I'm NOT LOVIN' IT

NB: This is a very interactive post and I urge you to click the links--which will open in a new window so as not to impede your reading--and enjoy the fun times! I've decided to take a page from the call girl's book of secrets, but instead of giving the girlfriend experience, I'd like to share the blacktress experience™

Hey friends,

Last night mamadukes and I went to see Memphis on Broadway and it was quite the fun evening. Not only did we get along smashingly (she didn't once comment on my need for a wash and set!*) but one of my main gays took us on a backstage tour and we got to meet cast members and see where the magic happens. (Reason #247 to roll with the gay mafia)

Before the show we grabbed dinner at a fancy restaurant in midtown. Because we had a curtain call to get to, we needed service in a New York minute (but less than the length of the Olsen twins film of the same name), and we couldn't get a waiter's attention, even though they were all standing around and chatting like Grey's Anatomy cast members at the nurse's station.

Why aren't y'all working?! It's a fucking HOSPITAL.

#5-year-old-jokes

Just then, my mom said what I was thinking. "And they say black people don't tip, but if the service was better, it wouldn't be an issue."
"Yes, it's like they think we don't have money or something and don't want to put the effort in!"
Before you think I'm just being a difficult blacktress, let me explain the truth in a way that you can handle.

Other than my excitement over my mom and I connecting and agreeing on something, I'm relaying this little story because it reminds me of an old print ad I was recently sent. And since I had such fun with yesterday's visual essay, I'd like to give it another go.

It's no surprise that McDonald's has long targeted black communities (thanks for the type-II diabetes!). This ad, however, is cute. It's family oriented, it speaks to a specific group in a way that's almost positive, and other than the fact that they urge you to get a large size and that kid's eating a sandwich that's way bigger than it should be, it's good times. Just as the fries are "Golden brown. Delicious." this father and son are also golden brown and delicious!

THEN.........

[imagine i am on stage taking a deep sigh and then staring at the audience silently and knowingly.]

For some reason, in that same year, McDonald's ad execs decided they weren't reaching the right folks. The numbers just weren't looking good. So they had to GO FURTHER. To the place where colored girls have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf:

They say a picture's worth a thousand words, but I actually have no words that could adequately explain the CauCRAYsian mastermind behind this advertisement. Of course, the 1970s ebonics of dropping the 'g' in gerunds is meant to speak to the people, but that's nothing new. (Although they didn't use it throughout the copy, which is just poor form).

Look at the happy family (and the random dude in the booth behind them that they're apparently friends with--you know, because all black people know each other)!!! 

It's the third line that gets me.

You don't have to get dressed up, there's no tipping, and the kids love it. 

THERE'S NO TIPPING?!?!?!?!?!? It's basically saying, "you're cheap and lazy and slovenly, so McDonald's is the perfect place to grab a bite!"

Of course, the fact that I just had my third viewing of the musical about interracial love in 1950s Tennessee isn't helping to quiet my rage, but if this was a tweet, you know how I'd hashtag this!


Although they're still claiming to "do it all for you," this time they're doing it like the scary nanny in The Omen. 

What are your thoughts on this insanity? Please, leave a comment--I can't be alone in this!



*Caucasians, if you don't know what a wash and set is, wiki that

Marriage Material

Hey guys. What’s been going on? I feel so out of the loop. The last couple weeks have been totes cray cray, but I’m finally rejoining society—and by that, I mean, going straight home after work and hopping in bed by 10 (Sojo is old, y’all). The major stressor this past week was a friend’s bachelorette party, which somehow I got involved in planning many months ago. At that time, blacktress loved a good party, and with no job and plenty of free time, planning a bachelorette was quite appealing.
No, I’m not in the wedding party.
No, I’m not even that close with this girl. I see her roughly every four months, over a 90-minute dinner in which she often tells me I “seem so much better than last time we talked,” which I guess is supposed to be uplifting, but I don’t really pay attention because she often just gets the high (or, I guess, to be more accurate, LOW) lights over thai food.

