Inside the Mind of Paul Ryan - A Collage

Y'all, why is this election even close? We need to stop bullshitting and be real about who these Republicans are--angry White men who think they're the dispossessed. 

I feel like Romney gets ample attention in these final hours, but his potential VP is ignored. This cannot stand! Paul Ryan is so bitchy, he needs his own show on Oxygen. I have assembled a few of his best facial expressions. (Yes, this is how I spent the day before election day.)

Mondays Aren't Fundays

”You look like you came in off the street in that big coat.” ~ my boss, to me.

I actually wasn’t offended. Of course, he has immunized me against inappropriate comments over the last 2 years (and started off the year with a strong dose of TMI when he discussed the sex party he and his pals “mistakenly” attended on New Year’s Eve). But it’s also because I’m definitely giving off a hobo vibe.

I’ve been wearing my coat all day, both because it’s freezing in the office and because I’d like to be able to make a quick getaway should the need arise.
Not that I’m on the lam or anything—I just like to be ready.

[Sidebar: I’ve been craving lasagna and didn’t want to wake up today. I feel like Garfield.]

So, a few changes in Blacktress World™: I’m becoming a landlady! In an effort to fund my dreams and avoid total bankruptcy, I’m getting a roommate for a few months. After very little effort, I found a German PhD student who seems perfect. She’s only here until the end of May, she’ll be spending most of her time writing her dissertation, and she gets my humor. (Sometimes I don’t go over so well with the ESL crowd)

Of course, I’m nervous about having to share space after months of solitude, but I’m also looking forward to it. Having a roommate means I won’t be able to spend hours crying in the bathroom and I’ll have to maintain a higher standard of kitchen cleanliness. Great way to start off 2012!*

I also learned that she’s writing her dissertation on African American Anticolonialism. Can you believe it? Sojourner renting her space with a German who’s down with the brown?! If Harriet “TUBZO” Tubman could see me now!

*As you can probably guess, my depression is rearing it's ugly head. So much so that my coworker invited me to come to a wedding-cake tasting after work today--and I seriously considered it. I then realized that pretending to be engaged to someone for free cake would only fuel my self-loathing.

Workplace Dynamics in a Post-Racial America

Guys, my boss won’t stop calling me “Ebony Beyond" and it's getting annoying.

Wait, have I not told you about this?

So, last week he was in a friendly mood and we were discussing drag names. [By “discussing,” I mean he was standing by my desk (cheating out, of course) but talking loudly enough that the whole office could hear him.] We went on a tangent about Bette Davis, during which I said, “If I was a drag queen, I’d totally be Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, all haggard and tragic and living in the past.” To this, massa replied, “No, your drag name would be Ebony Beyond,” before walking back down to his office.

(You know a former drag queen always knows to exit on a laugh line.)

It was funny at the time and maybe even amazing. I felt as though I’d been knighted, a la Judy Dench. We had a laugh about it the next day, and that was that.
Or so I thought.

Two days later, Massa began addressing me as “Ebony Beyond” in all email correspondence. At worst, it's a serious HR violation and I could sue the company for enough money to fund my dreams; at best, it's awkward. Here are some examples.* All of them have been copied and pasted directly, with no editing.:
I got to work (late) this morning and had this email waiting for me:
Hey Ebony---Do you have contact info handy for [so-and-so]?

[When I assured him I'd be able to get some information from an contributor, even though the contrib was being difficult, he gave the following reply.]
Ok---if anybody can reign ‘em in its Ebony Beyond Belief

And this one just takes the cake. The matter-of-factness with which he calls me Ebony and uses text-message language is just out of control.:
Ebony--- think we are covered—thanks though for jumping in. BTW are you thinking to revisit some of these artists in the subsequent issues—they seen deserving of additional coverage—esp the one you sent yesterday—omg hipster wc—who would have thunk it!

Um, did my massa write “omg” in business-related correspondence? I swear, this is the same one who will give you dagger eyes if you disagree with him in public. I feel like I work for Demi Lovato. I need to call up Obama at the UN and tell him what's going on--he'd have me sitting on a settlement in no time.

I guess I should be glad I have a nickname because it means I'm in massa's good graces. I got to work 2 hours late this morning because of a--you guessed it--doctor's appointment. I've been having back spasms and extreme pain that was so bad that I couldn't sleep at all on Monday night. And I don't mean "I didn't sleep at all" in a I-slept-but-tossed-and-turned-and-woke-up-a-few-times way. I mean I straight-up laid still on an incline and tried to stop the pain from shooting down my arm as I watched 1995 hit film Masterminds (Vincent Kartheiser's best work) and a portion of Terminator 3 (it just made my back hurt even more). It even hurt to lay down. Y'all, when it hurts to be lazy, you know something up!

At this morning's appointment I learned that my back muscles are so hard they're practically calcified. When the doctor touched my shoulders, she actually jumped back a bit and furrowed her brow, like she was in a scene from Aliens and a creature was gonna pop out. Good news: I got muscle relaxants. Bad news: I'll never leave the house again.

*I never thought I’d see the day when I’d search for “Ebony” in my Outlook inbox.

Back From the Rapture

Hey Guys,

How was your rapture? Mine was so-so. That Thursday Stony Point 40-minute gig I was so excited about got canceled on Tuesday, sending me into a shame/FML spiral of unprecedented proportions. I feel like I am not only doomed to be writing about paintings of fruit in bowls for the rest of my life, but I’ve let you down, my gentle readers—especially Dave, who was kind enough to do a little Wiki-ing for me.

This weekend was an emotional rollercoaster, starting off with a fight with the massa at 3:30pm on Friday. It was definitely a Roots moment, with me refusing to go by the name Toby and him refusing to let it go—metaphorically speaking, of course. I should have known better than to give a former drag queen “the hand” (my attempt at getting a word in edgewise), but we all make our beds and have to lay in them. I found myself completely wrecked until 8pm the next day, when I headed off to do a set at a show in Queens.

I was actually quite nervous beforehand, for a couple of reasons. First of all, it was in someone’s apartment (which we all know can be a hot mess) and every single audience member could be seen plain as day. As any performer knows, the ability to see the audience rolling their eyes, checking their phones, or simply bored or confused can shake even the most professional blacktress or WHactress. Of course, once Sojo takes the stage, most audiences snap right to attention, but the crowd was also unknown, and I had no idea what they were into. I walked in to a sea of Caucasians, many of whom were heavily tattooed. Was I in Stony Point after all? I wondered. I’d been invited by one of the organizers, who’d seen me do a set at Broadway Comedy Club almost two months ago. It was a hellish bringer show, with about 14 comics doing 6-minute sets—speed-dating the audience, basically—and only 5 were actually good.

As I made my way through Queens trying to find his apartment, I started to feel a pinch of fear. Maybe it was the fact that I was standing under the train tracks and a highway unsure of which direction I was supposed to walk in. Or maybe I was just having flashbacks to the crazy Greek man with the small gyro who told me I was a “tiny baby child.” Or maybe it was that that I was going to the apartment of three rando White boys I didn’t know. Nah, that’s nothing new—it was that this guy was an established comedian and I felt like I had to prove that I was good or something. Add to that my hatred of my job and possibility of being fired, and I needed this set to be great.

I got there shortly after 9 and sat in the “green room”—AKA one of guy’s bedroom. The guys were actually really nice and gracious, even offering to get soda or non-alcoholic beverages if I wanted. I felt like I was backstage at Conan or something—if Conan, like, came on public access at 4am.


I saw the set list and learned that I was opening the show!
Gulp. Blergh. Gloop. Labia.

