stylist. He was really nice and thought I was funny, and even quoted one of my jokes back to me later in the evening!! I was having a total Sally Field moment.

The set went well, but the club was sparsely populated. I had a good time, though, and stayed afterwards to schmooze with the agent (obvi--gotta work it). I ended up staying out a bit too long, and jumped in a cab so that Jewboo wouldn't be waiting.

At 11:45 pm, while sitting in traffic on the West Side Highway and damn-near hyperventilating, I got a text from Jewboo. "I'm here, where are you?"

I was on Little West 12th street. For those of you outside of NYC, I live approximately 135 blocks away from 12th Street. We had quite a ways to go. For those of you not on the east coast or Midwest, it's currently 23 degrees in New York City. Needless to say, if I wasn't in the dog house already, I was certainly in it now.

I was in the cab freaking out--so much so that the taxi driver closed the partition to separate himself from the awkwardness. When we finally arrived at my place 20 minutes later, Jewboo limped up the block. He had gone to wait in the subway station, and his feet were so cold that they hurt. I tried not to make it about me--you know, looking to him to tell me it was okay. After all, it wasn't.

I simply opened the door, went up to get a hot bath going, and mellowed out.

You know how I know I want to marry him? He just looked at me as he sat on the bed and said, "I'm not mad. I'm just cold." And he meant it. And the fact is, if it had been me, he would have been dead to me. Like, done and done. The fact that he's so patient and understanding is a god send. I can't wait for him to put a ring on it.

Of course, I can't say this. So, instead, I made him an ecard:



They say an e-card is worth a thousand words. Is that true even when you have an 80-character limit?

Step Up 4 Realz

Happy Friday, Y’alls!

So, this past Tuesday was my berfday, and I am starting to feel the effects of another year. I had a decent day, primarily because I didn’t go to work. I woke up early, did some exercise, went to get my hair did, met mamadukes for lunch, and then we went to get our nails and toes done (like rapper Nelly, I too am a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes). I planned to share my beautification with Jewboo, with whom I was going to see Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson on the great Broadway! We were going with a really cute couple, Steven and Dan. Steven and I share the same bday, and he’s one of those ethnically ambiguous-looking Jews, which I heart (I love when people come up to them speaking Spanish).

The show was good (primarily because it starred Jeff Hiller, my spirit animal--who was kind enough to take us onto the set post-show!), but I was less then enthused by the time the lights went down. Before meeting up with Steven and Dan, Jewboo gave me my birthday present. He had been excited about it for several weeks, priding himself on ordering it early. Although I’d kept my excitement at a minimum, it kept all my blackting skills to act gracious when I unwrapped the package.

He’d bought me a copy of The Walking Dead Compendium. You know, the first 48 issues of the comic book--oh, I’m sorry, graphic novel--on which the series is based. I do love me some zombies, and I’ve been really into the tv show, so I sorta get where he was coming from with the gift idea.
Sorta.

The thing is, I do not like comic books. I have had no penchant for picture books since the age of 7. I have nothing against them, and I am aware that many adults read them, and they’ve apparently grown quite sophisticated and complex since Sojourner was a young truth-teller. Since dating Jewboo I have made more than a few trips to Midtown Comics so he could scope out the latest releases, and I found myself able to overlook the scent of Dr. Pepper and low self esteem and really see the patrons around me. They’re people, too.

But I simply don’t get comics. I never know what order in which I’m supposed to read the talk bubbles, and I get all confused. I just don’t know if I’m a visual thinker, because I see the pictures, and it’s like, “Ok. I guess that means he’s walking far.” It just doesn’t resonate.

I have often said this, which is why a 20-pound, 350 page comic as a gift was not only shocking, but mildly worrisome. Does he not know who I am? It’s not even that I wanted any particular thing. I would have greatly appreciated a free hot meal and a cupcake. I mean, I know he knows me, because he printed out and taped the following e-card to the front of the box:

(Yeah, we’ve been through a lot.)

