I'm Dreaming of a John Waters Christmas

Wow, people are really upping the bitchiness quotient this year. I’ve already received three pieces of hate mail about the latest issue of my magazine and it hasn’t even hit newsstands yet!


From: Claire
Sent: Friday, December 16, 2011 1:19 PM
Subject: [redacted] Magazine

Dear [Sojourner],

I have been taking art classes and I subscribed to your magazine. I just wanted to let you know that I will not be renewing my subscription because most of the paintings in your magazine are so dark and dreary. They are depressing to look at as a whole. After more than a year of hope and anticipation for each issue, I am consistently very dissapointed in each issue. There is also not enough instruction or help in learning to paint in watercolor. Just wanted to let you know why I am not renewing.

Claire



From: A mean person [mailto:Mykidsdon’tcallme@yahoo.com]
Sent: Sun 12/18/2011 7:35 PM
Subject: magazine

what in the world is going on with your magazine -- who hired that editor???? was it some kind of experiment...let's give the job to someone who doesn't know a single thing about the subject?? everybody now seems to be aware of this, for a while i thought it was just me. she has to be destroying the credibility of the publication. i, for one, will not be renewing. thank you.

Who's everyone? Has she been reading my blog? I don't think it's a coincidence that this comes right on the heels of my pic appearing in the editor's note--now that they know a young blacktress is runnin' thangs, they can send their hate with reckless abandon???

Man, the passive aggression is out of this world. It’s a real buzz-kill, especially since I’d planned to discuss the “John Waters Christmas” show I saw on Monday night.

Yes, you read that right—a John Waters Christmas.

For more than an hour, the brilliant and twisted J-Dubs discussed all of his favorite Christmas things—and the gifts he hoped to receive. He opened with how much he loved Justin Bieber, and suggested he serve as the bait for a special Christmas episode of “To Catch a Predator.”

“Oh, that hair! It's like a siren song. Just put him on park benches across the country and keep loadin’ up the vans!”

He also coined a great new phrase to describe one of many “gay Christmas miracles”: BLOUSE.

As in, “Ugh, that guy is being such a blouse—you know, a feminine top.”

I also love that he railed against hairless women (in one of his many rants about porn videos). "We fought for the right to show bush and now there's none to be seen! Their down-theres look like my mustache."

I wish I could wrap him and put him under my tree.

How's your Hannukah going?

Columbus Wouldn’t Have Wanted it This Way

Hey gang! It feels good to be blogging again. Hell, after my weekend, it feels good to be showered and not reeking of menthol again! Yes, my boofaces (can I call you my boofaces?), I was sick, sick, sickie all weekend. It began Wednesday night with a scratchy throat. I came in to the plantation on Thursday, although I definitely had my fair share of daytime cold medicine. By Friday morning, all bets were fucking off, as I was feverish, every part of me ached, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but couldn’t breathe through my nose. My entire weekend was a wash, and I was too mad to have to cancel a hosting gig, miss a great networking opportunity, and generally lose the me-time the weekends allow. Not even the joy of "The Next Karate Kid" and "Sleepwalkers" coming on TV (I didn't have to Netflix them!!!) could brighten my spirits. I spent most of the sunny, warm weekend in my house wearing a turtleneck and sweatpants under the covers and hacking up a lung.

Yes, gross.

Although I wasn’t feeling great, I was definitely better by Sunday night, and vowed to come to work Monday morning. After all, I’d already missed one day, and there was so much to do. We hadn’t gotten Columbus Day off, but a few people would be out, so I could work in relative quiet/not scare anyone off with my mucus. It was, however, a struggle to get up and out, and even the shower water was a shock to my delicate system. I got in to work a bit early, and my self-congratulatory smugness was definitely spilling over into the unoccupied cubicles. I checked my emails and kept looking around—I’d had to unlock the elevator and the gate, but I love being the first one in. It was, however, already after 9 and no one was here. Weird.

Finally, at 9:30, my massa came to my desk. I went to say hello, but the intake of breath resulted in a coughing fit. When it had subsided, he said, “I didn't want to call you at home, but I gave everyone the day off today and said they didn't have to make it PTO [paid time off]".
OH HELL TO THE NO!!!

Let me get this gay: I dragged myself out of bed with my whooping cough to do work, and you gave everyone the day off? And, not only did I deprive myself of much-needed rest, but it could have been avoided if you or anyone else on staff had thought to call or email my ass?????
I can’t take this shit, y’all. Not only have I still not been given the raise I was promised OVER 5 MONTHS AGO, they now don’t even want to put me on the fucking office phone tree????
As fellow freedom writer Scribe put it, “your boss is the cuntiest ass in the history of assholes.”
Her words are like poetry—angry, vulgar, TRUTH poetry.