Anyway, I digress. I’m not bitter, I swear.

Suddenly, with the bachelorette date of April 24 approaching, I had to put my money (and seriously, I mean my money) where my mouth was, making a customized recipe book that consisted of personalized notes from family, friends, and even the future German in-laws. This wasn't particularly difficult, but it was time-consuming, as I had to find a way to get it done wile doing my 9-5, trying to get my side-hustle stand-up career on, and preparing for my television debut. Needless to say, I was pretty stressed.

But Saturday came, and it was me and 7 future doctors, only one of whom wasn’t in a serious long-term relationship. I planned an evening that started at my favorite wine bar, which was only made awkward by the fact that I’m not drinking at the moment. So, there I sat, as the conversation turned to episiotomies, (click at your own risk!) drinking my mocktail, and wondering why I was destined to die alone and poor. I also made a mental note never to get admitted into a hospital.
Good times.
I then planned for us to head over to a delicious tapas restaurant, where they didn’t take reservations, but told me to just put our names down 20-30 minutes before we were ready. Of course, at that point, the place was nearly empty and the hostess told me not to worry about it. When we got there less than half-an-hour later, however, the place was packed, and we ended up waiting over an hour to sit down. As we waited, we became acquainted with two cheesy d-bags, and, in true blacktress fashion, the baggier of the d-bags took a shine to me. His name was Keith, and he looked like a cross between Andrew Dice Clay and “The Situation,” from The Jersey Shore.
Not cute.

I love "The Dice's" bedazzled vest.

He spent much of the time pestering me to have a drink and telling me I needed to “loosen up,” by which I think he meant, “drop my panties.” He then told me I looked like Kelly Rowland from “Destiny’s Child,” after explaining that his friends tell him he looks like Billy Baldwin. He really brought it home when he said,
“We’re gonna be in the tabloids tomorrow! It’ll say, ‘Billy Baldwin has a case of Jungle Fever!!!”
Um, check please!

Oh wait, it’s 10pm and I HAVEN’T EATEN YET, so I can’t get a check.

The night was quite tame, as you can probably guess from a guest list that includes 6 docs who were either coming off of, or preparing for, an overnight shift. The girls were nice, but as the Maid of Honor and co-planner put it, “they're completely sleep-deprived people, which clearly translates to functioning at a level that hovers below normal humans.”

At the end of the night, I gathered my passport and other paperwork and headed to Greenpoint, BK, to hang out with Jewboo. After being accosted by “The Dice,” it was nice to hang out with a man who respected me despite the fact that my boobs were prominently displayed. The next morning, we had brunch with two of his old friends, and I tried my best to make a swell impression. As expected, the male friend was easy to get along with, quick to laugh, and perfectly content just shooting the shit, while Jewboo’s female friend was a bit quiet and reserved, making me nearly nauseous with nerves.

After that ended, we hung out for a bit, and Jewboo and I took a nap at around 4:30pm—cause we’re classy like that. I was clearly coming off of an emotional hangover of hanging out with the “Grey’s Anatomy” extras and trying to impress bf’s friends and needed to rest. Things were all well and good until I decided to break out my first cry of the new relationship, which we all know is the first nail in the coffin. Afterwards, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that it had taken me 6 weeks to break out the waterworks, which definitely constitutes growth.

As you can imagine, the blacktress has a flair for the dramatic. Part of being a successful blacktress requires an ability to “easily access” one’s emotions, which means I can cry at the drop of a hat. The story of conjoined twins separated, a moving Chris Meloni monologue on “Law & Order: SVU,” or even just a particularly deserving “America’s Next Top Model” winner can bring a tear to a blacktress’ eye.

This easy access to emotions, coupled with my deep-seated need for approval and fear of dying alone means that one sideways glance from Jewboo after hanging out with engaged girls, and I’m blubbering like an idiot, because I’ve failed in my duty gf.