So why the comic, y’all? Of course, it’s not even about the gift. I realized that I’ve been holding on to a lot of residual resentment, and when he couldn’t even Step Up for my birthday, it all came out. He got a job at Columbia, only 20 minutes away from where I live, and yet he hasn’t spent the night at my home since 10/23, often using the excuse that he doesn’t “have his stuff.”

Okay, now I get that we all have our routines, but as I stood in the drugstore buying products for him after 9 months of dating, I wondered if I should even be doing this. If he wants to stay with me, shouldn’t he get his own products?
I live alone, in a very nice place, with tons of on-demand channels, and yet I trek to Greenpoint more often than a Polish immigrant trying to get her paperwork translated. The only time he’s come over to my place since 10/23 is when he wanted to use my kitchen to shoot a web video. He, along with 6 other folks came over to my house on a Sunday night, took twice as long as was scheduled, and when he was leaving, all he had to say was “thanks,” after telling me that he had been upset with me for telling them to utilize the extras sooner rather than later.

I get that he’s busy, and I’ve been trying to be supportive, but as it gets colder and I try to walk the 20 minutes from the train to his house as quickly as possible, with every step I wonder why Jewboo won’t Step Up 2 Da Streets (of Harlem). Add to that the fact that I spent 8 months paying for things and have yet to be treated to anything since he got a job, and, you know, blacktress was about to get ghetto up in here.

So, after talking to everyone but him, we met for dinner and had a talk last night. I know he loves me, and perhaps I haven’t been as clear as I think (because it seems to obvious to me what he should do, I almost feel crazy having to break it down). I explained that I was disappointed in his lack of initiative, and had been trying not to fight, but was just not living up to my TRUTH. I told him that I understand he’s a procrastinator and has trouble making plans, but I needed him to Step Up 3-D —you feel me, ladies?

He took it well, and had a good think while we ate. It helped that I not only made a list of grievances, but the fancy-ass face wash I had to order online for him had arrived that day, and I had the UPS package in my purse. When he asked what it was, I quickly displayed my effort/his products. I had also visited good ol' Wikipedia and looked up the definition of “empiricism,” because my former-philosophy-professor of a Jewboo often responds to my emotional reactions with, “I just don’t think like that, because I’m an empirical guy.” So, with a firm definition of empiricism as a theory of knowledge which asserts the idea that knowledge arises via sense experience; the belief theories must be tested against observations of the natural world, rather than resting solely on a priori reasoning, intuition, or revelation, I explained not simply the way things made me feel, but the observations of his actions in the "natural world" of our REALationship.
I had to go deep into the male mind for this one, y'all. It required internet-study.

I explained the facts, and basically asked him if he felt my grievances were out of line. Honestly, if you can’t stand Sojourner’s truths, get out of the relationship kitchen!

He said they weren’t, and really felt bad about some behaviors. He also came at me with some of my own truths, noting that I tend to plan things to avoid disappointment, but as a result don’t give him the opportunity to take the reigns. So he hangs back, and then I feel like he’s not active. He had me there, y'all--with default emotions of sadness, anger, and fear, I can't help by try to control everything in an attempt to avoid those emotions. I love a man who can dish up a steaming hot bowl of TRUTH.

Okay, I’m done now. How y’all doing?

Guess Who's ENJOYING Dinner?!

Hey Guys,

Sorry for the delay. The slavedriver is cray cray this week, and I've been balls deep in work. For those who want to know, mom liked Jewboo!!

Yes, y'all! He had her cracking up the whole time, but wasn't being showy. He was being his weird, random self--you know, like referring to his delayed reaction to burning his mouth on a scallion pancake as similar to that of a brontosaurus (it takes a long time for signals to travel down its long neck)--and she actually thought he was, "cute, funny, and clearly intelligent, even though he's a bit quirky."

EXACTLY, MOM!!

When we talked hours later, she was still chuckling to herself thinking of his pun--DILBERT & Sullivan.

I kid you not. He stopped in the middle of dinner to break out his notepad and jot down the gem.