Y’all, I’m about to snap like a fucking Lifetime movie heroine. With a 9-5 like this, I see why J. Love ended up becoming a prosti-mom!

I’ve been trying to really let go of my rage, but this really was the cherry on the pie of a crap weekend. Do you know Jewboo is so damn dense and selfish that he didn’t even come see a blacktress once while she was bedridden—we haven’t seen each other in 6 days! Homey was like, “Well, if you need something, I’ll come…” Um, what I fucking need is a man who doesn’t have to be shamed into behaving properly. Jewboo is on thin ice. That behavior after 7 months and a key to the pad is just out of fucking order. He’s not dead to me yet, but he’s definitely in a coma and I’m putting his stuff on eBay just in case.

I’m feeling slightly better today, and downing OJ and tea like it’s my job—you know, one that actually pays me.

How y’all doing?

16 and Pregnant, Season 2, Episode 2

9:56 - Ugh, I am so tired. I really want to go to bed, but I feel like the world needs me...to LIVE BLOG THIS SHOW.

I also know that I'll be able to sleep much easier knowing that somewhere out there is a teenager ruining her life and the life of her unborn child. (Save me a seat in hell!)
J/K (Rowling) GUYS!!!

These little jokes are how I keep my energy up when I'm dragging.

9:59 - Here it comes!!! It's almost like I'm the one giving birth....to my own happiness.

10:00 - She's 15 and from Monroe, Michigan--near Detroit! Good Lawd, if she's near the D, there's no doubt this'll be a shit show. I mean, hello -- Nikkole?! Who spells it that way??
We open with her at 30 weeks.
She used the pull-out method. Sweet Jesus, it's 2010! There should be no accidental babies in 2010!
Her BF, Josh, broke up with her when she told him she was prego. Now her homegirls are telling her to stop

10:02 - Her mother's name is Rikki. She looks like she's wearing a Jessica Simpson wig. You know Jessica has her own line of wigs, right?

10:04 - First day of junior year!! It's basically a debutante ball for her preggers belly. I love that she's wearing a sweatshirt and basketball shorts. At least get some cute empire-waist tops, Nikkole.
(ugh, just typing her name is hard for me)

Josh was waiting in the parking lot after school - homey got expelled. Why does she want this trifling fool? He's going nowhere fast.

10:06 - I love how, at 15 years old, Josh is like, "I'm done being a kid, I have a baby on the way." Um, clown, you dumped her when she said she was knocked up. He looks very fresh-faced. I think he's just doing this to get some screen time -- homey wants to be on "One Tree Hill" and figures he can add "16 and Pregnant" to his weak resume.

10:10 - Skateboarding commercial. Apparently, skateboarding is now about bridging the gaps between the races.

10:11 - 31 weeks prego! Of course no one else wants her to be with Josh.
Josh is talking to his mom. "I have to face it like a man. It's gonna be hard. I'm still kinda young."
Kinda?! KINDA?! Boo, you're an embryo!

All these girls have too much product in their hair. Sidebar: one of her girls is named Nekitha - and she's WHITE!

She's naming the baby Lyle. What, does she expect him to be born 40 years old, chewing tobacco on a porch? I'm imaging a Benjamin Button.

10:14 -Doctor's Appointment.
Josh won't even hold her hand during the check-up! WTF!
"Any contractions?" Doctor asked. "Not that I know of," she replies.
Um, "not that you know of? I know you're not the brightest bulb, Nikkole, but I'd like to think you'd know if your uterine wall was ready to release a fetus.

10:18 - She goes over to Becca's house and hangs out with her and Sam. Suddenly she gets a call from Josh:
"Leave Becca's, go get five dollars, come to the football game."
What on earth does he need five dollars for? How much do you think crack costs in Michigan?
And why does she let him call her home girl a bitch? Nikkole is not only dumb, but spineless. At least Jenelle could yell at people.

10:20 - Prom dress shopping! ALas, Nikkole can't fit into anything, cause she's hefty.
Josh is rushing her to get the hell out of the store. He's so selfish and mean - he's even worse than Andrew (see last week's live blog).

Josh is saying that he'll be in the parking lot while she's at the party. He is so sketchy and creepy. HAVE HE ENROLLED IN ANOTHER SCHOOL???

