The Importance of Being Ernest

There are so many things to adore about this video, but I'll let you decide for yourself: I had no idea who Lana Del Rey was until I saw this video (and was prompted to look up several clips). I think that is a sign of a powerful YouTube clip--it inspired me to ACT. It also reminded me that we could all use an Ernest in our lives.

All the Randomness That's Fit to Print!

Can you believe it’s only Wednesday? I’ve been one day ahead all week and it’s just—to take a phrase from an 80s movie—bumming me out. I haven’t slept more than 4 hours a night in the last week, so I don’t really have a through-line. Here are some thangs I been thinkin’ ‘bout. Feel free to take what works and leave the rest:

• “What? I don’t know. I don’t…care. I’m doing something else right now.” ~ Me, to my coworker.

This happened before 12pm today, guys. I’m so worn down that I can’t even fake it til I make it (off the plantation)! He was showing me some event invitation that’s not going to take place until February 6—why would I be thinkin’ about a work function on February 6 when I can’t even figure out how I’m gonna do my 8-minute set tonight? Bitch, please!

• I read in a ¼-page “article” in US Weekly that Janet Hubert—aka Fresh Prince of Bel Air’s Aunt Viv verison 1.0—is angrier than Regina George when she found out those chocolate bars weren't for weight loss.

Janet recently told TMZ, “There will never be a reunion… as I will never do anything with an asshole like Will Smith. … He is still an egomaniac and has not grown up. This constant reunion thing with never ever happen in my lifetime unless there is an apology, which he doesn’t know the word.”

Y’all, I know where Aunt Viv is coming from. I mean, not personally—I’m sure Will Smith is a peach—but blacktress definitely knows how to hold on to some old ish. I mean, take for instance today’s random run-in at Cosi: I saw a high school classmate standing in line as I was paying. It was kinda cray because she was someone I haven't seen since 2001 and I had just been thinking about her two days ago. (You know, the whole “Why hasn’t Facebook suggested we be friends?” thing) I got excited and wanted to go say hello, but stopped myself. She looked exactly the same--except with diamond earrings, a long, grown-up-lady coat with a fur-lined collar, a pedicure and sensible slacks. I, on the other hand, had dried snot on my nose and had only stopped crying 10 minutes earlier. Although Lord knows it wouldn’t have been much of a difference from high school, I couldn't introduce myself like that. After all, I have to prove to these high school folks that I'm not a loser!

Like Janet Hubert, the resentment I feel from 15 years ago still influences me today. But unlike Janet Hubert, I will not spend my 40s and 50s living in anger. I mean, look what Janet could do when she put her mind to it:


Talk about young, gifted, and black!

• In other news: Move over, Vajazzling—Vattooing is coming for ya!

Yes, this is a real thing.

As you all know, Vajazzling is one of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s favorite things. Apparently, women with low self-esteem and disposable income have taken it a step further. One hard-hitting online journalist went inside the world of vag tats and shared her findings, which I will now share with you.

“After the entire mons pubis and labia have been stripped of any signs of womanhood, you can specify the design of your choice. Nicole, shown above, opted for a cutesy heart pattern. The technician carefully created a detailed pattern, and then instructed Nicole to pick the non-toxic colors of her choice. Her vatoo took about 10 minutes to apply with three colors: purple, coral, and teal. …

This isn’t some junky temporary tattoo that you can buy anywhere- it’s applied by hand, customizable, non-toxic, and doesn’t have any of that weird filmy stuff that you get from a cheap temporary tattoo. You won’t get that weird cracked look as time goes on, either. The paint will gradually fade away over the course of 7-10 days (even with showering), and if you decide you need it off sooner you can always swab the area with rubbing alcohol to remove it."

Thank god for rubbing alcohol. And real alcohol. Am I right, ladieeezzzzz?!!
(My only question: when can we start calling them twattoos?)