He was funny and nice and interested and managed to avoid political talk, yet openly asked me if I'd go to the comic book store with him after dinner, as though he had no reason to be ashamed of such an endeavor at the age of 31. I think his self-acceptance and honesty makes it so that you sorta have to roll with it, and the neurotic jewyness of it all makes you love it and want to feed a potato latke.

I think my mom is really excited that I have a boyfriend, especially now that he's gainfully employed. I also think she was a little jealous that I'd been to his parents' house twice, but I'd been keeping him away, because at the end of dinner she pulled out a wrapped Hannukah present! Yes, y'all. He unwrapped the blue-and-silver paper (natch) and laughed when he saw this:



"Do you get it?" my mother asked.
Yes, yes he did.

I really was quite impressed, seeing as the humor works on many levels. Former Daily Show correspondent Lewis Black is an angry ranting Jewish comic, much like Jewboo himself. Jewboo also loves The Daily Show, and said he'd never want a Christmas tree in his house (not even if I decorated it with blue and silver ornaments--I asked). He also loves to read because he's all former-adjunct-professor smarty-pants.

At the end of the night, I was so happy, it was Chronicles of Riddickulous! Not only did Andy think my mom was "funny and cool," and she thought he was "a good guy--but I don't know how long you can keep going to the comic store," but I think madukes and I are just a tad closer, now that I've let her in to my interracial love.

Okay, y'all, that's it for now. Gotta go back to pretending like I care about my job.

xoxo,
Blacktress

Interview With a Blacktress

Guys, this is my favorite time of the year. No, not because we’re supposed to make the yuletide homosexual, or because I actually have a winter spoon this winter. It’s the best because we’re starting on a new financial year, which means we are ready to hire a new intern.

“But blacktress, aren’t interns annoying and over-eager?” you may be asking. “Doesn’t the hope and optimism in their eyes as they relish the ‘opportunity’ to photocopy remind you of your own lost innocence and drive?”

Yes, yes gentle reader, you are correct. But the best part of this whole process is that I GET TO INTERVIEW THEM!

As you all know, I relish power in all its forms, as I do not exist until you recognize my prowess. I also love young people, because my desire to be a mother without actually being a mother can be fulfilled by ordering them around and guiding them through the workplace as though it were life. The interview is the first time I’m able to assert my dominance, and I like to set them up for the beginning of the day so that I start off with a boost of confidence.

Unfortunately, I am co-interviewing with the other associate editor, who’s a real buzz-kill of a guy. He’s monotone, second-guesses everything I do (which really pisses me off, because he came into his post as my replacement), and doesn’t know how to kick back. In the interviews we pretty much take do the Good Cop-Bad Cop routine, with him asking hard-hitting questions, and me trying to take the pressure off and see into the applicant’s soul.

Before Thanksgiving, we interviewed one candidate, a plucky young grad who, after 2 years of Teach for America, is ready to be done with the illiterati (h/t Scribe) and pursue his editorial dreams. My coworker went in with this:

Buzzkill: Can you tell us of a time when you spearheaded a project, in or out of the workplace?

YAAAWWWNNNNN. Homey’s gonna be answering phones, faxing, photocopying, and copyediting for at least the first 6 months. He learns on the job, and if he’s got an interest and ¾ of a brain, he can do this. I don’t really need to know if he spearheaded anything. Let’s get to the real questions.

Me: Where do you see yourself in 5 years, and am I there with you?

That’s the kind of stuff we need to know! Tell me your dreams, tell me how much you love me, tell me what’s going on behind the button-down, sir!

Buzzkill: Do you have any interest or knowledge of contemporary realist art?

Ugh, WHO CARES?! I didn’t know Rembrandt from Remington Steele when I came in here—and I still don’t! What I do know is how to write, and how to use the Dictionary of Art Terms, and I sound super smarty-pants, and the readers are none the wiser. I am not tripping over this stuff, and I’ve been here 3 years and have actual responsibility! I don’t care if the whole magazine is printed in Wingdings, as long as my check clears!

