This is definitely my favorite day of the year. As you all know, I used to drink to feel pretty and now eat to feel nothing. Thanksgiving Day is a nationally sanctioned day of eating one's feelings under the guise of celebration and gratitude. Clearly this is my time to shine.
See, the key to a successful Thanksgiving is pacing and preparedness. Many people think that starving until meal time is the best way to get the most out of it--rookie mistake. When you don't eat all day, your stomach contracts and your metabolism stays at it's sleeping rate, making mass consumption of delicious foods difficult. You've got to eat little light bits throughout the day leading up to the meal.
Of course, I'm all for cleansing the day before, as it helps the body prepare to take in copious amounts of carbs. Last night, we enjoyed a light dinner of shrimp & avocado over mixed greens--the right amount of roughage and good fats to center the body, but nothing heavy that couldn't be expelled rapidly.
So, here it is, the big day. The time is now 9:48am. Food won't be ready until 3pm at the earliest. I can't sit here all day, smelling the smells and promising myself I'll "go to town on that apple tart" when my stomach is the size of a toddler's fist! I must start off with a simple breakfast, just to get the body ready; Coax it out of slumber and prepare it for domination at the dinner table. I'll start with a fiber-rich cereal and perhaps a yogurt. After watching a motion picture, I'll likely follow up with some squats, push ups, and fruit. By that time, I will be called into the kitchen to prepare the sides that only I know how to make. This is when I'll have to maintain a steely resolve and not waste calories on taste tests.
As you can see, I'm serious about this.
I'm spending the day with mom and her latin lover, then heading to PA tomorrow to visit the Jewboo's fam. Although they invited me for the holiday, I couldn't pass up our Southern-influenced side dishes for who knows what in suburban Pennsylvania. When I tried to explain this to Jewboo, he looked at me like I was crazy. "You think the food won't be good at our family friend's house?"
No, that's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, I get one day a year to eat stuffing, yams, and macaroni and cheese on the same plate, and I'm not losing it to have some roasted potatoes or green bean casserole. Besides, Jewboo is a vegetarian and really weight-conscious, which not only impairs his judgement but also makes him a real buzz-kill on a day like today (but I still love him!). I need to be able to spend the day in drawstring sweatpants and no shoes, not eating daintily so as not to embarrass myself in front of my potential in-laws. I owe it to us both to show up to Pennsylvania with a full belly and high blood pressure, just so the weekend can be relaxed.
I'm feeling a bit anxious, as I woke up to the sounds of arguing and had flashbacks to my youth. I was already on the brink as of last night, when my mother told me that people would probably think I'm a pedophile if I kept offering to babysit their kids. So, you know, I'm dealing with that.
Hope you're having/had a great Food Day!
xoxo,
blacktress!
Showing posts with label awkward moments. Show all posts
Showing posts with label awkward moments. Show all posts
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Texts From Last Night A Long Time Ago
Hey friends!
You know how much I love to share random inappropriate conversations I have with strangers in this mixed-up crazy city. Many times, while trapped in a moving vehicle—be it taxi, subway car, or crosstown bus—my chauffeur says tons of crazy things that I must play along with lest I end up the inspiration for an episode of Law & Order: SVU In these instances, I try to text the gems quickly to myself and save them as drafts for future bloggery. My phone just told me I had to delete some messages and I found a treasure trove of random snippets of crazy. I’d like to take you along with me now, as I journey down memory lane.
“I was in bed…by myself…listenin to them windows. This girl called me, asking me to come get her. It was, like, 11 o’clock, so I knew what she was tryna do. She was like, ‘you don’t wanna come get me?’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s a hurricane—I do wanna get you, but I don’t wanna die!’ So I stayed at home, by myself, just spread out on my bed, listenin’ to the rain—and it wasn’t even no hurricane, so you know I’m still pissed!”
-- From a text draft titled “Rando Cab Driver.”
This chap talked to me every minute from Greenpoint, Brooklyn, to 135th Street, Harlem. He repeatedly mentioned being alone in his bed, and then proceeded to talk about “them boosters—you know, dudes who steal your phone and then sell that shit to the bodega. Girls, running around out here by they self, getting raped,” at which point I attempted to unlock the door and roll out of the moving vehicle like I saw Mel Gibson do in Lethal Weapon. There is no need to mention the ‘R’ word on a balmy summer night to a woman you are transporting. Ever.