I was hoping I’d get nestled in the middle, giving me ample time to feel out the room and see what these rugged Queens-bound Caucasians were into. I was told that it was a compliment, as they thought I’d bring good energy to get the show rolling. I had hoped to try new jokes, but as I looked out into the Caucasian Sea of faces, I immediately went into my own tales from Caucasia. All in all, the set was a bit spotty, with the biggest laughs coming from my asides to two middle-aged dudes in the front row. (One of whom I warned that I’d “sit on your lap for the remainder of the show and make it ALL ABOUT YOU if you don’t stop talking”) All in all, though, I was glad to get back up and active—and momentarily forget that I’m a terrible employee. It was also great to meet male stand-ups who aren't assholes and don't think of me as a second-class comic.

I’m not sure why I had an Angela-Bassett-in-Waiting-to-Exhale moment on the plantation on Friday. I think I got carried away by the rapture. If the world was gonna end, maybe I felt the need to tell Massa about himself before I went. I think I’m going to use this experience to produce my own faux-reality show for MTV. I’ll just follow people around for a week leading up to “the end of the world” (faking that will really up my production budget) and see how cray they get.

The tagline:
What happens when people stop being polite and start getting raptured?????

Tales from the Crypt Vol 1

Hey friends!!

I must apologize for my lack of bloggery. I had little to no internet access during my work trip (those northern NY bitches are territorial when it comes to their WiFi) and had to settle for tweeting the madness from my phone. Now back from my upstate painting "expo," I don't even know where to begin. Do I start with the newly widowed diva who loved to use jazz hands or her sister, who's coming to NYC next week and wants to meet up with me? What about the asshole artist who disrespected me several times in public settings? Or what about the high school girl's lacrosse team who took up all the rooms on the floor of the hotel that I was on?

Maybe I'll just start with the easy stuff for this installment: the racism of AARP artists!

Quick quiz: Which of the following was said in total seriousness during this weekend's work event?

a) "These are the top dogs in watercolor."

b) "White is the most powerful thing we have--we never want to lose that power."

c) "It's a challenge to paint anything that's dark."

d) "With 1 being stark-white and 10 being black, we'd agree that we're a 3 or 4." [followed by resounding murmurs of agreement]

e) All of the above.

I'll give you 30 seconds..........

If you guessed E, give yourself a gold star!!!!!

This event was out of control. As expected, I was the youngest person by at least 25 years (there were two 40-somethings) and the only person of color. "You're the editor of [insert name of magazine that won't get me fired]?" attendees said no less than 40 times over the weekend.

"I KNOW!!" was my standard response.

Okay, I will say that the weekend wasn't as painful as I thought it would be--in some ways. The attendees/grandparents were very nice and had very positive things to say about the magazine and my work. The panel discussion I led at 8am on Sunday was well-received and the artists were great (except for the asshole). People liked my questions--which included such hard-hitters as "If you could paint only one subject for the rest of your career, what would it be?" and "What makes a painting done from a photograph a work of art?"--and one woman even said I had a future as a news anchor. Positives.

Negatives: I had zero control of when I came or went, being fetched as early as 7:45 am and getting back way past my work-event bedtime. Friday night I sat in a painting demonstration that lasted until 9:30pm and didn't get back to my room until 10:30--at which point I had no choice but to get over-priced food from the hotel restaurant because I hadn't eaten since the protein bar on the plane at 2pm and they weren't providing food.

The elderly are hilarious, however, and I did my best to stay entertained. The moment I arrived at the venue, I was accosted by Midge, a local artist who helped organize the event. She knew how to pronounce my last name all on her own, which immediately made me love her (for those who don't know, it's very ethnic and intimidating). After introducing herself, she went right into TMI territory, leaning in and taking a conspiratorial tone as she said, "My husband up and died on me last month, so I'm not myself."

I was told that Midge's husband "up and died on her last month" upwards of 9 times throughout the weekend by both Midge and her sister, Gail. Gail kind of took to me and stuck to me like glue all weekend. She kept saying--in her raspy smoker's voice that I loved-- "I don't want to participate, I like to watch. Really, I'm just here for Midge. She's just a saint. Husband up and died on her! Most women would be in the shadows, but she's out in the thick of it. Just a saint. Have you ever seen such a saint? I haven't, that's for sure."

Gail applied this type of repetition and hyperbole to everything.

Gail on the finger foods at Saturday night's event: "This is just the best little snack ever. Isn't it? Couldn't you just eat it all up all night? I could eat it up all night, that's for sure. Just the best in the whole world."

Gail on her granddaughter, who I have to meet when they're in town next week: "She's a real knockout. She's a blonde, smart as a whip. Just the prettiest, best knockout you've ever seen. She's a writer, Sojourner. She's one hell of a writer. Her short stories would knock your socks off, I mean it. Just the best in the whole world, that's for sure."

Gail on the meal she and her sis had before the event: We went to Wegman's and it wasn't even good, Sojourner. It was just me-di-o-cre. Just the most simple thing you've ever had in your life, I tell ya. Let's go get some more of those little snacks--aren't they the best ever? Come on, let's get some of those. I could eat those for dinner--that goat cheese in the dough is the best ever!" [At this point she would grab me by the arm and drag me to the food table with her.]

It wasn't until I met a dynamic lesbian who worked at the venue that the weekend started to look up. She and her partner Dana picked me up from the Saturday night event and I went with them and Leslie, the dyna-lez's daughter, to a vegetarian restaurant for dessert.

As always, gays save me from the darkness.

I gotta run now, but I'll be back with tomorrow installment of Tales from the Crypt!!!!

The Bride of Francostein? (too much?)

It’s only 9am, but so much has happened in the last 12 hours that I feel it is behoovy of me to blog. This is a bit unorthodox, I know, seeing as we’ve settled into a nice Mon/Wed/Fri schedule.

So, on my way home last night I was waiting for forever and a day for the train and I noticed a petite man with a tight bod wearing hearing aids.
Okay, before this sounds like a creepy fetish, let me backtrack: We all know that after I graduated from college my first job was working as the voicing actor with the National Theater of the Deaf, during which time I shared a bedroom with a 40-year-old Deaf, lesbian juggler named Pinky, right?

Well, there it is.

After one of the NTD shows, I met this actor who was really nice. It was at a time when I was really strong as a signer, and I remember him complimenting my skills. He was in his mid-20s, a professional actor, and gave me his business card—which I thought was so cool because it had his headshot on it. Because this was one of the few pleasant experiences I had while touring with the Deaf—and because I’m a low-level hoarder—I kept that headshot-business card until about 2 months ago.

This would explain why I recognized him, even from the back.
I was in a good mood after seeing a great storytelling show, and had already accosted someone that night, so I was on a roll. I got the guy’s attention and asked him his name. It was him!!!!!

We started chatting, and I realized just how rusty my ASL is. He was really nice about it and patient, and I was totally geeking out. I know it sounds cheesy, but I really love signing—it’s expressive, it’s full-body, the language appeals to the blacktress in me—and I’ve missed doing it. There was, however, an awkward moment, when he told me about his plans to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,650 mile trail starting from Mexico to Canada. I signed, “Why do you want to go outside and pretend to be dirty and poor?”

Since signing is about thinking in pictures and almost a muscle memory thing, it’s very common to use the wrong sign by thinking only of the word. However, there’s really no excuse for the fact that, instead of the sign for ‘poor,’ I made the sign for ‘penis.’

“Well, I guess penises can make you dirty,” he said. What a peach!

Turns out he lives just around the corner from me. I hope we’ll be best friends when he comes back from his crazy-ass hike—unless he becomes too crunchy and spends the next 2 years talking about his communion with nature.

