"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

That's what popped up on my phone when I tried to check my email during breakfast this morning. Usually it just says "connection lost" or something equally generic--it's like it knows I'm a hot mess.

I've been off the grid because Jewboo and I have begun apartment hunting. This has meant that every waking hour is spent on the internet looking for a place to call home and then running to potential spots at a moment's notice. I'm trolling on craigslist with the frequency of a convicted sex offender and getting as disappointed as a fella who requests an Asian prostitute and ends up with a 60-year-old German lady.

"UNEXPECTED FAILURE" is the best way to encapsulate my emotions over the last week and a half.

The whole process is soul-crushing. I just feel so inadequate and poor. Did you know that kitchens are a thing of the past? I mean, the appliances are still required, but one can longer expect to have any sort of surface for placing items, mincing meats, or juilenn-ing carrots. As I prepare to leave the finest accommodations I will ever know, I'm kinda depressed by the options available to me. I mean, why did I bother getting degrees expensive schools if I'd only be able to afford to live in a cardboard box?

Of course, there are options, but being in a realationship and all, we've got to do this thing called "compromise." As I understand it, it basically means we'll have to settle in favor of having each other and only hope that the resentment doesn't break us.

That's how love works, right?

I know I'm a brat, but because this blog is my safe space (where I am vulnerable to the comments and criticisms of others), I will tell my TRUTH: I have grown accustomed to a lifestyle in which I can do laundry at my leisure and only walk 2 minutes to the subway. And yes, my desire to live in Manhattan is a bit bourgie--but I swear, it's not my fault, it's genetic. I already told you guys how, when my mom was pregnant with me and living in Brooklyn she chose a doctor who worked in Harlem Hospital? Why did she do that? Because the hospital was top-notch. I was supposed to be born on December 24, but when my mom went in for a final check-up on December 7, she hopped off the examining table and her water broke--I was ready to break free.

Guys, even as a fetus I could sense that we were in Manhattan and I wanted to make it convenient for us. My connection with this convenient, narrow, subway-filled borough runs deep. (Plus, Lord knows it would have been a shit show trying to get a cab from BK to Harlem when your black and trying to do lamaze breathing!)

But I can't give up--if I let the negative thinking ruin me, I wouldn't have ever made it to freedom, you know?

As we struggle to find a place that works within our tiny budget, we also have to battle brokers, which are like evil gnomes who want nothing more than a pound of your flesh and 15% commission. I think our mutual hatred for them is what's keeping our love so strong as we attempt to traverse this heartless city. Honestly, the process is really bringing out the addict in me. Think about it:

Finding an apartment is basically a legal, drug-free way to get a high and then come crashing down with a hangover that can only come from absinthe and cocaine. Not that I've done that, mind you, but I've been around enough unsavory characters/rich private school kids to know how the process works. Basically, you spend all day trying to track down "the stuff" (going from listing to listing, making call after call). Most of the time, the weed you wanted turned out to be oregano and the cheap whiskey is watered down, so to speak. When you finally find "the goods," you've got the dealer breathing down your neck, repeatedly assuring you that "this is legit"--which you've learned means it's probably not (it's about attraction, not promotion in this drug game). You want to play it cool, but you've got a checkbook in your pocket and want to feel like you've accomplished something, so you get ready to hand over all your savings for a chance at a great high.

Just then, another dude comes up in need of a fix. Before you can even find your pen, he hands over all of his cash and the keys to his Bentley. You officially don't exist.

Cut to you squatting in a crack den, telling yourself this is just a one-time thing.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Am I really incapable of finding a clean, safe, centrally located place to live after nearly 30 years on earth and a full-time job at a place that's not McDonald's?

I mean, the answer is yes--at least on one of those counts. But to give up on dreams hurts, especially when I feel as though so many of my dreams are being deferred (the blackting, the voiceover, the day job).

I know this is a process and millions have gone through it and lived to tell the tale; I just didn't expect this kind of failure.