See, I’ve got this twisted perception that I bring two things to the relationship table: orgasms and food. After all, that’s the only reason heterosexual relationships function, isn’t it? Men don’t want to talk about feelings, they don’t want to be challenged in any way, and they don’t really look for a “partner,” so much as easy access to both food and vag….right?
Clearly, I’m a hot mess, suffering the aftermath of an absent father figure. For those of you who are surprised, I suggest you start reading this blog from the beginning.

Anyway, things are okay now, but I spent much of yesterday waiting to be IM’d, and then caving and IM’ing him with a stupid question…because in my head I am a 17-year-old in a CW drama, and I suffer from mild autism.

Anyhoozle, I’m glad that’s all over. Going to bed at 11pm last night was awesome. I feel way more emotionally stable. And even though I haven’t received so much as a “thank you” from the bride-to-be, I don’t mind, because it helps fuel my self-righteous resentment.

I’ve missed you guys. I’ll be back with funnier blog posts soon.

Stars-- They're Just Like ME!

Okay, this is getting out of control. Today, I walked into my favorite Chinese restaurant on the Upper West Side for lunch, and who do I see but actress Brooke Smith (not Hogan), who played the tough-as-nails heart surgeon who started a lesbian relationship with Sara Ramirez on Grey's Anatomy!!

I heart TV lesbians. Almost as much as I heart real-life ones.

Anyway, this restaurant has been a fixture in my life since I was a wee lass, and I even followed it when it changed locations. Their new spot is always half empty, even though they have a $6 lunch special that's NOT greasy or made of cat intestines! It's a real diamond in the rough.

So, I walk in and think I recognize this woman, but she was looking a bit sallow (you know the stars are without their makeup), and I wasn't sure. As I took my seat, she started talking and the voice proved it was her. As I texted a couple friends and tried to listen in on her conversation, I realized she was having a heart-to-heart with a (possibly gay) male friend. She was going through something intense. Snippets included:
"I never really felt like I belonged, so usually when I'm on set I just sort of retract."
What, she never felt like she belonged?! But she's been on Grey's! And Weeds!!
"I was just being myself, and this is why this is so hard and surprising."
I'm insecure, too!!!!!

I couldn't catch all of it, but I get the sense that there was some relationship that could never be, and that she wasn't expecting, but it didn't end the way she wanted it to (or maybe I'm projecting?).

I couldn't believe Brooke was just chilling with a best gay having a tender talk over cheap Chinese. Clearly this actress understands the plight of the blacktress. As they rose, he gave her a deep hug and they held each other tight, before walking out arm in arm. Oh my god, haven't I been there?

I've decided I'm getting a poster of her and putting it over my bed.

Doctors, Greeks, and Hugh

Monday, 23 February 2009.

Oh em gee, there's so much to blog about, I don't even know where to begin. I'll start with Friday and see where that takes us. Okay, guys, I'm gonna get real with you for a second. Friday I went to the doctor cause I'd been having issues with my lady parts.
"Ew, blacktress, please don't go into a vagina monologue!" you're probably thinking.
I know, I know, TMI. But I have to tell you this craziness. Besides, I figure you guys know about most of the Ps in my V, so you can't be that squeamish.

Anyway, I go to the doc and explain the situation. She's kinda cold, which I absolutely hate in doctors--bedside manner is everything! Especially with a lady doctor. I mean, if I'm gonna drop my pants for anyone, medical professional or otherwise, I want us to have a chat and I want you to tell me I'm pretty. I don't ask for much.

After the debriefing, oddly enough she does not ask me to de-brief. She goes, "Okay, I'm going to have you take some tests at home, and then bring them back to me on Monday."
UM, WHAT?!
You want me to do my own medical testing?! Do I look like Doogie Howser?! Do I remind you of the sassy black attending on "Grey's Anatomy"? What makes you think this is something I should do? Besides, lady, what am I paying you for?!
This is what you get in a land of free healthcare.

Doogie would never make me do this.