“Remember that time we took a left? It was so fun—no, no, cause we always make a right.”
--From a draft titled, “Domestication in Caucasia.”
This was said with complete sincerity by my married mom friend in New Hampshire. As we sat in their gorgeous kitchen, I acted like a foreign exchange student, asking them what they do for fun up in the country. As they recounted things I didn’t understand, Lizzy excitedly recalled the time they “took a left.” I collapsed into a fit of laughter and obviously didn’t want to let myself forget it.
“We went to this real romantic Chipotle.”
--This draft had no title. Clearly, I could not encapsulate the amazingingness of this sentence in three words or less. This man—who shall remain nameless—might be the greatest lover of all time. I really wanted to ask the location of this Chipotle, but I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him.
[Holding bottle of pesticide] “I told you, stop sprayin’ this stuff!! You don’t know what it’s doing to your body! If you decide to have a baby, you want it to be retarded or do you want it to be normal?! Go ahead, laugh—but it won’t be funny when you’re taking care of a child with special needs on a stand-up salary.”
--My mom, to me, yesterday morning. And she wonders where I get my penchant for hyperbole and drama. Apparently, my pathological fear of bedbugs will land me on a Discovery Health documentary.
You know how much I love to share random inappropriate conversations I have with strangers in this mixed-up crazy city. Many times, while trapped in a moving vehicle—be it taxi, subway car, or crosstown bus—my chauffeur says tons of crazy things that I must play along with lest I end up the inspiration for an episode of Law & Order: SVU In these instances, I try to text the gems quickly to myself and save them as drafts for future bloggery. My phone just told me I had to delete some messages and I found a treasure trove of random snippets of crazy. I’d like to take you along with me now, as I journey down memory lane.
“I was in bed…by myself…listenin to them windows. This girl called me, asking me to come get her. It was, like, 11 o’clock, so I knew what she was tryna do. She was like, ‘you don’t wanna come get me?’ and I was like, ‘Girl, it’s a hurricane—I do wanna get you, but I don’t wanna die!’ So I stayed at home, by myself, just spread out on my bed, listenin’ to the rain—and it wasn’t even no hurricane, so you know I’m still pissed!”
-- From a text draft titled “Rando Cab Driver.”
This chap talked to me every minute from Greenpoint, Brooklyn, to 135th Street, Harlem. He repeatedly mentioned being alone in his bed, and then proceeded to talk about “them boosters—you know, dudes who steal your phone and then sell that shit to the bodega. Girls, running around out here by they self, getting raped,” at which point I attempted to unlock the door and roll out of the moving vehicle like I saw Mel Gibson do in Lethal Weapon. There is no need to mention the ‘R’ word on a balmy summer night to a woman you are transporting. Ever.
“Remember that time we took a left? It was so fun—no, no, cause we always make a right.”
--From a draft titled, “Domestication in Caucasia.”
This was said with complete sincerity by my married mom friend in New Hampshire. As we sat in their gorgeous kitchen, I acted like a foreign exchange student, asking them what they do for fun up in the country. As they recounted things I didn’t understand, Lizzy excitedly recalled the time they “took a left.” I collapsed into a fit of laughter and obviously didn’t want to let myself forget it.
“We went to this real romantic Chipotle.”
--This draft had no title. Clearly, I could not encapsulate the amazingingness of this sentence in three words or less. This man—who shall remain nameless—might be the greatest lover of all time. I really wanted to ask the location of this Chipotle, but I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him.
[Holding bottle of pesticide] “I told you, stop sprayin’ this stuff!! You don’t know what it’s doing to your body! If you decide to have a baby, you want it to be retarded or do you want it to be normal?! Go ahead, laugh—but it won’t be funny when you’re taking care of a child with special needs on a stand-up salary.”
--My mom, to me, yesterday morning. And she wonders where I get my penchant for hyperbole and drama. Apparently, my pathological fear of bedbugs will land me on a Discovery Health documentary.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Riding the Elevator in a Post-Racial America
Conversation on an Elevator
The time is 4 minutes ago. I'm on the elevator heading back up to my office after grabbing some organic fruits at Trader Joe's. It's me and a white-bearded Caucasian fellow who works on the 4th floor.