10:26 - Homecoming time!
Nikkole actually looks really cute in her dress.
- The whole time she's at the dance, she's thinking about meeting Josh and wants to leave. She goes outside to meet him in the parking lot, and he's not there. When she calls, he HANGS UP ON HER!!!
- She calls him again and he says he can't hang out! WTF? Is he getting a degree in douchebaggery instead of a high school diploma?
- She goes home and chills with her 12-year-old bro, playing Rockband. It's kinda sweet, but also sad. She should have gone back inside and enjoyed the rest of homecoming!

10:28 - She talks to Josh the next day to express her emotions.
He's remarkably manipulative for a 16-year-old boy. She explains to him how it hurts her feelings for him to not do what he says he'll do, like he might not be able to take care of her with the baby. His response:
"That's retarded....um, because... Whatever, we're not talking about this. It's all about you you you, being selfish. This is why I broke up with you before."

Wow. I have no words.

10:30 - Doctor's suggesting they induce labor, and Nikkole's about to pack her bags.
[COMMERCIAL BREAK. AAAAHHHH, HOW WILL I HANDLE THE TENSION???]

10:35 - We're in the labor room. Nikkole's struggling a bit. When you induce, it can take longer.
Josh, his mom, and Nikkole's mom are in there with her. Josh tries to be sweet for a bit, and is taking pictures of her, but she's not lying still and feeling crappy.
"Are you tired?? Why? You've slept all day." I love how impatient and entitled Josh is. Who raised him?

"I think guys' pain tolerance is super higher than women's is." - Thanks, Josh, thanks for that negative-two cents.
Why can't Josh be put down, like a useless dog?

She's in terrible pain, and Josh just won't shut up.

He's yelling at Nikkole's mother, telling her not to talk to him. His mother tries to be firm with him, but he won't listen.

They are fighting over Nikkole as she writhes in pain, 12 hours into labor.
"Say she [her mother] trumps me, Nikkole, I want to hear you say it." - He's giving her a fucking ultimatum when she's got a baby coming out of her vag???

I want this boy dead. This tool makes the guy who texted me after a first date with, "Why haven't I fingered you yet" seem like a total saint.

10:39 - 27 hours into labor, NOW they want her to push?!
Oh my god, maybe it's a good thing I'll probably never get married. There's no way I could handle that.

The baby comes out, all cute and gooey. Poor thing--born into dysfunction.

10:40 - Josh looks like he's about to vomit.
He has to be told to give her a hug and kiss. Really? Really??

10: 43 - Baby's 1-day old!
Mom won't let Josh into their house, so she's going home solo.
Wow, I can't believe she can even get up and walk to the car a day after giving birth!
Ah, yes, now she mentions the pain.
And cue baby's first cry.
I love how Nikkole's so disgusted by the spit up. Do all the girls on this show think babies are just warm Cabbage Patch dolls?

10:44 - Her friend Frankie comes over.
(Nikkole seems to be very popular - she's had, like, 8 different friends on the episode)

[Note, scrolling across the screen: PRE-ORDER 16 AND PREGNANT ON DVD AT AMAZON.COM.... You know you want to.]

10:46 - Rikki is crying, recounting her feelings during the labor.
"It's really hard watching that," Rikki says, wiping away tears. God, can you imagine what it's like watching your child with an emotional abuser?

Is Nikkole such a doormat because of her absent father figure?

10:51 - Lyle's 2 Weeks Old
- Josh is STILL not allowed over at Nikkole's house.
- Now Nikkole wants them to meet and work things out.
"One of the things I don't like is that you're disrespectful to many people. To me, Nikkole, adults." - Rikki says this in a really calm, kind voice.
"That's just who I am.... I'm not going to change."
WOW. I seriously don't know how he's allowed to function in the world.

- Rikki wants to put her on lockdown, away from Josh.

10:53 - 5 weeks Old
- Nikkole's back in school. At least she tends to the baby and doesn't pawn it off on her mom, the way Jenelle did.
- I love that, despite multiple feedings in the middle of the night, Jenelle still wakes herself up early enough to flat-iron her hair.

- Nikkole found out Josh is seeing his ex girlfriend!!
Oh, thank you Black Jesus, get him out of this girl's life!!

(I've noticed we see know other men in this episode besides the doctor. Perhaps the reason these women tolerate Josh is because... there are no men in the town of Monroe!!! )

10:56 - Josh admits he's seeing someone else.
I love that she says it's not fair to her for him to see other girls, and he goes, "What's not fair????"
Do you think it's possible to be sociopathic and retarded at the same time?

10:57 - Nikkole tells mom that Josh broke up with her.
Christmas time with the family!
Rikki really is a good mom, even though her hair is a hot mess.

10:59 - Nikkole is back in her cheerleading uniform - holla at a body bounce-back!