She hands me two cups for me to TAKE HOME and pee in, and then hands me some kit and tells me how to go about putting a swab in my V, then closing it up in the sterile container.
Then tells me to drop it off at a lab.

Okay, look, I know it was almost 5pm on a Friday, but homegirl is still on the clock! I never in my life heard of taking a medical test home and then dropping it off, much in the manner of a pizza.
What is this take-home test nonsense?! Am I in 5th grade? Doesn't she know that if she gives me a take-home test, I'm going to cheat? (my desire to appear intelligent always trumps my sense of honour) Clearly I will swab my mouth instead of my vag and pour apple juice into my pee cup.
Just because.

I was so annoyed and baffled, and basically just asked her if I could go into the office's bathroom and do it there. She goes, "Well, it won't get the results back faster."
Um, paging Dr. Bitch, you're wanted in "GET THE HELL OUT!"
After all, they have to drop samples off anyway, and what do I look like on my morning commute with cups of urine?! One false move in the rush-hour crowd and it's pee for everyone!!!

So, I was given antibiotics and will not know the real status until next week. Good lord.

With yet another round of antibiotics to begin, I figure the best way to handle this is to get my drink on before I start a week of dry living. I headed down to Sidebar, my old plantation, and chatted with some staff and had a couple dranks.
Alone.

This is a big theme of my Oz life, but I'm actually getting quite comfortable with it--I'm becoming quite the strong black woman. I even go to restaurants alone. It's not so stressful being by myself, and I don't really care what drunken teen backpackers think of me.
That is, until a random starts talking to me.

I'd noticed this guy sorta staring at me for a while, but I didn't think anything of it because he was unattractive. I had been talking to some acquaintances for a bit and then was alone at the less crowded bar. Suddenly, he sidles up to me.
"Hello, where are you from?"
The backpacker's go-to opening line.
He tells me he's from GREECE.
Uh-oh, spaghettios. I think y'all all know how I feel about a Greek man.
He then follows up his opener with, "You drink alot."
Um, thanks for noticing my addiction, weird rando.
"No, it's good."
Why is it good?! It's not gonna get you anywhere! I think as I give him short answers, trying to silently explain to him that just because I'm alone doesn't mean I'm desperate for attention. I talk about my travel plans, cause that's simply fun for me, and he then goes, "Oh, I want to go traveling in two weeks, too, but I have no one to go with. It's hard traveling alone." He then suggests we travel together.
OH MY GOD. What's with Greek intensity?! What would make him think that was a good idea or an appropriate request? I get being a rolling stone, meeting people as you travel, becoming friends and having adventures. I do not get rocking up to a girl at a bar, telling her she drinks alot, and then asking if you two can go travel together.
Does. not. compute.
"Um, I'm gonna go over there," I said, before quickly running over to some people I only sorta know and asking them to talk to me for 10 minutes while the odd boy got the hint.
While with them, I talked about my redheaded love, which still hasn't died. It's both sad and tender.

I went home around midnight (cause I'm just that cool), and while on the bus home, I composed the following note to self using as a text message:
"I am watching the woman in front of me make her own topsy tail. Seriously, a topsy tail. Of her own accord. Ew. Then, not happy with it (thank god) she has her boyfriend put her hair in a ponytail. Is he gay? I thought to myself at first. I would never let a hetero male touch my ponytail. You've got to get the right tension, smooth out the bumps. You have to know me!"
Do you guys remember the topsy tail?



Then, later, I thought, "Why is a girl with a topsy tail in a relationship and I'm not?"

Clearly, I'm in a weird head space.

Sidebar: I'm watching the Oscars now (it's just playing here), and my eggs are getting fertilized just watching Huge Jacked Man's opening number.

New Future Baby Daddy

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

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

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

I drank red wine and read the newspaper.

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

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

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

And that’s when he appeared to me.

Jon Lajoie.

Future baby daddy.

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

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

See more Jon Lajoie videos at Funny or Die

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

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

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

I bet he cried over Izzy and Denny, too.



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

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

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