This office is broke and busted, with one bathroom for 8 people, stacks of boxes lining the hallway (because we don’t have sufficient storage space), and a “doorman” named Manny who leans against the door all day (well, actually, only until 2pm, cause Manny got thangs to do) talking to the guy wearing a sandwich board sign advertising CHEAP PASSPORT PHOTOS. Every time I come into the office, I feel like I’m walking into a bodega.

In other words—this ain’t that deep, and we need to not get it twisted up in here. You’re asking an educated individual to spend 40 hours a week making sure “Antwerp blue” is spelled properly, and take calls from crazy elderly people who believe that all of their opinions should be heard. I need him/her to be smart, cool, and fearful of me—that’s all.

So now I’ve got a stack of resumes and cover letters, and I’m enjoying the judging process. I want to hire a cute, dorky boy who tells me I’m pretty and offers to run personal errands.

Dinner for Schmucks

Hey Gang,

My bad for the lag in blog posts. My brain was drowning in gravy, and I could barely string a sentence together—you know, except, “Pass me a crescent roll,” and “Oh god, why did I have apple pie for breakfast?” How was your holiday? I went to my mom’s house in the dirty Jersey, where we hosted 10 people! As you know, my mom has a Latin lover (who’s she’s been married to for 5 years, but I refuse to change his title). He’s got two 30-something year-old daughters, and both are married and have kids. The daughters are pretty chill, but their men are wack as all get out. One is super creepy and has a molestache, and the other supplements his income by driving an ice cream truck and is really competitive with his 7-year-old son. I knew we’d be in for a doozy of a day when my mom told me that they’d be bringing over fish and pork.

Um, this is America. I don’t think that we slaughtered the Indians for their salmon.

Anyhoozle, I cooked my favorite Thanksgiving staples, and proceeded to eat them all by Sunday. I hit a personal low earlier that day when I had not 1, not 2, but 5 crescent rolls with my morning meal. (God, I want to throw up in my mouth just thinking about it)
This, of course, has led to the Juice Fast of 2010.*
Before you get all up in arms and call the eating-disorder police on me, trust me when I say that this is a short-term thing. I honestly want to clean out my body from all the starchy sugary cheesy goodness that tasted great, but is probably lining my colon like a tacky ‘70s shag carpet. Prior to Turkey Day, I had be eating more sugary goodness than an oompa loompa, justifying it by reminding myself that I’ve stopped drinking, and just wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have at least one vice.
Next thing you know, my jeans are a bit too tight, and I start to fear that strangers on the subway, thinking I’m pregnant, will start to offer me their seats.
So far, it’s been rough, and I already cheated (a handful of nuts post “lunch” yesterday, and a small slice of leftover pie and ice cream post “dinner”—I thought it would be un-American to leave the last slice standing). However, even with these cheats, I did way less damage than I normally would.
I am, however, feeling really tired and my stomach hurts. My usual procrastination time has extended from 20 minutes per hour to the entire day. And I almost ripped my coworker’s throat out when he had the audacity to eat delicious-smelling leftovers for lunch yesterday.

Luckily, it won’t last too long. In fact, I will be forced to eat tomorrow night, when I go to dinner with Mom and Jewboo. Yes, y’all. And it’s on the first night of Hannukah, no less!

The time has come for Jewboo to meet my Claire Huxtable-esque Antoine Dodson-Ludacris-loving mom.
This is big.
I haven’t had many boyfriends, and no hot mess of a hook-up was meeting my mom, obvs. Jewboo is the first man worth presenting since Clinton was in office y’all! His parents have been quite welcoming to a blacktress, evening sending him home from Thanksgiving with a souvenir from a recent trip and a birthday present for me! This has been really crucial for the growth of our love, because Jewboo is very attached to his fam.
I, on the other hand, am not so much.
I mean, it was just me and my mom for most of my life, and I know she’s got my back, but we have really never been close-close in my adulthood. I don’t really tell her my business unless it’s impersonal, like whether or not to apply for a certain job, or if my taxes are done properly. I’d never tell her if I liked someone or if I was stressed or anything.
Which means that any person I present to her is a BIG DEAL. It’s so rare, the dude MUST be special. And, if he is important, ma-dukes is going to “do me the service of scrutinizing him carefully and taking an impartial view that I am not privy to because of my emotions.” In other words, “I’m gonna put him on the stand like I do the drug-addicted parents in my courtroom every day. “