Although that was a magical moment, I was actually inspired to blog when I woke up this morning after having a crazy-ass dream (you know how much I love those)

In this dream, actor, scholar, and Hollywood’s favorite “Renaissance Man” James Franco, was the managing editor of my magazine. I handed him a draft of one of my editor's notes to review, and he gave it a once over. In his dopey “Pineapple Express” way of his, he said, “Where’s the passion? Why aren’t you into it?” He wanted flowery prose about the beauty of representational art.

“I can add that later,” I said. “It’s easier to put the flowery in later than write too much to start. You can just mark it up with places you’d like some ‘passion’ and I’ll put it in on edit.”
He hands me back the page a few minutes later and he’s crossed out, like, 90% of it. I roll my eyes, and start writing again. Ugh, Francostein, you're a real PITA (Pain In The Ass)

I'm James Franco. I am a Renaissance Man. I've got a bear in a head lock.

I hand the new draft over to James Franco, my new boss, and watch him read it. He nods a few times, then proceeds to cross out the entire middle paragraph. I start muttering curses and go back to my desk.

Look at him, all judgmental and shit. His eyes are practically saying, "You call that writing? I have an advanced degree from Columbia."

Cut to the interior of Duane Reade, a drugstore chain in the city. I’m in line with KWalsh (yes, Katie, you appear in my dreams), and I’m bitching about James Franco. I am so annoyed and frustrated that for some reason I’m sliding on the floor and grabbing KWalsh’s leg, and yelling, JAMES FRANCO IS A TASK MASTER!!!

Then I woke up.

Let me take a moment to say that I am not attracted to James Franco in any way. I think he looks dirty and mean, has a molestache, and his eyes disappear when he smiles. So why he would appear in my REM cycle, I don’t know.

Ugh, gross.

In other news: I’m suffering from a sex-related knee injury. Who am I?

BlacktressFail

Guh.
It’s Monday.

Every night I tell myself to shake off the previous day, and resolve to go into work fresh, relaxed, and free. I promise to focus on my responsibilities, telling myself that the day will go faster if I just keep my head down and get it done. I vow to let go of the anger I feel toward my coworker who I’m convinced is planning total domination of this magazine (why else would he, at 26 years old, be so anal retentive and condescending? He’s clearly trying to show his dominance so that when he becomes the next EIC, no one’s the wiser.)

And yet here I am, 2.5 hours into the day, and I’m already asking for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

I’m still reeling from the tragedy that was Friday’s callback. I was awkward as all get-out, and just didn’t know how to loosen up. I’ve vowed to chalk it up to a learning experience, but I just don’t know—I mean, how many times can I suck/”learn and get used to the process” (as my optimistic friends say) before they just stop calling me in for auditions? This isn’t some community theater production of Our Town—this is television, people! TV, the medium-sized screen! The place with commercial breaks and the highest stakes! The place where the only people with my skin tone are in Tyler Perry productions! As I stood in the elevator crying, I thought about “A League of Their Own”—you know, when the coach says “THERE’S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!!!!”
There is no crying in callbacks. If I keep this up, I’ll end up more dehydrated than an African orphan. I’ve gotta man up.

I felt slightly better after consoling myself with Pinkberry, but my return to the office was met with hours of work that apparently only I could do. This isn’t even possible. World-domination-coworker–Code name: Buzzkill—is really weird sometimes. Like, he’ll be quick to point out every mistake you make, but won’t really take initiative on something if it interferes with his lunch time. He regularly spends the hour at his desk watching Internet videos, and will shut out any and all responsibilities during that time. If that’s the case, go sit your ass in the Barnes & Noble up the street.

I began today with an awesome email from a reader regarding some typos in the latest issue of the magazine I’m in charge of. She writes:
I have only reached page 31 and am ready to toss this month’s issue through the window. Either you only use spellcheck or English is your second language. What am I going to find as I keep reading? Shame on you!

Awesome. Good morning.
Apparently my lack of investment is starting to show in the finished product. So, in summation: I’m shitty at my job and shitty at blackting.

To maintain the will to live, I keep reading the reply I got from the Gotham booker in response to my thank-you email. It keeps me going strong:

Very nice to meet you as well. Glad you found the notes helpful. I think you have tremendous potential. Keep writing and performing. You can make it in this business. Will keep you in mind for anything you'd be good for at the club.

This makes me feel a lot better about eating 4 pieces of cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast.

Rider Die Chick

Hey gang,

So, ever since I got hazed and rejected by that hedge fund, I’ve been resigned to the fact that I may not be able to get off this plantation anytime soon. I’ve also resigned myself to the fact that my blog will be searchable as long as I sign in using my e-mail account, and even if I did make a change, Google’s like a war widow—IT NEVER FORGETS. In order to prevent future drama (save it for Obama!), I’ve decided I will only post things that I would say in real life—or about people who I know can’t read or don’t have computers.

Guys, I want to care about my job, I really do, but I only live once— and I must give myself over to the blacktress deep within. So when one of our editors tapped me to be in an upcoming “how-to video” on drawing, I said yes—mostly because I liked being referred to as “the talent”, and it’ll mean I’m away from my desk for a whole hour!

Of course, the video’s going to be dull as dishwater, and it’ll mostly be voice-over, but the editor wrote a “script” that basically reads like a book report on drawing. I got the first draft and was directed to “add your flair”—which I took to mean "cut as much of the crap as possible"--and I did. She was hounding me for my edits (um, not my job!) so I sent back the first three pages along with my rider. I mean, if you want to use a blacktress for the screen, you'll have to meet her needs (I heard Bob Ross required 12 afro picks on standby at all times). Please see my requirements below, and make a note in case you'd like to collaborate on any future projects:

Rider for Sojourner “You Can’t Handle The” Truth (who will herein be referred to as “Blacktress”) - 2/15/2011

by Blacktress – dictated, but not read

Requirements

- 2 bottles of Fiji water kept at room temperature

- 4 bananas, 1 of which must be sliced into rounds

- Justin Timberlake playing in the background

- Justin Bieber playing in the foreground

- Online editor (who will be referred to as “Massa”) must respect Blacktress’s dominance and knowledge of the creative process.



At least 4 takes of every medium close up (to be filmed on from Blacktress’ left side)


Blacktress has very specific needs, and body temperature is of the utmost concern. It is mandatory that the internal temperature of the performance space reach no higher than 68 degrees, to prevent sweating and facial shine.



Preferences
Please meet at least 3 of the following:

- Massa wears a dunce cap

- Video guy wears a newsie cap

- Video shoot must be scheduled to take place over 4 hours but only take 1.5, so that Blacktress may run some errands.

- 5 golden rings.

- 1 ring of power, 1 ring to rule them all.



Perfectly reasonable, yes?

I'm Eating a Slice of Carrot Cake at 10:45am

Hey there, Sharks and Jets,

I know, it’s been a week without bloggery. I’ve been feeling so damn bored/boring. Yesterday was definitely bringing back memories of The Summer of New Lows, as I had the following discussion with my life partner, KWalsh
me: oh thank god!
i've been waiting for you to appear on the internet all morning
katie bear, i need you
KWalsh: haha
whats up
me: pleaassseee come to new york. i will pay for your ticket
you can stay at my house
PLEASE
KWalsh: whats going on?
me: i hate everything. i am in a depressed malaise
is that even a thing?
KWalsh: of course it is
come to st. croix for halloween!
we are going to have a pizza party
me: i'm just......like, why am i even trying to exist?

This went on for another 30 minutes, and only ended when I realized I needed to pick up my anti-depressant prescription. I then chased my morning dosage (up 50 milligrams!) with a sip of lukewarm coffee.

Breakfast of champions, I tell ya!