Whew, guys, this really got my blood pressure up. I started off tired, but now I'm all riled. Let's see if the preview for next week can chill me out:

Valerie and Matt - Interracial love!
Oh no, baby medical problems!!!
Y'all, you know I'll be here next week, same time, same blog.

Apparently You CAN Silence Sojo....

I'm pissed, y'all.

I went in to work today and during a total lull I went to put up a post about my shenanigans the previous night. Much to my dismay and horror, I saw that the IT bitches have BLOCKED ACCESS TO MY BLOG!

The blacktress has been blacklisted. Hell to the no!

This ship is no longer cruisey--not cruisey at all. Thank god this is only a two-week gig.

If I'd had access to my diary earlier today, I would have recorded the following:

1. I am currently drinking hot chocolate out of a green mug with a picture of a sheep on it that says "Thinking of Ew." I remember why I hate office life.

2. One of my main tasks is to input names into the ships' security systems, so deliveries can be made and people can hop off and on. On today's list was 'McCarthy, Andrew." Is the Pretty in Pink hottie working for cruise ships now?! I wondered as I plugged him into the database. I then spent a large portion of the morning wondering what Andrew McCarthy would do on a cruise ship. Does he perform scenes from the film on the Lido Deck after bocce tourneys?

Oh my god, I heart him.

3. Today at work, I got a call from drag queen Portia Turbo, who I worked for during Fair Day. The call went something like this:
"Sojourner, gorgeous, it's Portia Turbo, how are you?"
"Great, how are you?"
"Good. Look, sweetheart, we love you, and we want you to work as a Gaydar Girl at the Mardi Gras Harbour Party next Sunday. Can you do it?"
"Will Verushka Darling be there?"
"Of course, gorgeous!"
"I'm there!"

Guys, I have been requested to act as a Gaydar Girl for the Harbour Party. Am I on my way to becoming a gay icon? This is everything I've ever wanted! What if I become a famous blacktress, but I'm only famous in Australia--then I can come home to NYC when I want to 'get away from it all.' Can you imagine?!

See, these are the things I would have shared in real time if only the massa of the ship had let me. What really pisses me off is that someone sitting near me listens to the radio all day. And we're not talking smooth Mozart sounds. Before 11am I heard MGMT's 'Electric Feel' and 'Don't Stop the Music' by Ri-Ri. I may as well have been in the club with such distracting grooves! How is it okay to listen to fun pop hits that could distract other colleagues but not okay to check email and update blogs during ridiculously long stretches of boredom?! Shit, I wrote most of this on a series of post-its on my desk--they can't make me work. You don't own me!

Sidenote: The best part about the pop music is that it can only be coming from one of two people: Jessica, a young girl who has yet to say hello to me; or Paul, who is known as 'Boots' (as in "Puss in")--a middle-aged man who regularly leaves at 3pm and doesn't say much.

I think it's him.

On an up-note, me and the boss-lady actually chit-chatted today. Turns out my kewpie doll is only 22 years young and has never left her home country. She also revealed that she "doesn't know what she's doing," which makes a lot of sense, since she can't quite delegate. When I complete basic tasks quickly and efficiently, she tries to bolster my self esteem with such phrases as "You're doing a good job!" and "Well done for thinking ahead!"

Um, sweetie, I've been reading on my own since I was 4. Don't get it twisted.

She's nice, though, and as far as "bosses" go, she causes no stress. If only I could get some fucking internet access! Don't they know I'm a future gay icon?!

WACK History Month

What the hell is going on here, people?! First Beyonce - Etta James duel to the death, New York scheduled to appear in the Vag Mons, and now Chris Brown is charged with assaulting Rihanna.

I am in Disturbia.

What's prompted me to blog is the recent New York Times Article on the whole thing. Check it here. Here's the excerpt that really pisses me off:

“He was very professional and didn’t appear to have injuries,” said Sgt. Bridget Pickett, [about Chris Brown] adding, “He’s a good looking young man.”

What the hell?! I don't care if he's cute. I don't care if, after running scared, calling his manager, handlers, and 12 high-priced lawyers, he turned himself in--he assaulted his girlfriend, assholes!

And what's really making me sad is Ri-Ri. She has been in an abusive relationship with this fool for a long time. How long would it have gone on if not for this incident? As much as I respect a need for her privacy, I wish we were addressing what she's dealing with instead of hearing from rappers and cops who say Chris is "good looking." It's as though she's completely devalued. While they are the "king and queen of pop" right now, it just seems that the biggest concern is getting Chris off so we can go back to watching him dance and pretend this never happened. The willingness to sweep it under the rug is sickening. If Rihanna can't even get justice, what hope is there for the thousands of abused women who live in fear every day?