Conversations I've Had This Week

Location: Office. Massa shows us pictures from his recent trip to a painting workshop that took place in a rich woman's mansion. As he goes through the slideshow, he stops on a student's canvas--he's painting a portrait of a black man.

Me: Who’s that black person?
Massa: What? Who? That’s Stevie—he works there.
[I give a look—you know, the sassy-over-the-glasses look. Massa looks up from his photos and notices.]
Massa: Oh, stop it—he’s like one of the family! He’s worked there since he was five!
Me: Five year olds don’t work!!!

****

Location: Duane Reade drugstore. I’m picking up a present for the “Yankee Swap” during today’s holiday lunch (more on that later). I walk up to the cashier with this item:

The woman in the line next to me--a short, older black woman purchasing a few packs of Kools--starts chatting:

Random: Aw, that’s so cute. I want that.
[I have no idea what to say, so I just laugh lightly, assuming it was a joke.]
Random: Is that a present?
Me: It’s for a coworker.
Random: That is so sweet. I want that. [She reads the box] Baby Bella. She so cute. I want her to sleep with me. I’d kick my husband out the bed, and it’d be me and Baby Bella.

Why are people so cray?

Okay, back to this Yankee swap thing. I'm really annoyed by it. All I know about Yankee swap is what I saw on that episode of The Office, when people's awesome presents kept getting traded and everyone was mad. I'm not clear on why I would spend money on something that someone might not even want. What kind of sense does that make? This seems to be a classic case of WPS--Wealthy People Shit. I don't really like to go around claiming WPS--not like my coworkers are rolling in dough. But only someone without an understanding of the economic climate and an employee's need to fund dreams would suggest I "spend $20 on a little something. the stupider the better, cause then everyone can try to get rid of it."

Why would I want to act like an absentee Dad?

I think Scribe put it best--and makes the Gchat Quote of the Day--when she writes:

Yankee swap is white elephant and should only be played among friends. It's straight colonialism. You're like, "Ooh you got a cool gift; let me take it because I can.

I played that on the plantation and this Jewish girl took my book on black art. Everyone said, 'She's Jewish, she had to get rid of the ornaments she got.' Um, I'm a heathen--what am I gonna do with ornaments? And she sat there in her Obama shirt, so happy with her book on black art.

TRUTH.

So Baby Bella it is. She was $6.99 and can easily be re-gifted to a kindergartener.

Ain't She a Woman?! / I am the 34.3 percent.

Hey y'all!

Jewboo showed me this video yesterday and I just had to share. This little girl is my (S)hero of the Week. In addition to her hard-hitting questions to financial district massas, I'm loving her Just for Me perm and CIA-agent-style trench. Her ability to stand up to the major power players in Caucasia is inspiring. Give it a look-see. What do you think?


In other news:
[Jewboo, stop reading!]

I found out today that I'm 34.3% body fat.
Ew.

I had a nutrition consultation this morning, which involved testing my resting metabolic rate. To prep for this test, buff trainer Curtis had to take my vitals. Although my weight has slightly decreased (thanks, Weight Watchers!), apparently my body fat percentage qualifies me for The Biggest Loser.

As I sat down, contemplating my inner obesity (I think my blood type is cookies 'n' cream), I flipped through a magazine. Steve, the other trainer, came in and started chatting with Curtis. Surrounded by all the gym equipment with two attractive men talking as though I wasn't there, I started to have a flashback to 11th grade phys ed.
"Should I go in the waiting room while you set up?" I asked.
"If you want to," said Curtis, "but it doesn't really matter."
"Well, I don't want to interrupt y'all, bro'in out and all."
"You can bro out with us if you want," said Steve.
"No, I can't. I have 34.3% body fat."

Clearly, I'm typing this post while doing squats.