This could have something to do with the fact that I’m two weeks behind on GLEE—that show always makes me feel good about the state of the world. The only thing that’s gotten me through it is the NYC Gubernatorial race. Everyone and their mom has decided to run, and most of them are a hot-ass mess.

I am kind of obsessed with this cray cray Jimmy McMillan, who is currently running for Governor of NY. For those of you followers who aren’t in NYC (and haven’t had all of your internet streams overrun with his youtube clips), I present to you the following, from the leader of “The Rent is 2* Damn High Party”:



Um, I cannot handle this Papa Smurf rocking the gloves. Do you think his facial hair is real? I feel like he’d be good friends with Dr. Tyrone Hayes. They both favor odd hair and are very self-righteous.

I love that I’ve been at work nearly two hours, and not a scrap of work has gotten done. I really should look alive, especially since the raise I was promised 5 months ago finally came through! Yes, y’all—Overseer and Massa came to an agreement, and my money was provided!!!

And, to top it off, Overseer came in the office yesterday and actually issued me an apology! AND, instead of being all deferent and whatnot, I just said “Thank you.” I am going to acknowledge your foolery and throw you a bone for owning up to it. I can’t stand having to tell a grown ass member of Caucasia about himself—he saved me some time.


So, you know, all in all, things are fine. I need to stop being jealous of comedian/improviser friends getting TV gigs and handle my (creative) scandal. The unfortunate thing is that most of the auditions “that fit my profile” on actor’s access seek “African American female, 35-45, a bit overweight, natural. ETHNIC HAIRSTYLES accepted.” Not only am I too YOUNG, but I’m not giving them enough “mammy” in my headshot! I think I’ll remedy this by eating a slice of pie. After all, it’s for my career.

How you be, boos? What are you doing this weekend?

*[yes, “2”]

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?

Paging Dr. Johnson.....

Happy Friday, y'all!! It's not even 10am, and I'm already shopping on VictoriasSecret.com.
As I look for discounted brassieres to keep my lady lumps supported, I keep toggling back and forth between the VS window, the blog post, and our general email account--that way, if the massa or the overseer comes by, I can quickly look like I'm being useful and not buying undergarments (or looking at porn--these Vicky's girls are soooo sensually posed!).

As I procrastinate, I happen upon the greatest press release this year. Of course, I have to share this with you:

Hi, this is [PR Person] with _____ Media Group.

So many men are fed up with their ‘man boobs’ (‘moobs’). Even women often wish something could be done. The nation will definitely want to hear about this new, quick, and safe procedure, so we would be grateful if you could read the press release below and help us pass this information on. The doctor behind this life-changing procedure has appeared on numerous media outlets. If you are interested in arranging an interview with Dr. Johnson, please contact me directly. Thank you.



FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Dr. Johnson separates the men from the boys - and the men from the men with ‘moobs’.
Women are not the only ones concerned about cup size anymore. Now men can quickly and safely have their breasts, or ‘moobs,’ reduced. Dr. [weirdo freaking me out] offers a procedure to eliminate extra fat from and tighten the skin of the pectoral area. When the fat is gone, so are the moobs. Minus moobs, men look and feel much better.
[Blacktress' note: The word 'moobs' has appeared 4 times in 6 sentences. I'm uncomfortable. I'm also not clear on how he separates men from boys. Are we talking conjoined twins, or just elaborate hazing rituals for new clients? ]

The strictest diets and exercise regimes cannot conquer all moobs: this procedure can. The old stigma of men seeking cosmetic enhancement is gone. Moob reduction was among the most popular elective surgeries in 2009, says the American Academy of Cosmetic Surgery. Dr. J----- combines VibroLipo (Tickle liposuction) with SmartLipo to effectively combat the most stubborn moobs, also known as gynecomastia. The recovery period is brief - most patients can return to work the next day. They feel better about their bodies just as soon.

My goodness! It would seem that as I sit at my desk, trying to find products to help me tame my stubborn boobs, many of the nation's men are struggling with their own breast issues!! Although I can try to relate, my problems with this press release are manifold. Let me break it down:
- I work at an ART magazine. We in no way advertise or target our product toward men seeking breast-reduction surgery. How on earth did we get on this PR company's mailing list, and why would they think we'd be interested in such a thing?
- Look, I love a good portmanteau as much as the next grammar nerd. It was kinda cute when the press used the term 'brangelina'; it was saccharine when the freakish couple 'TomKat' came on the scene. But it started getting annoying when people called male nannies 'mannies,' and now MOOBS is just out of control. I don't know why any medical professional would want to be affiliated with creating a ridiculous word of this nature. His credibility has instantly been undermined. Imagine swirling your brandy glass at a dinner party while the guy next to you says, "I just saw Dr. Johnson--he's a leading moob specialist."
Um, I have to go....over there.
-I love how the PR guy says "the national will definitely want to hear about this..." Um, I'm not quite so sure about that. The nation? Really? I think there may be more pressing news briefs that warrant national attention.
- "The most stubborn moobs" -- hahahaha!!!

Who’s Got Two Thumbs and a Case of the Mondays??

THIS GIRL!

I am hating on my job, y’all, for serious. I know that I’m lucky to be employed in a recession, but let me have my Monday rant, mmmkay?

When it comes to New Massa, the bloom has faded from the rose, as they say. Like Ian McKellen in “The Da Vinci Code,” he started off nice and enthusiastic, quick to teach me about Leonardo and offer me refuge. However, just as quickly, he turned on me, ready to shoot me in a church and poison me.
(if you haven’t seen “The Da Vinci Code,” then this makes no sense at all. Apologies).

New Massa is a high maintenance older gay—you know, the kind who don’t have patience for your shit because they came up in a time when they weren’t even allowed to love openly? He’s an “I pulled myself up by my bootstraps to become an upper-echelon intellectual at a time when I’d be called gay just for buying oil paints.” So, you know, he doesn’t have time for your, “I’m sick, I have to go home” bullshit. Or your, “it’s 5:30pm, I am done here” exodus. He also has no concept that other people could have things to do, and whatever pops into his head has to be done right away. Oh, and he also likes to schmooze out on the town, promise artists feature articles and things, and then leave us lovely editors to do the writing.

Of course, writing is my job. I enjoy it. That’s what makes this bearable. But when he wants me to spend my time going to events “just to make contact,” that infringes on my personal time. When he wants me to spend all day in Long Island at a workshop when I don’t even have the staff camera to take photos, that means I’ve got to make up that day’s worth of office work—when, exactly? On a weekend? Oh, in the words of Whitney, HELL TO THE NO!

You must keep in mind people: my dream is humor writing and blackting. I am a blacktress. But momma didn’t raise no fool, and it’s about having bennies and some income coming in! So, I work. I pay my bills—and it takes some of the pressure and insanity off the creative process. But let’s not get it twisted—I’m not here for the love of the linen canvas. I’m not in it for the watercolors. This is my job—not my career.

A career is a responsibility that combines interests you have and skills you possess. In exchange for providing your skills and sharing your interest, you are given monetary compensation, opportunity for growth, and steadily increase in your skills and responsibilities.

A job is something you get to pay for your addictions! (you know, like shopping at Crumbs cupcakes) They do not pay me to care. I’m just here to pay for my HPV vaccine and therapy sessions, boo!

Quite frankly, I’m looking for a damn job that pays me more than I paid in college tuition! There is no reason I should leave one of the “top liberal arts universities in the country” with a shitload of debt and the inability to go to the movies without rearranging the finances. Blacktress is trying to break even—is that too much to ask?!