(See how I tied that back in there? NAILED IT!)

We've Come a Long Way, Baby!

Hi Friends,

How are things going? I actually have energy today, which is surprising because I headlined a show at 11pm last night, got to work an hour late, and am about to get my period! TMI? Since when has that stopped me.

I headlined at Therapy, a gay bar that's served as a port in a storm for a blacktress for many months. I actually have fans who know when I'm gonna be there and show up to see me. And you have no idea how gratifying it is to be called "a funny bitch. I fuckin' love you." over and over. It never gets old.

Speaking of fuckin' loving people: Yesterday marked two years since Jewboo and I first made out and a love was born. Can you believe it, guys?

You've been there from the beginning, readers, and I had to mark this milestone with you. Honestly, you know more than my mother. It was to you that I first broke the news of my love affair 3 weeks in, coining the term 'Jewboo' in an attempt to protect his anonymity. It was you who found out about the first cry, 6 weeks into the relationship, and shared my elation when love was declared. And here we are, preparing to move in together, just two interracial lovers and two mildly obese cats. Who woulda thunk?

I'm going to keep this post brief, since I'm also trying this new thing where I actually focus on work between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Wish me luck!

xoxo,
blacktress

Family Matters....Or Does It?

Hey guys, quick Q:
Is it possible to have a Boone's Farm hangover, or could it be I just feel really ashamed of myself?

I write to you now from Detroit, Michigan--aka The City That God Forgot. I'm celebrating the 93rd birthday of my dear grandmother, and couldn't be less annoyed by it.
I know, I know, I'm going to hell.

Hey guys, one more Q: Have you ever shared a bed with someone going through menopause? Well, I have. Cause my uncle's also here, my mom and I are sharing a bed, and home girl is having hot flashes like whoa. So, you know, random thrashing about, turning on and off the fan, and stripping are the course for the night. Hence my bright-and-early bloggery before 10am.

Sunday the whole fam gathered to celebrate, and the awkwardness set in. Although I used to spend every summer in Detroit until I was about 13, I don't feel remotely close to my family at all. Perhaps it's because they teased me for 'talking white' or because my cousin would ask me incredulously how I could 'like a White boy.' Or maybe it's because they teased me for being so dark-skinned and said my toes looked like roaches (they don't). Being an only child, I wasn't used to such teasing and never found it particularly pleasant or manageable. And the fact that these things are still brought up over 10 years later causes me to bristle.

One of my cousins is a year older than me and graduated college about a year ago--which is a hot mess. He actually just self-published a book that would fall under the category of 'urban fiction.' In the first paragraph, we follow our protagonist as he awakes from dreams of being violated by his stepfather. It's hardcore.

Anyway, he'd mellowed out since I'd seen him last, and was talking with his sister about her latest 'man friends.' My cousin says she doesn't have a boyfriend, just 'various dudes I kick it with.' I don't think this means she's bending it like Beckham, though. Her broface got pretty annoyed and made everyone be silent as he imparted the following words of wisdom:

"Men cannot be friends with a woman," he yelled, slamming his can of soda--oops, I mean pop--on the table for emphasis. "If you are not willing to be intimate with a man, you need to leave him alone. Or hook him up with one of your girls who would like to be intimate. If you can't do that, you need to cook him some food. There has to be a physical need met by your presence, or you are useless."
Is he right? What do you think?


I was two seconds away from thinking he was an idiot savant when I heard him offer this next pearl of advice:

"Nah, nah, for real dog--If you need work done in yo' house, you gotta get one of them good, high-functionin' crackheads, who used to be an engineer or some shit. My boy Young Ju got all his Ikea furniture put together by John who live down the street for, like, 20 dollas. And cracky did that shit in about an hour."

Think there's any way I can move up my return flight?

There's No Place Like (Someone Else's) Home

Here's an excerpt of a conversation I had with my mother on Sunday:

Mamadukes: Sojourner, when are you going to stop spending all your time with gay men?
Me: When they stop loving me, mother, when they stop being true. That's when.