What makes the RMR test even more depressing is that, in order to accurately assess your target, you have to breathe through a tube for 10 minutes (that's not the problem). The demoralization comes when they attach a Hannibal Lecter-like piece of headgear to make sure that no air escapes the tube. Your nasal cavity is effectively closed off, and any attempt at a decent hair day is ruined. As I sat there, wondering how one could even go about making a suit of someone else's skin, I realized that it's probably time to stop eating my feelings. But I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with friends now that I don't "grab a drink" after work. I guess we can just.... drink herbal tea? Guh.

Target body fat percentage is 18-24%.
I asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind contacting some of my favorite bakeries to let them know I'm no longer welcome. If he doesn't, I can't promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain.

How are you?!

Frightday!

Pop Quiz:
Which of the following things happened to a blacktress this week?
a. The intern hid the tin of Kit Kats from me yesterday afternoon because--and I fuckin' quote--“You were doing so well, eating an apple and all. I didn’t want to tempt you and you’d already had enough.”
b. I missed not one but TWO chances to showcase my skills to the NBC network’s head of talent diversity.
c. I received a phone call from someone telling me that, “Wednesday’s a big day. I’m coming out of the closet to the community… as a singer-songwriter.”
d. I discovered that the Duane Reade pharmacy cashier knows me by face. Clearly, I’m getting too many meds.
e. All of the above.


I’ve been feeling very un-gifted and black lately. Last night was particularly rough, as I performed in a Gaysian’s hilarious sketch version of “A Raisin in the Sun” as part of an NBC showcase. Of course, it's always fun to perform, but here I was as the best, brightest, and brownest in the comedy community were showcased, and I was serving as mere blackup in an Asian man’s production. Of course, he ended up winning the showcase, cause he’s hilar, but I had the biggest—or smallest?—pity party for myself last night. It involved cereal, staring at ice cream in the freezer, and watching 30 Rock. I had flashb(l)acks to middle school, as I realized how much I was out of the black kid loop yet again. I hadn't even known about the auditions, let alone the showcase, until the Gaysian asked me to reprise my role as the Ruth to his Walter Lee.

It was fun and all, but I couldn't help but feel like this precious baby animal (h/t Michael, the man who brought us Big Freedia):

This delicate, half-blind red seal has been shunned from his colony because of his color.
Look at him, standing on the rocky shore as his black brethren mix and mingle in the distance. I'm gonna send him a copy of this book:




I mean, look at these eyes. How can you not want to be his friend?

Hey guys! What's up?!

Oh, you like fish? I like it, too. Hahahhaa.

We have so much in common.

Can I come to the ocean depths with you?

Let's be friends?

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.

Brokeback Blacktress!

Emphasis on the BACK!

I swear, I'm not trying to be the blacktress who cried wolf. All weekend, I've just been struggling. I just can't fight the urge to blog. I think I finally get Jack Twist's struggle, as I, too, wish I knew how to quit you!
And by 'you,' I mean 'internet-fueled narcissism.'

I just can't not tell my truths. I feel like the little boy at the end of Shane.



Only, instead of screaming "Shane, come back!" I'm yelling, "Blog!!!!!"


After an empowering talk with my therapist, I realized that silencing my voice isn't the answer. Although there was a fallout from the last post (and, surprisingly enough, it had nothing to do with my mom's words), most of the folks who can handle my truth got where I was coming from. I can't let misinterpretations freak me out. BUT....

I can't just call myself "You Can't Handle the Truth" and then get all butt-hurt when people can't, in fact, handle the truth. I've gotta own it. So, with that, I will keep my emotions reigned in and try not to bring up anything hurtful to people I care about. I was advised to start a separate, password-protected blog where I can pour out my feelings, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to do--I'm not some 14-year-old in 1995 with a LiveJournal. There will be no emo poetry here. There will, on occassion, be a touch of emotion, but my tone will be much clearer in the future-- let's see if it's not too boring.

Don't give up on me, gentle readers! I promise I'll keep bringing the fun and fresh, and I urge all those with an issue to leave a comment so that I can clarify things before relationships get ruined! It's the only way to keep love alive!