Me [on the phone with a friend]: All right, girl, I gotta get back up to the plantation. I'll see you Saturday. Bye! [I hang up.]
Man [smiling to himself, looking straight ahead. then, in a sing-song voice]: Pickin' some cotton, pickin some cotton'.
Me: Mmm-hmmm. Always toiling.
DING.
The elevator opens on 4.
Man: Have a good day.
He exits.
I have to find out what happens on the 4th floor.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Just Checkin' In
Hey gang!
Today’s been super busy. I had a show last night in the East Village and didn’t get home until after midnight. I didn’t eat dinner until 30 minutes after that, and, well, let’s just say that this morning I got to the plantation long after I was supposed to.
The show last night went well, although I was a bit rusty—hadn’t been on stage in a couple of weeks. I did, however, have a great time at the voiceover. My one line was:
I couldn’t find a hospital—forget about how I was going to get there.
I said this 50 times. I am not exaggerating.
Everyone was nice, but very brusque—they were just trying to get it done and move it on. The producer who booked me looked like the seamstress in The Incredibles, but was really nice.
I got there 10 minutes early, thinking that would give me time to get settled in, check my face, etc, but they were waiting for me when I got out of the bathroom! I got the “script” and went right into the booth. A lovely woman named Paula sat in the booth with me, giving me “a person to play to.” She looked just like Gena Rowlands, and I felt like I could trust her.
As I said the line, emphasizing different words each time, Gena Rowlands mouthed direction, such as “Slllooooooooowwwww,” when I needed to not talk so fast; “Toss it!” when she wanted me to ‘let go’ of a word; and leaning in when I reached a word that need emphasis. It ended up only taking 15 minutes, and when I told her this was my first job, she said, “Oh, you’re great!!!”
Today I got a call from an artist who is kind of obsessed with me. I met him over a year ago, and ever since, he likes to randomly call up and try to get published in the magazine. But instead of just selling himself, he insists on trying to inflate my ego. The thing is, he does so by saying things that are vaguely insulting and overtly lascivious. A couple weeks ago, during our painting event, he stopped by the opening reception. I tried to avoid him, but he made a beeline for a blacktress.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, pulling me away from the safety of my fellow staff members before I could even respond.
“Did I do something to offend you?” he asks. “Because you seem angry with me.”
“What?” I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Um, are we sharing a bunk at summer camp? Why is he trippin’ like we have some bond?
“You always call me ‘sir’ and seem to be so formal,” he explained.
“No, [Carl,]” I said. “I enjoy calling people sir, and I tease you because your ego can handle it.” [The man insists being called by his full name in all correspondence—middle initial and all.]
“Oh, I see. Well, you’re good. You’re a funny one.”
He then proceeds to introduce me to every artist that passes by, whispering to them after we shake hands. Finally, I call him out. One artist explains, “Oh, he just said how beautiful you were.”
Um, HR violation!
When the other guy leaves, Carl proceeds to tell me about a “Stunning, brilliant black woman,” I should get to know. “She’s just like you,” he says, leaning in. “I love a smart and beautiful woman.”
[Note: Carl wears large round glasses and looks like a science teacher from the 1980s. He is a close talker and his breath often smells of red wine and patchouli.]
So, when he calls me up today, he begins with a discussion of how talented I am. “I recently saw Robin Williams on Broadway,” he says. “And he’s got 5 speeds. You, you’ve got 10. Whoopi’s got 20, but you’ll get there.”
This man has never seen me perform. I am not at all interesting at work functions. I certainly don’t think comparing me to either Robin Williams or Whoopi Goldberg is appropriate or even flattering, because it’s so far off and based on so little information.
He ended the conversation the way he always does--by telling me how “impressed” he and his wife are with me. I think this has something to do with being “well spoken.”
Today’s been super busy. I had a show last night in the East Village and didn’t get home until after midnight. I didn’t eat dinner until 30 minutes after that, and, well, let’s just say that this morning I got to the plantation long after I was supposed to.
The show last night went well, although I was a bit rusty—hadn’t been on stage in a couple of weeks. I did, however, have a great time at the voiceover. My one line was:
I couldn’t find a hospital—forget about how I was going to get there.