I'm sorry y'all, this just has me trippin'. What do you think?

Ri-ri, I got your back. I will be breaking dishes and using them to cut Chris Brown!

Homeless Blacktress?

Hey gang,

I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.

I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.

Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.

I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.

Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.

Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.

In Harry's Defense

Look at this comment I got on the HP post:

Andr said...

If you really saw the play you know the theatre is very cold, there is cold smoke on stage and thousand of people looking at him and he is averange, so imagine when there is a normal temperature and a normal situation: it's big, very big guys, deal with it, you have it smaller than Radcliffe.
And calling him Harry is not funny, it's lame. It only shows you are immature and retard.
The boy has talent and is brilliant in the play, deal with that too.


Do you think this is Harry? This person is angry! I'm a "retard"! This blows my mind.
I love it.
What does it mean to "have it smaller than radcliffe"? Is he saying my penis is smaller than his? if so, he is RIGHT!
Cause I don't have a penis.
And, if that's what we're discussing here, then yes, Harry has one-upped me.
Who knew this post would be so divisive?!

Some People Really Don't Like Spam

One of my duties at work (not for much longer, though!) is checking the general email address and replying or forwarding all questions from artists, readers, and general randoms. As many of you already know, most artists are weird and crazy—and turn down no chance to share their “quirkiness” and “creativity.” Take, for instance, the following auto-replies I received from emails about our online survey:

Subject: Yahoo! Auto Response
Message:

I'm in LA visiting Lindsay.Thank goodness for AirTran's Crazy 8's sale on August 8!! Be back September 6. –Shelby

Okay, I need to know why this person would put so much extra information in their auto-response. Who is Lindsay? Am I supposed to care? Is it Lindsay Lohan? If Shelby is indeed visiting drunky/cracky/currently gay starlet Li-Lo, then I need way more details.

Oh, and is it just me, or does the second sentence read like some sort of sponsored content? Do you think AirTran makes you plug them in all emails until you’ve returned from your flight?

Subject: Re: Art Magazine’s Survey.
Message:
September 5th is my birthday, so wish me luck.


The artist wrote this because part of our incentive is a free subscription; winners for this freebie will be announced September 5.

Okay, I know, this isn’t an auto-reply, but isn’t it strange? Does she expect me to reply to this? Do I have to send her a birthday e-card now?


Here’s my absolute favorite:

Subject: This email address has been closed due to spam.
Message:

Regarding your message, RE: Your email requires verification Art Mag’s Mail:



You are trying to reach an email address which is no longer in use due to the deluge of spam I experienced a few years ago.



If you are a friend who is trying to reach me, check your email messages. I probably sent you a message giving you my new email address. If I didn't, type first and last name with a period separating the two. Then add @gmail.com to the end and your message should reach me. If not, give me a call.



If you are a business associate trying to reach me, read the above. I am very sorry for the inconvenience.



If you are a spammer: Bully for you. Your unsolicited garbage overran my email address and caused me all sorts of problems. You now have a private bungalow reserved in the very deepest darkest corner of hell.




OH MY GOD. THIS CHICK IS PISSED. WHAT DO YOU THINK THE “ALL SORTS OF PROBLEMS” WERE??????

Response to a Comment

So an HBCU-attendee left the following comment on the blacktress's last post:

It saddens me that us negros aren't progressive enough to NOT make this such a big deal. We all know good and damn well if this were an article highlighting the first black valedictorian of Harvard we'd throw a parade and put his/her face on a stamp to be circulated during the short month of February. And until you attend a HBCU with no air conditioning, save your inexperienced
opinions...by the way the name is Spelman (not Spellman..and no I did not attend)And to the "scribe" you're not becoming the "token high yella Delta" has nothing to do with your color...check your credentials and ask yourself if you even qualify...

Okay, my responses to him/her would be:
1. This IS a big deal, as evidenced by all the media hype and hoopla that is surrounding it. I mean, in Morehouse's 141-year history, to have a white valedictorian IS something. I think it does open a dialogue about race, class, social constructs, and higher education, and it should be addressed.

2. I mean, would we throw a parade--and should we? I can say for MYSELF (and that's the only person I speak for when I write), I would be proud of the "first black valedictorian of Harvard," but it's true--if we made it a damn parade, it would indicate that such an achievement was few and far between and we were just as shocked as the majority, so I would NOT want that kind of hype surrounding the first black valedictorian of Harvard.