So, here it is, nearly noon on Monday, and I’ve already been at my desk 5 hours, and I’m trying to make sense of an article that is so annoyingly dry and pretentious—and I can only expect to do more of this, as this is the “new editorial voice” New Massa wants to go in. And tomorrow, I”ll be the only person to leave my desk before 5:30, because I have a 6 o’clock call time for a show I’m in. It’ll be blasphemous because, my god, shouldn’t I love art enough to want to stay here all day and into the night? As New Massa said when I went into his office to discuss this last week (I didn’t make it about him, but about “Artists sudden demands on my time”) he said two things that got me:
“Well, it comes down to putting in the hours,” and “It should, of course, be fun. It’s not meant to be painful.”
Well, sir, it is NOT fun—at least, not doing so regularly. And, unfortunately, I have other goals that prevent me from putting in the hours to a job that doesn’t pay overtime.

So, there you have it. Monday rants. How was your weekend, guys?

New Daddy Has Gone Cray Cray

Ok, so you guys know how much I love my new daddy, right?
Well, the bloom is starting to fade from the rose, as they say.
(does anyone actually say that besides my mom?)

He is sort of fabulous, but also enfuriating—sometimes I feel like I’m in a deleted scene from The Devil Wears Prada. Take, for instance, this morning’s conversation.

New Daddy: Okay, I’m thinking out loud here. We need to get a super issue of Watercolor mag out as soon as possible.

Me: How many additional pages of content would that require?

ND: I don’t know, 40?

Me: That’s roughly 4 extra articles, in addition to the 9-10 that appear in each issue. And you want that by when?

ND: For the next issue.

Me: That’s not possible.

ND: How long is that acrylic article? 250 words? what were you thinking?
[he has now moved on to another topic entirely, with no regard for what I said was not possible.]

Me: The article hasn’t been written or sent to me yet. You told you wanted a spread, so no more than 400 words—depends on how many images we get.

ND: Okay, okay [he pauses]. I’ve got the advertisers up my ass, I’ve inherited this clusterfuck, I don’t know.
[note: he says the above with complete nonchalance.]

[I don’t know what to say.]

ND: Okay, is there any way we can get this in to the next issue of the monthly?

Me: It ships on Thursday, and we don’t have any of the content. If the artist gets it to me on Monday, that still requires a scramble.

ND sighs and rubs his temple. I am fearful he’ll throw his hot coffee in my face.

ND: I need to please these advertisers. [pause] Okay, I’ll make a call to advertising, see what I can do. I’ll try to work some queer magic.


Naturally, his laugh line is my cue to exit, as he turns his seat back to his desk as he shoos me away.

I don’t know how to handle him. He’s very stream-of-consciousness, and he goes from pissed and hilarious at the drop of a dime. An older gay is the kind of breed that can turn on its hag, and I’m fearful of him. I need his approval as both my massa and an older gay, but I also need him to stop trippin’ and let me get my basic shit done. Toeing the line with this one will require a bit of finesse.

Thank god it’s Friday. I need to take a nap.

[aaahhh, New Daddy came over just as I was googling images of 'Angry Ian McKellen'--you know, basically Magneto in X-Men]

My New Daddy

So, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but there’s a new massa in charge of the magazine where I work. This means that I have to pretty much make a new impression and re-prove myself to this person who doesn’t know my worth as a woman of color and a writer. He came on about a month ago, but the old editor-in-chief was still around, showing him the ropes and getting him acclimated. It was a really confusing time, as I wasn’t sure who to direct my queries to or who was actually in charge—I felt like I was on an episode of “My Two Dads.”

What was with that plush car in their apartment? Such a weird situation. IT'S CALLED DNA TESTING, PEOPLE!


Last week was new massa’s first week solo, and we’re all in a tizzy, as we work to bring him up to speed, explain our roles, and keep everything chugging along and meeting deadlines. He and I went to the watercolor event on Friday night, which I was nervous about—I wanted him to know I was an asset to the staff, but also a cool person, because half the time, the difference between a pink slip and a paycheck comes down to who is liked the most. It was also kinda weird, because it was sort of a social event, but I was clearly with my superior—what could we talk about for four hours without veering into non-professional conversation? What if I accidentally revealed the fact that I hate my job sometimes? EEP!!

Well, fortunately for us all, New Massa is great. Imagine Ian McKellan with a dash of Michael Showalter.
I'm sorry, I'd add a pic of Michael Showalter, but I'm too obsessed with Ian McKellan and this apple to place anything next to it that could detract from its amazingness.


Needless to say, we’re getting along swimmingly.

He’s a wonderful gay man with a hot bi-racial live-in bf, and he curses a lot and we crack each other up. When I told him I was nervous about the event and hoped I wouldn’t have to speak, he said he didn’t know what to say, either. I said, “No, I’m the Michelle to your Barack. You take it away, I’ll be in the background with the arms.” He LOL’d like a little LOLcat, and I knew we’d be forever together.

Throughout the event, we chatted about the art, and mix and mingled like a total power couple. I was prompted to sing his praises in blog form because when I went into his office a few minutes ago to share a silly submission (you know the artists like to share their hot messes), he replies with, “Oh, I’m glad you came in, I wanted to tell you a story.”

This story was about a tranny artist he knows who was the son of a preacher, and his father got the whole church to raise money for his kid’s sex change.

Um, can I hang out with my boss every day and be best friends?

Although he’s super cool, I can tell he’s not one to mess around, like most power gays I know. Old Massa had been here 31 years, so he was really chill. He left at 2:30pm, and didn’t stress you as long as your work got done. This was much appreciated, as I aim to take as much time as I need to pursue my (bl)ac(k)ting career. I may have to put the early departures and long lunches on hold for a bit, as New Massa gets comfortable and stops freaking out—but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make if it means we get to talk about trannies in the workplace.

Fridays With Artists

Happy Friday, y’all!! The sun is shining, my Jewboo and I made it through our first fight, and my procrastination is in full swing—it feels good to be alive.

Tonight after work is sure to be blogworthy, as I’ll be attending an awards dinner for a watercolor organization. Yes, a watercolor painting organization. For those of you who don’t know, watercolor is the painting medium that’s long been dominated by the Floridian retiree. This is my magazine's target demographic, and as the editor of the mag, it’s now my responsibility to “network with the community.” This means attending events where I’m the only brown person, and the youngest attendee by at least 35 years.

It’s kind of amazing.

After attending the opening-night show three weeks ago, I then went to an artist demonstration, where a rather fatigued old woman leaned over to me and provided color commentary throughout the demo. Her hair was a kind of orange that could only come from a box, and her lipstick was bright as a ripe mango.

I loved her—even when she talked awkwardly loudly.
Throughout the demo, cell phones rang loudly and repeatedly, as the elderly fumbled to find where the noise was coming from, then struggled to silence it. As the artist explained her materials, she mentioned her drawing tool—a negro pencil!! The blacktress bristled, and looked around and realized there were no other negroes around, so no one else seemed to care.

NEGRO PENCIL, Y’ALL!! WTF?!

Tonight’s dinner is sure to be a doozy, seeing as I received a call from one of the planners last week, asking “how you’d like to be introduced….we’ll be announcing attendees of note.” Oh my god, I’m now imagining a debutante-ball-style announcement, with me walking down a center aisle as elderly members of Caucasia provide golf claps.

Guys, I’d like you to know a few things about me:
-I don’t really like my job
(sidebar: just as I was typing the previous sentence, my boss came over to me to give me comments on my editor’s note for the next issue. Awkward Town, population ME!)
-I know very little about art, and even less about watercolor
-I’m a blacktress man, not a watercolorist (said in the voice of Doctor McCoy from Star Trek)

The amount of awkward small talk taking place tonight will be through the roof. It'll be Totes cuckoo bananas. I will try to live tweet it if I can.

How are you doing?