I said this 50 times. I am not exaggerating.
Everyone was nice, but very brusque—they were just trying to get it done and move it on. The producer who booked me looked like the seamstress in The Incredibles, but was really nice.
I got there 10 minutes early, thinking that would give me time to get settled in, check my face, etc, but they were waiting for me when I got out of the bathroom! I got the “script” and went right into the booth. A lovely woman named Paula sat in the booth with me, giving me “a person to play to.” She looked just like Gena Rowlands, and I felt like I could trust her.
As I said the line, emphasizing different words each time, Gena Rowlands mouthed direction, such as “Slllooooooooowwwww,” when I needed to not talk so fast; “Toss it!” when she wanted me to ‘let go’ of a word; and leaning in when I reached a word that need emphasis. It ended up only taking 15 minutes, and when I told her this was my first job, she said, “Oh, you’re great!!!”
I wanted to tell her that I loved her in The Notebook, but I didn’t think it was the right time.
Today I got a call from an artist who is kind of obsessed with me. I met him over a year ago, and ever since, he likes to randomly call up and try to get published in the magazine. But instead of just selling himself, he insists on trying to inflate my ego. The thing is, he does so by saying things that are vaguely insulting and overtly lascivious. A couple weeks ago, during our painting event, he stopped by the opening reception. I tried to avoid him, but he made a beeline for a blacktress.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said, pulling me away from the safety of my fellow staff members before I could even respond.
“Did I do something to offend you?” he asks. “Because you seem angry with me.”
“What?” I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Um, are we sharing a bunk at summer camp? Why is he trippin’ like we have some bond?
“You always call me ‘sir’ and seem to be so formal,” he explained.
“No, [Carl,]” I said. “I enjoy calling people sir, and I tease you because your ego can handle it.” [The man insists being called by his full name in all correspondence—middle initial and all.]
“Oh, I see. Well, you’re good. You’re a funny one.”
He then proceeds to introduce me to every artist that passes by, whispering to them after we shake hands. Finally, I call him out. One artist explains, “Oh, he just said how beautiful you were.”
Um, HR violation!
When the other guy leaves, Carl proceeds to tell me about a “Stunning, brilliant black woman,” I should get to know. “She’s just like you,” he says, leaning in. “I love a smart and beautiful woman.”
[Note: Carl wears large round glasses and looks like a science teacher from the 1980s. He is a close talker and his breath often smells of red wine and patchouli.]
Oh, and did I mention that he also told me he has “an honorary brother card”? Of course, I demanded he take out his wallet and show it to me. All he could scrounge up was his discount card to an art-supply store.
So, when he calls me up today, he begins with a discussion of how talented I am. “I recently saw Robin Williams on Broadway,” he says. “And he’s got 5 speeds. You, you’ve got 10. Whoopi’s got 20, but you’ll get there.”
This man has never seen me perform. I am not at all interesting at work functions. I certainly don’t think comparing me to either Robin Williams or Whoopi Goldberg is appropriate or even flattering, because it’s so far off and based on so little information.
He ended the conversation the way he always does--by telling me how “impressed” he and his wife are with me. I think this has something to do with being “well spoken.”
Friday, May 6, 2011
Good Morning, Starshine!
Happy Friday, y'all!
The time is 11:44am.
I have been awake since 5:15.
Since then, I have ---
****Wait, this just in. I must share a phone conversation I just had with the organizer of the watermedia thing I'm going to next weekend.
Guy: So, either myself or one of our volunteers will pick you up from the airport. How will I know what you look like?
Me: I'm black--which should make me pretty easy to spot.
[silence]
Me: I'm 27, which also stands out among the watermedia crowd--no AARP card for me! [he laughs] And I guess I'm tall--5'8"
[He repeats it as though he's writing it down.]
Guy: Ok, great. Unfortunately, there's no nearby hotel, so we'll be transporting you everywhere.
Me: Can you guys just get me one of those Jazzy Power Wheelchairs and I'll just zip myself around?
Guy: [laughs for two seconds, then] No.
Me: Okay, whatever's best for you guys.
******
Why does Caucasia get so freaked out when I tell them I'm black and ask for a motorized wheelchair? I swear, if we can't laugh about this whole thing, what do we have left? I really hope these folks can handle Sojourner's truths.
Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, been up since 5:15am.
Since then I've worked at a benefit breakfast for a religious-leadership organization that honored women who'd worked to bring positive change to the world. I checked in guests, asked people for tax-deductible donations, and generally tried not to fall asleep. It's not that I wasn't heartwarmed, but y'all, the last time I saw 5:15am, I was walking from a dorm room holding up my broken bra strap! Times have changed. I needed to go to bed.
I also reconnected with an artist-friend of mine, was asked to audition for a comedy festival, purchased really cute sale items from Urban Outfitters, and had some delicious organic egg whites.
Is this what being a parent feels like? By the time 10:15am rolled around, I walked into the office smug as all get-out (even though I couldn't manage to avoid entering Urban Outfitters and making a purchase when I was already 30 minutes late). As far as I'm concerned, the day is done.
The time is 11:44am.
I have been awake since 5:15.
Since then, I have ---
****Wait, this just in. I must share a phone conversation I just had with the organizer of the watermedia thing I'm going to next weekend.
Guy: So, either myself or one of our volunteers will pick you up from the airport. How will I know what you look like?
Me: I'm black--which should make me pretty easy to spot.
[silence]
Me: I'm 27, which also stands out among the watermedia crowd--no AARP card for me! [he laughs] And I guess I'm tall--5'8"
[He repeats it as though he's writing it down.]
Guy: Ok, great. Unfortunately, there's no nearby hotel, so we'll be transporting you everywhere.
Me: Can you guys just get me one of those Jazzy Power Wheelchairs and I'll just zip myself around?
Guy: [laughs for two seconds, then] No.
Me: Okay, whatever's best for you guys.
******
Why does Caucasia get so freaked out when I tell them I'm black and ask for a motorized wheelchair? I swear, if we can't laugh about this whole thing, what do we have left? I really hope these folks can handle Sojourner's truths.
Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, been up since 5:15am.
Since then I've worked at a benefit breakfast for a religious-leadership organization that honored women who'd worked to bring positive change to the world. I checked in guests, asked people for tax-deductible donations, and generally tried not to fall asleep. It's not that I wasn't heartwarmed, but y'all, the last time I saw 5:15am, I was walking from a dorm room holding up my broken bra strap! Times have changed. I needed to go to bed.
I also reconnected with an artist-friend of mine, was asked to audition for a comedy festival, purchased really cute sale items from Urban Outfitters, and had some delicious organic egg whites.
Is this what being a parent feels like? By the time 10:15am rolled around, I walked into the office smug as all get-out (even though I couldn't manage to avoid entering Urban Outfitters and making a purchase when I was already 30 minutes late). As far as I'm concerned, the day is done.
What are you guys up to this weekend?
Thursday, March 25, 2010
My Mom is Apparently Gangsta
Hey gang,
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Sorry I’ve been MIA – I spent much of last week in Austin, Texas, enjoying the musical stylings and breakfast burritos of the South by Southwest Music Festival (SXSW). While that’s ripe for bloggery, I’m just getting back to the plantation and should keep my blatant procrastination to a minimum (details on Texan hipsters to come). However, I must share with you the conversation I had with madukes this morning:
It’s 8:15am. As I eat my oatmeal, I’m flipping through the channels. A music video comes on, and it’s featuring Ludacris. I mute it, because it’s too early for loudness. Just then, my mother emerges from her office…
Mom: That’s Ludacris? Turn it up.
Me: What?
Mom: I love Ludacris.
[I oblige. After all, she birthed me and lets me live rent free. I am shocked to find that she is staring at the tv screen.]
Me: It’s just featuring him, though.
Mom: He’s so good. Do you remember when he came on the rap scene. He had that big afro, and he was doing something different. Plus, he’s a good actor.
Me: What?
[mother does not respond, as she is entranced by Luda. We proceed to watch the video. The lead singer is some dude named “Taio,” and he basically sounds like an Akon wannabe. Ludacris proceeds to do his mid-song rap. It’s not particularly good, which does not surprise me.]
Mom: No, this is beneath Ludacris.
Me: What?
[I am still so baffled and confused by this. My mother is an attorney. She owns a Michael Buble CD. She loves Sarah Vaughn. I know a person can have layers, but damn.]