She thinks that this is the main reason I am single. What she fails to realize is that for the first time in a rather long time, I could care less. I'm not a 'fag hag', but a Future Gay Icon, making my way through the gay ranks until I'm a contestant on RuPaul's Drag Race, so fierce in my performance that they let me compete even though I have lady parts.

I started to form this master plan over the weekend, and it all came together on Monday evening.

Friday night I met up with a great gay pal who was visiting from Australia, and spent the evening club hopping in the West Village and Hell's Kitchen. The highlight of the night had to be Peaces, a gay club in the West Village, where we met a bevy of boys. My favorite would have to be a man named--no joke--Robert Christmas, who stuck his finger down my butt crack and his gin-and-tonic straw in my cleavage before giving me his business card and saying, "you know you wanna facebook me." The man is a Christmas miracle.

See, it's that kind of straight-forward, no-bullshit tactic that the hetero males need to be taking if they want a shot with the blacktress--well, except for the ass-finger and straw-cleavage moves.

After an excellent night, I came home only slightly buzzed, as I didn't have to drown my sorrows of being surrounded by d-bag heteros with way too many vodka-sodas. I then was able to awake bright and early on Saturday and have lunch with two of my favorite boys, a couple that doesn't make me want to poke my eyes out. They invited me to a fellow friend's graduation party for Monday night, and I said, "Evite be damned, I'm coming!"

I woke up Monday with a heap of errands and to get myself in a can-do mood, I put on an outfit inspired by Joan Holloway from Mad Men (my latest addiction. I am obsessed with repressed White folks, high-waisted skirts, and 1960s social conventions). As I walked through midtown running errands, I noticed that a bevy of banker types were lightly eye-fucking me--I guess the sexy secretary vibe was working for me. Thank you, Joan!

However, it wasn't until I arrived at the graduation party that evening that I was truly the belle of the ball. Surrounded by professional gay couples, drinking white wine, I remembered why I feel most at home in moments like these--it's because when I'm with the gays, I'm the prettiest girl in the room! I met the graduate's parents, who had come from Witchita, Kansas, to celebrate their son and his boyfriend. As I took mom's camera and played paparazzi, I got to meet everyone and learned that Kansas is a hotbed of gay activity. How great is that?! My favorite people had to be the 18-year-olds who just moved to New York City together and are in a realationship! In their gray slacks and pastel button-downs (the gay uniform for events), they were just the cutest ever! I am kind of obsessed with their young gay love, and offered to buy them booze whenever the need arises--you know how I love to enable addictions.

As the party wound down, I chatted with the parental units, and they thanked me for taking pics, and then told me how pretty I was. "Where's your boyfriend, sweetie?" Mom asked me tenderly.
"Oh, he's right there," I said, pointing to one of my friends across the room. "And there. there. Oh, and there's another one there," as I pointed at various homosexual gentlemen. I then asked if I should move to Kansas to find a strapping lad who could handle a blacktress. Mom said yes, and next thing you know, she's taking down my blog address and wondering where she can see me do stand up.

I am now, like Dorothy, on a quest to return home to the plains of Kansas. Or, better yet, I am Diana Ross in "The Wiz." I am done with Munchkins and the lollipop guild. I will no longer be fooled by the little man behind the big curtain. I am ready to ease on down, ease on down the road.
Before I go, let me go ask one of my gays for a pair of sparkly red Mary Janes--teehee.

Mount Isa, Here I Come!!

I think one of my favorite things about gmail is that it’s always thinking. I first noticed this when I was using one of those cool, hip, “emoticons” in a gchat a year or so ago. I wanted to let my gal pal know I was smiling, so I typed a semicolon and open parenthesis. Instantly, it rotated to form a knowing smile.

Gmail is watching.