Okay, back to pretending to work. I'll have a real post soon--after all, Amy Winehouse would have wanted it that way.

Family Matters

Happy Friday, y'all!

So, I'm taking this summer Friday and heading off to PA, to visit Jewboo's parents. I could barely sleep last night, which is nothing new given my anxiety levels. But I realized, as I jumped up and got everything done this morning, that maybe I wasn't anxious as much as excited. I love visiting the 'rents; middle-aged Jews hold a special place in my heart (probably all those years of private school), and Jewboo's parents think I'm the next best thing since sliced challah. Nothing makes me feel like a vital contributor to the human race quite like Papa Jewboo telling me I'm a "catch."
It's also really nice to get out of the city and get the scent of homeless-man urine out of my nostrils.

Today is almost a year to the day that I first met the parents. As some of you may recall, that was certainly a trial by fire, as I ended up in the ER within 12 hours of arriving. (Learn from my mistake, ladies: Always use the vaginal suppository.) Although I was mortified for days, the upside of that hot mess was that the standards for a "good visit" are pretty low--as long as I don't end up hospitalized or lose the ability to breathe, we'll all have a gay ol' time!

Have I mentioned that Jewboo's mom makes me nervous? She's not mean or anything, she's just kinda quiet and doesn't really have patience for bullshit. Yes, okay, she's a strong black woman in a white candy coating, and for that I love her--but I also feel this need to "crack" her. With robotic, straight-faced, non-emotive folks, there's always a part of me that wants to be the one to make them laugh. I want to get a serious guffaw. I want to get a thigh slap and a gasp for air outta this woman! But of course, as with any relationship, too much wanting makes for creepiness and awkwardness.

I'm trying to play it cool and just chillax. I'll let you know how it goes, though. Wish me luck!

xoxo,
blacktress!!

Show of Shows

Hey internet friends!

As you know, I spent the weekend celebrating my new lease on life, and already had two stand-up shows booked for the weekend. I’m gonna skip the first and go right into the Saturday night show because I only did it so that I could share it with you via blod.

Remember that awesomely random burlesque show I did a couple months back? Well, the blacktress was so well received that I was asked to do the next one. As you know, that show was out of control on many levels. Knowing what I was in for this time around, I replied with a resounding YES—simply for the blog fodder it would provide. As you also know, child (WH)actor Haley Joel Osment is a huge influence on me, and like him, my primary goal is always to pay it forward.

Saturday’s show wasn’t exactly like the first one. First of all, instead of taking place in Lydia's apartment, it took place in a yoga studio (step up #1?). The rope-bondage guy was working the sangria table, and there were 10 folding chairs, a futon (covered in green satin fabric, no less), and faux-ethnic Pier 1 Imports pillows for sitting.

Nope, no need to adjust your specs; you read it right—15-25 people paid $12 in advance, $15 at the door to watch a 'burlesque' show in a yoga studio. I showed up just 10 minutes before the advertised start time, knowing what awkward sitting around I’d have to do, and I was still 40 minutes early.

That’s right, folks—show started damn near 35 minutes late.

I feel like I can't do the insanity of the evening any justice. This time, knowing I'd need someone to corroborate my story, I invited my friend Dana to come with me (don't worry, I'm not the worst friend--I got her in for free). I told her it would be cray, but I don't think she was prepared, and unfortunately I had to "stay backstage" (ie: in the smaller studio adjacent to the "show area") for much of it, leaving her to watch and fend for herself. Below is her retelling of the summer-themed burlesque show--it captures every moment with the innocence, honesty, and freshness of a child.

[To give you a bit of background (and because I wish you could hear her tentative, sweet voice as she tries to stay positive): Dana is soft-spoken, new to New York City, and a musician--dance and comedy isn't exactly her wheelhouse.]

"I was actually really excited, because I'd never really seen burlesque. But then, it was really odd.....wait, what was the first act?