I’m nervous for Jewboo, although much less so now that he’s employed and works under a strong black woman (making him better equipped to deal with mom). I love him dearly, but this is just such foreign territory for me. People often assume that, as the mother of a blacktress, my mother is bubbly and funny and chill—this is not the case. She’s straightforward, and has no patience for “foolishness.” To aid in the interview process, I’ve prepared a list of talking points for both parties:

1. Barack Obama—is he a mensch or what? (cross-cultural appeal!)
2. Kwanzaa—the black people’s Hannukah?
3. “You ain’t no Challah back girl!” aka “I see where Naomi gets her good looks and brains.” (flattery will get him everywhere).
4. “So, you’re a lawyer for the city, huh? I bet there’s a lot of baby mama drama going on there!”
5. “What do your parents do, where did you go to school, and what are your intentions for my daughter?”

It’s sure to be a good time, guys—if only because I’ll be eating solid foods.

*hash tag JF2K10

When the Jewboo's Away......

The Blacktress will find another jewboo!!

J/K. You know I only have one trueJew love. But Jewboo’s currently in Boston doing some shows, and I must admit, I don’t mind it one bit. I haven’t had to shave my legs in 4 days (yep, I said it), I haven’t had to gchat stalk him for my own amusement during the workday (largely because he’s not available), and, although the hotel they’re staying in is right between a Hooters and Fuddruckers, his vegetarianism is sure to keep him away from both hot wings and pretty young things.

I kicked off my first night of freedom by seeing a Comedy Central taping for comedian Nick Kroll last night. I don’t really have celebrity crushes, and I don’t really like to gush, but Nick Kroll is seriously my life partner. He’s a nerdy Jew from Rye, New York who has the pouty lips of a man of color and every word out of his mouth is brilliant to me. He mostly plays characters, my favorite being Fabrice Fabrice—the name so nice, you have to say it AGAIN.

Check him out interviewing Steve Carrell:

Fabrice Fabrice Interviews Steve Carell from Steve Carell

He is my spirit animal. He is my avatar. He is my patronus. And after sitting second row center during his taping my life is officially complete. Let me explain.


First and firstmost (as Bobby Bottleservice would say), Nick Kroll has been on my TO-DO list ever since I saw him at UCB 4 years ago. He was so wonderfully hilarious, and his questionable sexuality intrigued me. I figured at the very least, every gay needs a blacktress, and I could endear myself to him. Unfortunately, he was way too cool off stage for me to approach, so I just let it be. Since then, however, Kroll has blown up like Nagasaki, starring in “The League,” “Sit Down Shut Up,” and random movie cameos. When I saw he was doing a show at the Williamsburg Music Hall, I jumped on those tickets—hipsters be damned!

I bought 4, figuring I’d make some friends at some point prior to the show. Enjoying freedom without Jewboo I made it a ladies’ night, and brought three of my favorite funny girls (well, 2 of my favorites and a random who wanted a ticket). I arrived with a friend and there was no sign or sense of order to the process. “What do we do?” my Caucasian friend asked? I looked around. Manning the door were too buff black bodyguards.
“I see black men. I’m getting some answers,” I said.
I walked over to the bald guy (they always have the most power), and asked him what the deal was. As he spoke, his gold grill nearly blinded me, but I stood my ground, speaking with a confidence and comfort that let him know I was cool, but not trashy. He gestured for us to wait on this side, and we did accordingly. The people around us began lining up behind us; we’d inadvertently started the line and were at the front (Rosa would have been so proud!). We ended up getting 2nd row center seats, perfect for eye-fucking.

On select seats was a sheet of paper and pencil, and we were directed to write down questions for Fabrice Fabrice. “Good” questions would be selected and given to Fabrice to read on stage/on camera.