3. I can have any opinion I want, based on the experiences I have had with HBCU-attendees, including FAMILY and close friends, as well as my visits to the institutions. So, yes, maybe I wasn't a student for 4 years, but I can certainly express how I felt in those spaces, and my knowledge that it wasn't for me. I did not say they weren't for others, or didn't have their merits--they just didn't fit Sojourner.

4. Okay, I added an 'l' to Spelman. There, you showed me. Woot. To that, I could say, when you wrote "To 'scribe' you're not becoming the 'high yella delta'..." you should have written YOUR, not YOU'RE. But, I mean, attacking typos is just petty.

5. So, in summation: Let a blacktress have an opinion and don't be so damn bitchy about it. If anything, I'm much more annoyed by the way he is being portrayed than his actual election--I mean, if he earned it, rock on--but if we're gonna act like he's the greatest Caucasian in the world, then that's a whole 'nother Oprah.

Y'all know the blacktress doesn't let comments go. Let's start a civil dialogue.
TRUTH.

Forget Me Not

Last night, while hanging out with my main gay JJS iii, I received a voicemail from a man with whom I engaged in a makeout session Saturday evening. I was mildly excited to see a missed call from an unidentified number, and had a sneaking suspicion it might be him.

The male in question was someone I had met months earlier at a stand up comedy show (we were both performing), and his wry wit and inherent dorkiness endeared him to me, and I asked him if we could go on a date (you know this blacktress is upfront!!). We went on a semi-date, and while there was a fun comedic rapport, I could tell he had about as much interest in me as a gay man has in a vagina.
But he isn’t gay.

Cut to 5 months later—May 10, 2008. At the party of blacktor Victor Varnado, the comedian/disinterested date and I are reunited, and there is much merrymaking. He’s suddenly all up in a blacktress’s George Foreman (grill) like a horndog on prom night, and I wonder what has changed. I figured I best not over-think it, especially with me Australia-bound in a few months time—now, more than ever, we don’t love these hos. I figured I could get my makeout on and end up just fine.
We had a nice time, and there was a bit of me that felt a little boost from getting with an unrequited crush, even though I was no longer crushing. I felt all was right in the world. Perhaps, like Joni Mitchell, he didn’t know what he’d got til it was gone, and now he was carpe-ing the diem and getting with this.
He kissed me again, before leaving the party at 3am, apparently to “go fishing with a friend in Long Island City, Queens”—a sentence that made little sense at the time, but I thought it best to overlook it.
I was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice on my answering machine Monday evening.
That is, until the message went on.
It went something like this:

Hey Sojourner, this is D-Bag McGee. It is 6:30 on Monday and I have an incredibly awkward question to ask you, and that is…uh…what did we do Saturday night at Victor’s party--because I have no recollection whatsoever because I drank too much and my mind is absolutely a blank slate, so there’s a big question mark as to what happened at Victor’s party--did I break some windows, did I steal things? I have no idea what happened, and uh…yeah…. [then, the following he said in a sing-song voice]: I hope everything’s okay, I hope I didn’t do anything bad, I feel embarrassed and awkward, bye!

I. Shit. You. Not.
I literally just transcribed the message from my phone, where it is eternally saved.

I honestly think when I was born, the man upstairs looked at my wet, placenta-juice-covered body and said, “let’s give this one something to blog about.”

Now, some of my most loyal readers know that I, too, have engaged in too much drink in one evening, and suffered from what I am now calling a Whiteout (see Friday Night Amstel Lights for details). I mean, we’ve all been there.

But we do NOT go there with a blacktress.

W. T. F?! I mean, nothing is more insulting than calling someone and saying, “I don’t remember making out with you.” This was no random mid-dance smooch. This was much dirty dancing foreplay (foreplay is MORE play—holla!), and then a hard-core makeout session, which was briefly interrupted by the party host (who jumped on top of us and called us tramps) and then resumed!!! It was then followed by a long conversation in the living room, where I sat on his lap as though he was Santa and he told me I was really hot and cute (I mean, he was speaking TRUTH, obvi).

How could he blackout on a blacktress?!