Thank God It's.....Time For 16 and Pregnant!!!!

Happy Friday, Y'all!!
I've hit a new low in my levels of procrastination. I am about to spend the last hour of work watching this week's ep of "16 and Pregnant" online.
Of course, I will live-blog every moment. Let's do this.

4:35 - Lizzi's from Smithfield, "A small conservative town on the coast of Virginia." Her parents are divorced and she lives with mom, but dad's still on the scene.
"Skylar works at a thrift store and is studying to become a professional glass blower." - Way to pick a winner, sis.
"I love playing in the marching band.... maybe one day I can play in the Virginia Orchestra."

September - 5 Months Pregnant.
- Lizzie dropped out of school and is now homeschooled.
- "I live with my mom and after the initial shock, she's really excited about being a grandma" - Wow! We've got a mother who actually doesn't want to strangle her child. I guess I should be happy, but I'm kinda worried. What sort of dreams did you have for your kid if her high school pregnancy barely raises your blood pressure?

- Luckily, the dad has some sense (um, paging Dr. Phil, I think I know why these two got divorced.) "I thought you were on some kind of contraception," he says, like a rational human being who expected more for his child.

Mom explains: "She was until it came time to have the yearly check up, but she refused to go because she didn't want to have the gynecological exam." - What?! You'll let some dude who works at a thrift store diddle your fiddle, but you won't let a medical professional check under the hood?! You gotta make sure the brakes are working before you take the car for a drive, girl!!!

"I wanted four kids - I'm just going to space them out more now."
"I hope bring pregnant doesn't get in the way of my dreams, cause I've got a lot of plans." - Oh, Lizzie, boo bear, didn't you see season 1?

- Skylar's moving in with Lizzie and her mom and they're turning the spare room into a nursery. - Ooh--look--unlike Leah from last week, they have paint!
(oh god, what's happening to my priorities? I think this show has skewed my perceptions of what constitutes success and happiness.)

- "Are you gonna teach our kid glass blowing?" Way to lift up the next generation, kids.
- "I don't miss public school that much, except I miss my band friends." She and her band homegirl go get pedicures--wow, they are both really blonde and bright-eyed. I guess in Virginia, band girls aren't geeks

Lizzie to her friend: "Do you think I'm ready to be a mom?"
- "Of course!"
Why would her friend lie to her like that? Maybe it's nail polish fumes.

4:43 - They're having a girl, and they're naming her summer! Oh, so sweet. I hope they don't spell it some fucked up way like the rest of the girls. Something cray-cray like, "Somemur"

4:44 - Lizzie's latest delusion: "Everyone thinks I'm going to have to give something up. I'm sure I can play in the Viginia orchestra and still be a mom."
[Oh, I love watching online--no commercial. But it's harder to keep up!]

4:45 - 25 Weeks Pregnant
They go pumpkin picking. "I'm just worried about the money cause you're the only one that's working." - Homeboy works part-time at the thrift store, what did you expect?!

Lizzie practices her flute in her bedroom at home. Cut to Skylar playing terrifying war-like paintball in the Virginia fields.
This is a match made in heaven.

4:46 - Skylar tells his boys he's thinking of proposing to Lizzie! What?! They've been together 8 months. Good lord, why do they feel the need to make one problem even worst?
4:47 - Jessica and Jackie come by in their homecoming dresses. She shows them the dress she would have worn if she wasn't knocked up.
"Don't get pregnant," Lizzie yells after them. HAHA!! Good girl.

"Since I'm not a public school student, I'm missing out on the harvest parade." - Wow, I love how in VA, public school is the total opposite of the way it is in other places --it actually OPENS UP doors. Without public school, you've got nothing.
"I guess parades aren't as fun when you're standing on the sidelines....it really sucked not marching with the band in the parade yesterday."
When were parades ever fun? I mean, besides Gay Pride.

4:49 - Skylar goes to Dad Rick's house to ask for Lizzie's hand in marriage.
"I'm in no hurry for you guys to get married. I'd hate to feel that you think that you have to get married just because you have a child."

I love Rick!!! He is bringing TRUTH to the table. He is totally making me rethink my hatred of men with mustaches. Perhaps his facial hair is where he keeps his wisdom.

4:50 - December, 30 Weeks Pregnant
- Lizzie has no eyebrows, and it's making me uncomfortable.

- "I knew we'd be together, cause I wanted you, and I got you, and I get what I want."
Um, Okay, Lizzie, you're so cool and badass.....and throwing away your LIFE!!!!!
- Skylar's going with his dad to pick up a ring--in a pawn shop, it seems. How can you pick up a ring in a place with guitars on one wall and guns on the other?
- Skylar is taking Lizzie out to dinner at her favorite restaurant - CRAB SHACK!!!!
HIS IS AMAZING.
- I love how their conversations just consist of asking each other questions about how they felt, will feel, and feel now. "Did you think we'd be together this long?"
4:53 - AAAHHHH, Skylar is getting down on one knee!!! He proposed.
"Yes" [she laughs] "You make me giggle."
Um, really? She's such a
4:54 - Lizzie's with her friends getting food. There's one random black boy with 5 white girls. I really hope he's the group gay.
4:55 - "I'm excited because I have the perfect boy, and the perfect ring, and I can't wait to have the perfect baby."
Ew, she's soooooo silly. She thinks love is all sunshine and flowers. She doesn't have a high school education, he probably earns $10/hour, and she has no job prospects and will live with her mother for the rest of her life. Ok, I'm glad she's up-beat and doesn't hate herself, but I do not watch this show to get behind teen pregnancy, people. I'm gonna need her to change her tune real quick.
4:57 - "I never though I'd be wearing an engagement ring at 17--I thought it'd just be my belly ring." - I can't believe this is real.
She inserts the belly ring that just arrived. Inserts it into the button of her pregnant belly. Nothing about this is cute.
4:58 - BABY SHOWER AT SKYLAR'S HOUSE!!!
They get some pretty cool swag. This may be kinda classy.
Oh, wait, they broke out a cake with photos of Lizzie and Skylar as babies. I retract that previous statement.
4:59 - Lizzie's dad makes an announcement. Lizzie has graduated home school and is getting her diploma!
She doesn't seem to be very excited.

5:00 - Uh-oh, some texts are going around saying that Skylar cheated on Lizzie with Krista!
Oh my god, why is every single girl in this town blonde? Like, platinum, "Children of the Corn" type of blonde.
5:01 - Lizzie confronts Skylar about it, and he comes clean!
- "I made a mistake a little while ago...."
OH SNAP!!! TRUTH COMES OUT!

- "It makes me feel stupid, and self-conscious, like it's my fault. Like something I did led you to do that." - Um, Lizzie, you're interpreting this all wrong. You're not stupid for not knowing your man cheated on you. You're stupid for not going to the gyno for your yearly exam so you could get more birth control.

5:10 (Okay, I could go home now, but I'm too sucked into this episode. I just had to pause it to say bye to a coworker, and I realized I should be living a life, but I can't not find out how Lizzie and Skylar handle his infidelity)
- January, 35 Weeks Pregnant
Skylar's out of the house. "I took all his stuff and put it in a box. I don't know, my room got de-Skylar-ized." Hello, grammar humor--someone's graduated home school!!
- "To keep my mind off Skylar, I've been focusing on college...I've decided to put my dreams of playing in the orchestra on hold to go for a stable job as an ultrasound technician."
- She goes to a college counselor to find out what she'll have to do - shit ain't easy!!!
- Now she's willing to give Skylar a second chance -- she knows she can't do this solo (maybe she did watch last week's episode). They're back together, but she's not gonna put her ring back on.