Oh, yeah, that girl singing 'Summertime' in her piercing soprano voice. That was so strange, because I thought she was going to do a dance at first ... because nothing was happening and she was just standing there waiting for the iTunes instrumental track.

[I interject, reminding her of the summer theme, and suggesting it as the reason behind the musical number.]

"Oh, it was supposed to be all about summer? I guess it makes more sense now. .... I don't even know how to describe it.

"You missed the hula part, which was really, really weird. It was the girl whose show it was, right? She was wearing a long ankle-length dress with a really busy pattern, which was weird for hula. she kept doing all of these weird crouching moves and it was ... long ... that song was just so long. I don't know, I can't describe it....

"There were so many issues. Like, how could you not lip sync properly? Granted, I've never tried to take my clothes off at the same time as lip syncing, but you invited all your friends over and made them pay to watch you lip sync and you can't get that part right? That's not right.


"And that one that got completely naked--the girl at the end--she got out of the geisha robe, then put on a vinyl dress, but she got herself so oily in between that she couldn't zip the second one up, so it was just even more awkward.

[I interject yet again--I thought the zipper broke?]
"No, I think she was oily.

"Then that girl who did the burlesque to that song from The Little Mermaid--it was funny cause she was trying to make it kinda raunchy. Like...i don't know. It was actually one of the better ones, though.

"The whole thing was incredibly uncomfortable, when the emcee--Starshine? Is that her real name?--when she came out. That was pretty bad. And I do this thing that I get from my mom--like, when I'm watching a live performance that makes me uncomfortable, I make an encouraging face, which isn't really encouraging as much as weird. And I just did that the whole time she was on.


"The guy next to me was talking to me--he was shy and awkward and weird, but nice--I think because he was by himself. He kept asking me who I knew, and I said I was friends with the comedian, and he thought that I meant Starshine and looked so offended. Then I corrected him and after your set, he was like, 'Oh, your friend's funny.'


"I don't know. It was kinda like a talent show you'd do with your friends in your parents' basement, but adult."


Nothing in the above synopsis is made up--doesn't Dana just seem shaken by the whole thing, still reeling when prompted to discuss two days later? All of the aforementioned performance pieces took place. The only consolation was that this time, show producer Lydia only did two numbers--the hula and a cowboy-themed burlesque--leaving "the workers" to fend for themselves this month.

However, seeing a buck naked hairless woman's vagina was not what I signed up for, and it took the insanity into a different stratosphere. As this unnamed woman bent over coyly, exposing her birth canal, all I could do to keep calm was remind myself that after my set, this woman had told me I was "hilarious." She couldn't be totally mentally ill, as she clearly has good taste in comedy. But I just don't think I was supposed to see her cervix.

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!!!!

Signs Your Life Is A Mess

I normally don't do pithy, tumblr-esque posts, but I just received the following text message from my exterminator:

Besides i know if i was hungry and thirsty u would feed me i consider u guys my xtended family

The problems with this are manifold:

1. My exterminator has my personal cell phone number
2. I have HIS personal cell phone number
3. I have enough insect issues that I NEED his personal number
4. He has come so often that he feels as though WE ARE FAMILY.
5. He thinks he can count on me to provide basic sustenance in a time of need. I don't have the heart to tell him he's misinformed.

#fml
#nycbedbugepidemic
#inappropriate relationships

(A Vain Attempt at) Radio Silence

Hello Gentle Readers,

You may have noticed a lack of bloggery over the last week. This wasn't a hiatus as much as a crisis of faith (in blogging, that is). I'll admit that I've definitely brought new meaning to the acronym TMI with my posts, but with tags like "funny," "not funny," and "awkward," I assumed my goal of entertaining would get me off the hook (while at the same time allowing me to exorcise my demons). Alas, no. To top it off, I recently discovered that a Google search of my full name (my real one, obvs) will lead you to not only some wonderful (i.e. NSFW) youtube clips of me discussing Ps in Vs without Cs but also my blog! I, Sojourner, can’t handle my own truth!