Mom: I thought he disappeared. He just left the rap game.
Me: I guess he’s got his money from his acting now.
[I don’t know how to keep up this conversation]
Mom: He was in Guy Ritchie’s “Rocknrolla.”
Me: I know, mom. You made me watch it.
Mom: It’s just like Ja Rule.
Me: What?
[WHO IS SHE??? HOW COULD THIS WOMAN HAVE BIRTHED ME???]
Mom: He just fell off, too.
Me: Okay.
The video is over. I finish my oatmeal and get ready to leave. As I head out the door, I tell her to have a nice day.
I don’t even know who she is anymore.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Moral Support.
I was talking to my crush last night on the phone, for the first time in 2 weeks-- as my loyal readers will recall, he'd been in Brazil for work. After a bit of phone tag, we finally worked it out.
Until my awkwardness kicked in.
Let me set the scene:
Blacktress and Crush are on the phone. Blacktress is outside a restaurant on Rivington street, before a stand up show. She has to be breezy and brief.
Blacktress: So, how was your trip?
Crush: Good, I did well with clients. It was good all around.
[there is loud barking in the background. His dog hates the blacktress.]
Blacktress: Why is she freaking out? Does she know I'm on the phone?
Crush: No, it's not my dog, I'm at the dog park so there are alot of them.
Blacktress: Oh, ok.
Crush: So, what is this whole, "becoming a gay icon" thing you were talking about on gchat?
Blacktress: Oh, I did a show for the gays, and they loved it. I got a bunch of invites to perform at other venues, and I was called "a magical creature."
Crush [in a high-pitched voice, as though speaking to a child]: Good girl!
Blacktress (laughing): Thanks!
Crush: What?
Blacktress: Thanks for your support.
Crush: Oh. I was talking to my dog.
Of course he was.
Um, we have a date Saturday night. I'm gonna need you to wish me luck.
Until my awkwardness kicked in.
Let me set the scene:
Blacktress and Crush are on the phone. Blacktress is outside a restaurant on Rivington street, before a stand up show. She has to be breezy and brief.
Blacktress: So, how was your trip?
Crush: Good, I did well with clients. It was good all around.
[there is loud barking in the background. His dog hates the blacktress.]
Blacktress: Why is she freaking out? Does she know I'm on the phone?
Crush: No, it's not my dog, I'm at the dog park so there are alot of them.
Blacktress: Oh, ok.
Crush: So, what is this whole, "becoming a gay icon" thing you were talking about on gchat?
Blacktress: Oh, I did a show for the gays, and they loved it. I got a bunch of invites to perform at other venues, and I was called "a magical creature."
Crush [in a high-pitched voice, as though speaking to a child]: Good girl!
Blacktress (laughing): Thanks!
Crush: What?
Blacktress: Thanks for your support.
Crush: Oh. I was talking to my dog.
Of course he was.
Um, we have a date Saturday night. I'm gonna need you to wish me luck.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Awkward Moments
I thought structuring this as a film would really put you in the moment. I think it's also fitting because it's basically a deleted scene from 'He's Just Not That Into You.'
Interior, Bedroom. Night. Blacktress enters with a gentleman caller. She quickly removes items from her bed without turning on the light. Gentleman and Blacktress proceed to....um....physically express their emotions. Later, she turns on the light.
Close up on HER THIGHMASTER, which has been tossed onto the floor.
Gentleman Caller: Is that the Suzanne Sommers exercise thing?
Blacktress (trying to hide her embarrassment): Um, yes. Yes it is.
Gentleman Caller: Oh, that's cool. That means you work for your body. You probably appreciate my compliments then.
Thank you, Suzanne, for helping me create awkward moments.
Interior, Bedroom. Night. Blacktress enters with a gentleman caller. She quickly removes items from her bed without turning on the light. Gentleman and Blacktress proceed to....um....physically express their emotions. Later, she turns on the light.
Close up on HER THIGHMASTER, which has been tossed onto the floor.
Gentleman Caller: Is that the Suzanne Sommers exercise thing?
Blacktress (trying to hide her embarrassment): Um, yes. Yes it is.
Gentleman Caller: Oh, that's cool. That means you work for your body. You probably appreciate my compliments then.
Thank you, Suzanne, for helping me create awkward moments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)