5:15 - 37 Weeks Pregnant - LABOR TIME!
- Lizzie's being relatively calm. It seems like the labor didn't take too long, and Lizzie barely even broke a sweat.
- Now she's breastfeeding. "It's taken an hour, and I haven't been able to eat my food." Um, Lizzie, get used to not being able to do basic things for yourself. "I'm determined to breastfeed, because it's cheaper than formula."
- 2 Days Old - discharged from the hospital!
- 2 Weeks Old. Lizzie's over breastfeeding, and has switched to formula. Way to stick it out, champion!
- They're reeling over the expense of diapers and formula.

5:20 - 3 Weeks Old.
"Tomorrow's my first day back at school and I really need to sleep, but Summer's still not sleeping through the night, which means neither am I." - Um, "still?" She's only 3 weeks old. What on earth did you think would happen?
5:22 - Leah's staring over Summer's crib with her pale skin and jet-black eyeliner. I'm not even a baby, and I'm terrified.
- Aw, Lizzie and Skylar are kinda cute. I love when the teen dads are present.
5:25 - Lizzie's decided to drop out of school. Wow, Summer's not even 4 weeks old. How quickly we flip the script.
5:27 - I love the commercial MTV includes in each episode now: "Teen Pregnancy is 100% preventable. Learn how." Basically, they're saying "These girls are dumb."

5:27 - Lizzie goes to school to drop classes. The registrar tries to persuade her to just put them on hold, or hold off on one. Nope, she won't do it. She's gonna take a 6-week course in medical billing.

5:28 - She goes to tell her Dad, and again, Rick speaks truth and Lizzie CAN'T HANDLE IT!
She's so short-tempered with him, and so smart-assed. I mean, of course, she's a 17-year-old girl who thinks she knows everything, but she's not exactly living the dream and fine on her own. She needs to listen to Rick.

5:30 - Skylar and Lizzie go for a walk, and Lizzie asks him questions about his emotions and tell him what a great dad he is.

Ooooh, wrap up!!
"I had big dreams...but I found out I was pregnant and that dream kind of died...I'm not going to college anymore, I'm not going into music anymore, I'm probably going to be at home longer. It's bummed me out, but then I think of Summer and realize being a mom is better than going out and having fun."
Um, it's not just "having fun," Lizzie - College is learning about yourself, expanding your horizons, and giving yourself the best life you can.

Ugh, okay, at least she's working and her mother isn't trying to cut her, and her baby daddy knows how to change a diaper.

How on earth did procrastinating end up with me staying at work after 5:30 on a Friday? It seems I may not have been as clever as I thought.

Black HERStory Month!

Happy Black History Month, guys!!!!

It’s a great time to be black, gang!! Last night started off strong, with a viewing of “BORN WITHOUT A FACE” (aaahhh!!! I couldn’t look away!), followed by a “Criminal Minds” mini-marathon (I’m just that cool). Although I slept rather fretfully, once I remembered what today was, I jumped out of bed with great glee.* I got to work and was pleased to begin my first week sitting at my new desk, which is NOT directly across from the bathroom. Holla at a blacktress movin’ on up!! I no longer have to hear my coworkers urinate as I pretend to do work.

We have a new girl in our office today, and she took my old desk. I already don’t like her—no, not just because she’s not black! It’s because she’s overly familiar and asks for a lot of things. Plus, she's wearing, like, leggings and grey cowboy boots and a tight green cardi - this is an OFFICE. It’s your FIRST DAY. And you make way more than I do, and I have to go Banana Republic biz-cas. Please have the decency to at least pretend to care, like the rest of us—at least in the beginning.

Anyway, I digress. I should be pleased that I now live in a world where Sojourner can be cold to a Caucasian newbie without fear of retribution. This is growth, people! Add to this the fact that tonight’s the season 2 premiere of RuPaul’s Drag Race, and this month is gonna be off the chain! Y’all know how much I love a DQ, and Ru is the queen of them all. I was in Australia during the first season of this show, and upon returning, it was more important to see Drag Race than call up my 93-year-old grandmother. (Does that make me a bad person?)

I think my favorite part had to be the finale, when their challenge was to write a rap for Ru’s song. Bebe Zahara Benet’s rap involves her saying the word ‘face,’ like, 10 times.
And she won the challenge.
I love this show so hard.

Add to this the fact that RuPaul is BLACK, and I think the BHM tie-ins are beyond obvious.

Okay, guys, it’s damn near noon, and I haven’t done an ounce of work. Apparently my boss doesn’t “understand” that Black History Month is a national holiday and I can’t be “expected” to “actually do my work” at any point.




Um, can we talk about the fact that I’m at work wearing my headphones and listening to ‘Covergirl (Put the Bass in Your Walk)’?

(Check out minute 1:22 for the start of the ‘face’ goodness)



I think what I love most about this show is the fact that, at the end of the episode, the bottom 2 contestants stand side-by-side and are told to “Lip synch…. FOR YOUR LIFE.”

I hope to one day be able to say the very same to two dueling male suitors. Whichever one is more fierce will get to be with me forever.


*god I miss that show.

Sidebar: Those who are in NYC and want to see the blacktress LIVE can check out the following stand-up shows this month:

Thursday, February 11, 9pm
Comedy Party USA
@ The Grizzly Pear
107 Macdougal St.
(Trains to West 4th)

Friday, February 12, 9pm
The Back Room
Ochi's Lounge
downstairs in Comix, 14th btwn 8th and 9th Avenue
(A/C/E to 14th street)

Both shows are FREE!

Somebody's Got a Case of the Mondays.....

OMFG I am so bored today, guys. And it’s not even noon. I’ve been trying to look busy, which involves much bloggery. However, being tired slows down my capacity for original thought, which makes successful bloggery difficult. Anyway, my weekend was pretty low-key. I’ve become a Harlem recluse, staying home most nights and keeping it incognegro with television. It helps that madukes and her Latin lover are in Uruguay, because now I can stay home without the threat of black mama drama.

Twilight was on Showtime this weekend, and they made a really big deal out of it. Like, way too big a deal out of it. There were all these interviews and teasers and it's like, Showtime, this movie has been out for a year. Chillax.
I was uncomfortable.

It reminded me of the morning when I passed three middle-aged female members of Caucasia, all wearing the same powder-blue t-shirt underneath windbreakers. Of course, I assumed they were members of a church group or attendees of a scrap-booking convention (I often stereotype before I’ve had my morning caffeine). For some reason, I decided to focus my eyes on their Ts, and was shocked to see the following text:
THE NEW MOON EXPERIENCE
NEW YORK CITY
NOVEMBER 19, 2009

TwilightMoms!!! AAAHHH!!! I thought my viewing of Twilight at 10:30am by myself in Sydney, Australia, was tragic, but this was a whole new level. I mean, I really hope they were moms just chaperoning their kids, but I saw no kids, so I can't make that assumption. And that worries me.
And it also inspires.

I can think of no better way to deal with my boredom than with another installment of DUSK. For those of you out of the fruit loop, here are our previous chapters:

Chapter 1
Chapter 2


Beaut made it into English class just as the second bell rang. She took her usual seat by the window next to Rachel, and they shared a smile. Rachel was a terrible gossip, but it was worse to get on her bad side, and Beaut couldn’t help but be grateful for her kindness during her first weeks at Spoons High. They were reading Jane Eyre, which Beaut had already read 100 times before, so she quickly zoned out. Her thoughts immediately floated to Gregory, and that time they went to Anchorage for the night. She rode on his back all the way there, and they had an amazing dinner at a seafood restaurant. Well, Gregory just watched her eat, as usual. She remembered how sexy it was when he cracked the crab shell with his bare hands, how patient he was when she chewed. On their way back home they stopped in an Eskimo village, where Edward had some vampire friends (the darkness in the area most of the year enabled them to blend in effortlessly). As she clutched his back on the way home, she knew what she wanted forever to feel like….