I also love that it reads your emails and puts ads and article links in the margins that relate to key words in the text. All my talk of Australia has provided me with several cheap travel websites, as well as info on the AU consulate. But yesterday, I got the best tip-off from Gangsta Mail ever.

“Outback Mayor Seeks ‘ugly duckling’ Women”

In a remote mining town called Mount Isa, men outnumber women 5 to 1. In a recent interview with a local paper, town mayor John Molony urged women to move there and help end the shortage. I think my favorite quote of his is:

"Quite often you will see walking down the street a lass who is not so attractive with a wide smile on her face. Whether it is recollection of something previous or anticipation for the next evening, there is a degree of happiness," Molony told the Townsville Bulletin newspaper last week.

"Some, in other places in Australia, need to proceed to Mount Isa where happiness awaits. Really, beauty is only skin deep. Isn't there a fairy tale about an ugly duckling that evolves into a beautiful swan," Molony said.

HAHAHAHAHA.

Oh, Molony, you’re hilarious!!! I love the idea that it’s somehow crazy that a “lass who is not so attractive” could still have a “wide smile on her face”—as though, being less than a supermodel, she should know nothing of happiness. I also think he’s trying to point out that what she’s so happy about is that when she goes into the pub, she’s got her pick of 10 strapping coal-mining dudes, all offering her a bottle of Toohey’s and some of their good sperm.

Of course, people in Oz are now outraged, with some even calling that the mayor resign.

The Ozzie listservs are all a-buzz, and I've been reading the comments to get a sense of my future people. Here's an excerpt from one of my favorites:

I've travelled all over Australia and all over the World, and I've always believed that Mt Isa has a really high percentage of Real Beauties. Some same Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder , I've also heard lately that Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beer Holder. It is a small town and a lot of loving realationships* commence in our pubs and clubs.

Holla at “beauty in the eye of the BEER holder”!! I’ve been saying that for years, and it’s about damn time someone agreed with me.
Yes, the mayor is offensive and cracked out. Yes, he should probably not be allowed to speak in public for a long time. Yes, he is offensive to women.

But I can’t help but thinking that any place where loving relationships commence in pubs and clubs is where I need to be. And any town that’s calling for the “ugly ducklings” is in desperate need of a blacktress.

I am so excited to blow this popstand!!! I was going to be a good employee and give my massa 1-month’s notice (and also free myself from having to pretend like I care for the remainder of my days), but I don’t think I can do that and still holla at my vacay time. But this means that for two more weeks, I will have to smile and nod and “put in effort” (lame). But, if I can make my way to freedom and become one of the most inspiring black women of all time, I can certainly stick it out on this plantation a few weeks longer.

I’ve been reading so many books on the land down under (you know, where the women glow and men plunder) so that I can master the foreign land quickly upon arrival. The slanguage is the best part—Aussies say the darndest things!! Thanks to Deets for the great book “Live and Work in Australia,” which has everything I’ll ever need to know. Some Aussie gems include:

apples: meaning, OK, as in “She’ll be apples, mate”
flash as a rat with a gold tooth: overdone, overdressed. [I really hope people actually use this phrase.]
frosty, tinny, neck oil, singing syrup, etc.: beer. [I love the use of ‘etc,’ as though there is a natural sequence of phrases that would come after these to describe the frothy fermented goodness of beer]
wouldn’t do it to a Jap on ANZAC Day: wouldn’t do it to your worst enemy under dire circumstances. A reference to the Japanese enemy during WWII, ANZAC Day is a national holiday to commemorate the contribution of Australian war veterans to various campaigns.

They are so colorful in their lingo, and abbreviate almost everything. Seeing as I can’t stop saying “totes” and “obvi,” I think I’ll be apples down there (see how I incorporated my new vocab so flawlessly?).




*note his misspelling here. I actually think it’s a CORRECT spelling of what we’re all looking for: a REALationship—none of this half-assed, late-night-texting crap. Man up, commit to loving me for eternity, and let's get this going!