You know I called that bitch back posthaste and let him know what was what. Our conversation went something like this:

[phone rings. He answers.]
Sojo: You are such a d-bag.
D-Bag: What?
Sojo: I said, you are such a d-bag.
D-Bag (hesitantly): Why?
Sojo: We made out last night.
And I’m pregnant.
And I’m keeping it.
D-Bag (a quiet terror): Ha…?
Sojo (as though speaking to the character of Corky from the television series “Life Goes On”): Seriously, we made out. Like, what?! You don’t remember?!
D-Bag (quiet terror still seeps through the phone lines): No…. I just, like, don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember is us all talking in the DDR room, and then me waking up at my friend’s place.
Sojo: Well, you missed a good time, D-bag McGee. You should have been there.
D-Bag: I was soooo out of it.
Sojo: I’m sorry you were “so out of it,” I didn’t mean to take advantage of you by letting you kiss me. If I’d known you weren’t in your right mind, I certainly wouldn’t have put my lips on yours.
D-Bag: No, no, you shouldn’t feel bad, it’s my fault.
Sojo: I was being sarcastic. Of course I don’t feel bad—if anything, I now have the upper hand, because you feel silly.
D-Bag: God, I was sooo drunk.
Sojo: Um, could you stop saying that? You’re making me feel bad.
D-Bag (taking long pause): Um….sorry, I’m here, I’m just digesting all this….
Sojo: You blacked out on a blacktress!!!!
D-Bag: Yeah, um….
Sojo: You might want to handle your alcoholic scandal. Be careful out there. Bye.
[We hang up, and luckily, with my main gay by my side, I am able to resume my normal activities.]

Okay, let the record show that this dude is 33 years old—or, I should say, 33 years YOUNG. How are you 33, calling up a fine-ass blacktress such as myself, with no recollection? Shouldn’t you know how to hold your liquor by the age of 33?! And repeatedly saying he was drunk just made me feel like I was some gross mistake he made, like filling in the wrong bubble on a standardized test, or accidentally drinking baby’s blood.

I am seriously done with the male gender. This is what that random college student was talking about in that paper I graded a month back.
What has become of the world when a man can call you up and just TELL YOU he forgot about making out, and then, when hearing the news, instead of rejoicing, he openly expresses his horror and distaste?!!

WHAT IS MY LIFE???

Reason #249 I need to blow this popstand.

The Blacktress is Pissed

I have not felt this much anger and oppression on the plantation since my slave days.

I will call this Reason #248 that I need to go to Australia.

Yesterday, Sojourner was ravaged by stomach illness. With sharp pains and an exploding buttocks (sorry, but you know I tell the TRUTH), I sat in my veal pen—aka cubicle—until about 1pm, when I could no longer take the pain. On my way out of the building, I managed to take the elevator one flight before running off to the nearest bathroom, where I puked like a drunken college student after doing a keg stand.

I had a fever, chills, and was fearful I wouldn’t make it home in one piece. I hopped in a cab home, and laid down for the remainder of the day, waking up only to run to the toilet.
By the day’s end, I showed little signs of improvement, so I sent my massa an email, letting him know I wouldn’t be in the next day (today). In my email, I offered to work from home, seeing as my priority for the next day was to do work on our publication’s website—which only requires an internet connection and the ability to double-click. I was of sound mind and body, but I knew I’d need to be no more than 4 feet from a bathroom all day, and it made no sense to come in and stink up the office space when I could do bad all by my damn self.

I awoke early this morning, prompted by dehydration, nausea, and stomach pain. I fought the urge to roll over and decided to check my email, just to see what, if anything, Massa had to say about my request to work from home.
I found this message in my inbox:
Sojourner,

Sorry you are still sick. If you can make it into the office we could use another pair of eyes looking at the remaining articles. B_____ has gone out of town and I have to rush to write two articles and get them designed and edited by Thursday evening.

Thanks,
Massa

Um, w.t.f?!! I have never once been denied a sick day, and I even offered to work from home—which I fully planned to do! I wasn’t trying to shirk duties, but I couldn’t keep my butt in check long enough to sleep through the night, let alone pick cotton on the plantation!!! I assumed this email was not a request, but a demand from a passive-aggressive massa.
So here I am. Writing this post from the plantation.

Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom now.
*******************************************

Okay, I’m back.

You know, sometimes I wish the days of open racism and whippings were still here—at least then I’d know who I was dealing with. I can’t tell if he didn’t believe I was sick, is angry that I’ve taken some time off recently, or is just really in need of my “extra eyes”—I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my red-pen marks on the article drafts wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and my constant gassiness may induce nausea in my coworkers.

So, here I sit, epitomizing the phrase “hot mess” and wishing I was somewhere else. Add to this the recent comment left on my blog by a fellow blacktress from Down Under, and I just know I need to head for freedom. She wrote:
“You definitely have to come down under. I'm an afro-princess in Brisbane, who came here 7 years ago and never left. There's no place to get your hair did but even if you leave the house with a bird’s nest on your head (which I do, every so often) someone will say, "wow, I wish my hair could do that", the hot dudes are everywhere (I married one) and it’s sun, sand and surf most of the time…I’d absolutely be your friend…”
1. First of all, any woman who refers to herself as an afro-princess is down with Sojo.
2. She even married a hot dude, so clearly I need to get on her program.
3. AND SHE SAYS SHE’LL BE MY FRIEND!!! -- maybe we can braid each other's hair!