Just then, Beaut was snapped out of her daydream by a tapping sound on the window. She looked up and saw Noah standing there with a wide grin on his face. His perfect white teeth gleamed even brighter against his mahogany skin. No, it was caramel. No, it was like mahogany that someone spilled hot caramel on and then licked off sensuously. Yep, that was it.

Noah motioned for her to come outside. Rachel looked at her suspiciously, but Beaut didn’t meet her stare. She knew that no matter what she said, Rachel would tell anyone who would listen that she’d gone off with Noah. She just gathered her bag and raised her hand.

“Yes, Beaut?” Mr. Perry looked almost excited when he called on her. Beaut so rarely spoke in class that it was a treat to know she was even alive, let alone engaged.

“I’m not feeling so well,” she mumbled, trying to sound weak – which wasn’t hard, because she was very delicate, pale, and whiney. “Can I go to the nurse’s office?”

“Sure,” Mr. Perry sighed, disappointed. “Do you need someone to escort you?”

Matt Simpson’s hand immediately went up. He’d had a crush on Beaut since her first day, but they were just friends.

“No, I can make it. Thanks.” Beaut quickly ducked out before Mr. Perry could ask anymore questions.

She raced out of the building and saw Noah on his motorcycle. His long Native American hair glistened in the sunlight. He revved the bike’s engine and Beaut felt a tingling sensation….down there.
She shook it off—they were just friends. Besides, he was ethnic—Gregory may have been undead and feasted on human blood, but they made way more sense together.

Beaut immediately hopped on the back of the bike and wrapped her arms around Noah chest as they sped off the campus grounds.
“You’re solid as Barack,” Beaut said, nestling her head into his back.
“I’ve been doing core work,” Noah replied. “Let’s go to The Thrust—I want to show you something.”

The Thrust was the reservation where Noah and the other natives lived. Beaut loved to go there because it was sort of dangerous, but also felt like home. She and Noah would sit by the roaring waves on the rocky shore and just hang out, talk, and occasionally touch each other suggestively. This time was no different, as they sat down close to each other and Noah put his arm around her, trying to get some side-boob action.

“Beaut, I have something to tell you,” Noah said after a few minutes of silence.

“What is it?” Beaut said, trying to be calm. She really hoped he wouldn’t reveal his feelings for her, because their entire friendship rested on Beaut being selfishly oblivious to his emotions.

“Remember that time I told you that story about this guy I know who’s a werewolf?”

“Yeah, your friend Toah?”

“Yeah, well, um, by ‘Toah’ I meant me. Noah.”

Beaut was stunned. How could she have not seen this coming? Noah’s flowing locks, his ripped abs, and not to mention the fact that he sported a partial erection at all times and was a minority – of course he was part animal.

“Say something,” Noah said, softly.

Beaut must have been silent for longer than she realized. She suddenly looked at Noah, as if for the first time really seeing him.

And she wasn’t afraid.
Actually, she was kind of turned on.

Oh my god, what's going to happen next???? Beaut is torn between two men, both mythical and freakishly strong!!! THIS IS SO EXCITING.



Is it lunchtime yet?

Character Study

Ok, guys, first off I have to tell you that I’ve been working on this post for an hour--well, not exactly writing it, but writing it slowly and covertly to avoid the judgment of my colleagues. One of my coworkers just left for a press event, so now I feel free to continue writing.

No, this person is not my boss. In fact, he is younger than me, and took my old job when I went off to Oz. However, he is really hardcore and intense, and has, like, a work ethic or something—and, instead of inspiring me to work, his focus and care for the job just makes me feel bad.

Anyway, whatever. Guilt is a useless emotion. Back to blogging!

So, I haven’t slept through the night in over two weeks, but I’m kinda amped today (and no, I haven’t had Starbucks…yet). It’s because tonight I have the first of a two-session character workshop at UCB with…. JEFF HILLER.

I think you all know how I feel about this tall glass of milk (my review of his hit musical Bernice Bobs Her Mullet says it all).

He is my gay icon.

We met a couple years ago at a friend’s Halloween party, which was beyond exciting, as I’d loved his improvisational comedy stylings from afar for a couple of years. Turns out that gay icons are just like us! Jeff’s really nice and always keeps a blacktress in mind, even nominating me for a diversity scholarship at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater – holla at my reparations!

I think if they brought back slavery, I could count on Jeff to buy my freedom.

Since our meeting in ’07, we’ve done Gayest Week Ever together, and discovered that we HAVE THE SAME BIRTHDAY.

Um, hello FATE, it’s me, Blacktress!

I even attended his birthday party this year, which means we’re officially best friends!

(I think. He won’t give me his phone number, or hang out with me one-on-one, but I still like to think we’re close.)

Anyway, I’m pretty amped to do a little BLACting tonight and focus on character work. I tend to mostly play myself in improvised scenes because when forced to think on the spot, I only come up with Me, Me, Me.

My favorite joke pre-improv show is to go around to the other performers and say, “so, I was reading the script, and I think you should really shout at me during your big monologue on page three...”
Get it? I’m implying that it’s not at all improvised, but that we’re doing a scripted production.
Ha.

Anyways, my desire to control the world around me in an attempt to make its citizens bend to my will means that I’m going to jot down a list of characters I’d like to try out – and will force into any scene I’m in whether or not it makes sense.

What do you think of these, gang?

Rhonda A one-armed hooker with a heart of gold who has a severe gluten allergy, but just wants to open her own bakery.

Craig An anemic homosexual teen vampire who loves show tunes. He plans to spend the rest of eternity recreating popular music videos on YouTube. You know, like "He-Wolf."*

Gruff Townsend A gritty, hard-boiled detective on the hunt for an Arby’s in New York City. Just, you know, any Arby’s.

Mellie A southern teenage mother, inspired by every character on ’16 and Pregnant.’

If one of these isn’t comedic gold, then I don’t know what I’ve got left.

Leave any suggestions you may have. If you play your cards right, I can even record it and put it up next week!



*Also, if you love teen gay boys' recreation of music videos as much as I do, here's He Wolf. All I can say is, Shakira better watch her back.

Move Over Patsy Cline - I'm the one who's CRAZY

I'm sitting at my desk right now, muttering to myself like a schizophrenic. I believe my exact words were, "Okay, okay, come on, come on." I have this article to write - in fact, I've had it to write for over a month now - and I've got all of 3 measley paragraphs.

It's a balmy 45 degrees (Farenheit), so I'm wearing a thin cable knit sweater, and figured I'd cas it up with jeans - after all, I do work at a magazine. I'm hip, I'm with it.

Turns out the big boss from Colorado (aka, the overseer), who laid off about 50 people yesterday, is coming in today with his right-hand woman. This is probably the wrong time to be dressed down. And I'm over here with an article unwritten. I'm gonna totally get fired for wearing jeans, aren't I?

I'm seriously cracked out. Take, for instance, an excerpt from this morning's first gchat with Jaime (yeah, okay, it's only 9:30 and I'm already procrastinating. what of it?):

me: what is this show?!
my crush greg or my (not) crush tim?
Jaime: no, Brandon Gates
duh
me: SO MANY CRUSHES
WHO IS THAT PERSON?
BRANDON GATES
ALL CAPS
me: ALL CAPS ALL THE TIME
INTENSITY


What the hell is wrong with me? Who are these crushes? Why am I dressed like I'm hitting the streets when the overseer is due in any second? Why on earth would I blog on the plantation at such a delicate time? I'm a hot ass mess today.