This was my moment to connect with him. I thought long and hard. Here’s what I came up with:
1. What was Raven Simone’s favorite meal on the set of “The Cheetah Girls”?
2. How did you discover that craft services was your passion?
3. How do you like to unwind after a long day of serving crafts?
xoxo, Blacktress!!!

I didn’t think he’d read it, but I wanted to just add a personal touch.

After our questions were collected and reviewed, Fabrice was handed a stack to read. I tried not to get too amped—and then hateful—when my friend’s questions were answered. But then……
“What was Raven’s favorite meal on the Cheetah girls? Cheetahs. Baby cheetahs.”
YES!!!! He got me.
He proceeded to answer the rest of them, and then read my signature aloud:

“XOXO, Blacktress. That’s a black actress. This woman is black and she’s hating on Raven. That’s not solidarity.”
(everything sounds hilarious in the voice of Fabrice Fabrice, trust).

Um, it was the greatest moment of my life. Nick Kroll uttered my alias with his full lips. He instantly knew what the word meant—he can certainly handle the truth. And the fact that my questions were chosen proves that we’re cosmically connected—I know what to ask him to make him shine like Geoffrey Rush.

So, in summararium, Nick is my boo, I am famous by proxy, and I love me a matzoh ball!

I totally wish I was Henry Winkler right now.

Getting off Struggle Strasse

You know how they say it’s hard out there for a pimp? Well, I think it’s much harder for a blacktress (didn’t the pimp get an Oscar nom?). Y’all, I am on Struggle Street, for serious. I mean, we all know struggle street (or, as I like to call it, struggle strasse to really highlight the pain)—how it feels when you’re swamped at work one week, when you’re getting rejected like a Jersey Shore cast member’s college application, when you wake up with no heat or hot water and don’t know what to do.

But normally, you get through it. It’s just one of life’s many valleys, and you know there’ll be another peak. In those moments, you’re just walking down Struggle Strasse—you know, you took a wrong turn, but you know that once you get your bearings you’ll be back on Make It Happen Boulevard.

Sometimes, though, it’s not so simple. Sometimes you end up on Struggle Strasse and get wooed by its cheap rent. You’re so hopeless you end up signing a damn lease and the next thing you know, it’s the middle of summer and you find out the windows in your apartment in the Struggle Strasse Projects can’t open, much less support an air conditioner.

That’s where I’m at right now. Nothing tragic happened—I just sorta let this malaise snowball, and I’m starting to wonder if I’m even young, gifted, or black! (did you see one of the recent angry comments? I’m a discredit to the race!) I had a few shows happening, but I’m running out of new material—and not really writing more!!! What kind of roll-over-and-play-dead kind of behavior is this?! Definitely more wacktress than blacktress.

I think it really has to do with not liking my job, and not really knowing what alternatives I have—you know, probably the way an oppressed person feels almost everyday. I’m not accustomed to this. As mamadukes says to me when I’m acting a fool, “I didn’t work hard so you could cry all day.” That, and “if you want sympathy, you can find it between ‘shit’ and ‘syphillis’ in the dictionary.”

It’s tough love, but it works.

I don’t know what to do people! I’m trying to write funny hilarities to pitch to humor sites, and my brain turns to mush! What’s hip with the young kids? Is Bieber still hot? Why have I missed so many episodes of GLEE? This is what happens when you spend your evenings hunched over Edy’s Slow Churned Ice Cream (it doesn’t matter if it’s half the fat when you eat twice as much of it!).

All right, y’all, I’ll stop the rant. Just tell me what to do. Please leave a comment that answers the following:

1. Sojourner, the TRUTH is you should be spending your time doing ________ for a living.

2. Blackting is…..
a. Reacting
b. Attacking
c. Distracting
d. Comparing yourself to other people and wondering if the world still thinks you’re 3/5 of a woman.

3. When your drag queen boss tells you that your tone “concerns him,” you should
a. Calmly explain your point of view.
b. Send a clarifying email, so as not to give away your hatred via eye rolling and sighing. Then, look for a new job on monster.com.
c. Start looking into working holiday visas and see if New Zealand will let you back in.
d. Cut a bitch.