I just need to find out how her massa treats her on the plantation. When she’s running to the bathroom so much that they start delivering her mail there, do they still make her come to work? When she offers to complete her tasks from the comfort of her home and her own bathroom, do they ask her to come in anyway cause the massa can’t handle his own deadline-scandals?!

Please pray for a blacktress. I think I may start trippin' on these fools today.

Nothing's Right, I'm SCORNED

Um, guys, I can't stop making e-cards. If you missed the first 4 in the series, scroll down to the post titled "OURecards.com."

My name is Sojourner, and I am a Photoshop addict.

Or, to quote the great poet Natalie Imbruglia,
nothing's right, i'm scorned...
i'm all out of faith
this is how i DEAL
i'm sitting here at work
and I'm blogging about pain....


Here are the latest e-cards:








Wait, is this one too personal????

Who Likes to (Ba)rack the Party?!

Okay, so I know the plan was to discuss a Negro a day for the entire month, but I must first spread some truth.

I, Sojourner, am angry.

I woke up this morning to change the world—aka VOTE—and headed to my polling site with a purpose.

I arrived at the school where I’ve been voting for years to find the entry gates locked. I walked the perimeter until I found an entrance. A kindly master of the custodial arts (aka janitor) informed me that the school was no longer a polling site, and I had to go 6 blocks north to PS 194.

Oh hell to the no!! How did I not get a memo? Why wasn’t there at least a sign on the school gates and/or entryway to inform all of us rabid voters that there had been a change?

As I walked to the next site trying to calm my nerves and focus on rocking the vote, I was accosted by independents, urging me vote as one of them. I think my favorite was a White woman wearing a shirt that read: “WHO SAYS HILLARY’S BEST FOR THE BLACK COMMUNITY????”

If that’s not gentrification, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, I appear at the second voting site only to be told that I’m yet again in the wrong place—apparently, I have to cross the street and go to another school.
W. T. F?!

I’m sorry, y’all, but I have a conspiracy theory. They don’t want Negroes voting today. Why else would they make it a mystery maze to get to a voting site and in no way place visual cues? Why was my voting site 10 blocks from my home when I am near 3 schools and 4 churches?

Because they don’t want me SPEAKING MY TRUTH!

Yep, I said it. They are making it as complicated and confusing as possible for me to pull my lever to the left, to the left (much like Beyoncé says).

Is it because they don’t want my black behind voting for…BARACK????

Which brings me to today’s Negro: Barack Obama.

Now, Sojo hasn’t gotten too political this year, and I’ve done this on purpose. Everybody and their mama wants to put two cents into this debate. And, while that’s all well and good, I’m gonna keep my pennies for my damn self.

I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day we were torn between a black man and a woman (even if that woman is a cyborg). I’ve been on this earth over 200 years (I’m still looking good cause black don’t crack!), and I have seen some changes. I mean, when I saw Brad Pitt holding that black baby girl for the first time, I almost lost my mind. I thought it was the end of days…but now I see the days are just beginning.

Barack.
Hillary.

Black everyman.

White woman.

I’m mad at both of ‘em.

They’re forcing me to decide how liberal I am and which minority I care more about. As a black woman, I’m doubly torn. As a bleeding-heart liberal, well I’m just racked with guilt either way.

I’m worried that if Barack is president, he’ll get shot before Michelle can put new drapes in the oval office. If Hillary is president, I will get Bill back, which would make me happy because I miss him very much. I sometimes put on my favorite blue dress and reminisce on our good times….

I digress.

We all know everyone loves a mixie. And we all love a worldly man. Barack is both. And he has used his fine brownness and brought young, attractive people out of the woodwork. Look at this music video:

politics gets rhythmic!

Scarlett Johannson sings and Tatyana Ali comes out of hiding—all for Barack!!!
(um…why’s the lead actor from “Prime” and that random pussycat doll in there, though?)

YES. WE. CAN.

I know he’s young and delicate. I know he’s not as experienced as H-320-2008 is (that’s her robot name). What’s working for him the friendly charisma that allows me to make him anything I want him to be. He’s like the cool black kid in private school—the white boys totally want to hang out with him and ask him the lyrics to popular rap songs. Who didn’t want to be friends with that guy?!

Um, here’s a question, though: Where’s the white mum and his Asian sis? Is he keeping her quiet and in hiding, like some sort of geisha?!

Let’s think about that.