This has led to me feel intensely self-conscious, and almost wondering if I should continue with the bloggery. Of course, this is the Internet and my posts aren’t under wraps, but they are also something for which someone actively has to search. If that’s the case, should I not write what I feel, or should people I have IRL relationships with not use my blog as a means of gaining access? Or maybe I should do me and they should do them, and just let the computer chips fall where they may? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Bottom line is: It’s called “Diary of a Mad Blacktress,” not “Diary of a Diplomatic Blacktress”--there should be little surprise if it gets darker than it would in person. I’m not saying people shouldn’t get angry when I express my truths, or that I'm a victim—we all know my feelings on HBCUs has inspired to all sorts of venomous comments—but if you choose to view this page, you must be prepared for my truth, my whole truth, and nothing but my truth! After all, my thoughts don’t make it law, and since when has a diary been filled with rainbows and kittens?
I mean, besides Justin Bieber’s.

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I do want to let you guys know that things have been a hot mess--and I swear, no humans will be emotionally harmed in the creation of this post.

On Friday I had a 7 ½-hour job interview with seven different interviewers, during which I was asked all types of math and logic problems. Considering I was applying for a position that would mostly entail some copyediting and light Excel-spreadsheet-creating, I was definitely ill equipped for such stumpers as “How can we go about determining the number of teachers in North America?” for which I had to divide 300,000,000 by 175,000 BY HAND.

I haven’t done long division by hand since before 9/11, y'all. The climate’s changed, and I can’t cope!

I left the interview feeling stupider than I’ve felt in a long time. Not like I’m a girl genius, but I’ve never been in a job interview where I’ve felt the failure taking place. I watched interviewers 6 and 7 try to keep straight faces as I botched very basic things (like, you know, saying that the population of North America was 65 million). I won’t go into anymore, since Big Brother’s likely watching, but let’s just say Friday night involved a lot of cupcakes.

Yesterday featured a 2 ½-hour doctor’s appointment in which it was determined that I am developing glaucoma. After waiting for ridiculous amounts of time and pressing my face against what I’m sure were less-than-sanitary chin rests, the doctor deemed me a “glaucoma suspect”. Um, why did she have to make it sound sketchy? Was she profiling me? Did I commit an ocular crime against myself?
I’m sorry if I sound like “conspiracy brother,” but ever since I saw the new Uncle Ben’s rice commercial, I’ve been on the alert for other attempts at eradicating the brown.


The goodness of brown, now in WHITE???? Why can’t the rice just be brown?! How many folks are looking at their plates going, “this rice tastes good, but it’s brown coloring just makes me sick.” I can’t handle this RICism!

After all the test, my vision returned to normal this morning—just in time for me to check my e-mail and read that I was rejected from the Women in Comedy Festival. Apparently, a show titled “The Blacktress Goes Inside Caucasia” isn’t appealing to the comedic women of Boston (I may have to call up Henry Louis Gates Jr. and see if he can get me and the ladies on a porch with some beers). I know rejection’s a part of the biz, but I’m just a squirrel trying to get a nut, y’all! And by “nut” I mean “seven minutes of stage time.” Is that so wrong?

Okay, I don’t want to leave you as depressed as I am, so here’s some potentially good news: I have a meeting with an agent on Thursday!

Unfortunately, it’s not one of the ones who came to my commercial class last week. I say it’s unfortunate because one of them was a hilarious nerdy gay man who referenced both Battlestar Galactica and Truth in Comedy, the improviser’s bible. If there’s anyone who should be representing a blacktress, it’s him.

I was put in touch with the woman I’m meeting on Thursday through one of the teachers of the class. After sending a thank-you e-mail to her, I followed up with:

Do you know if there are agents that specialize in/look primarily for comedians? I feel as though there's a lack of funny Af-Am females who aren't acting ghetto and aren't over 40, and there has to be an agent that wants to fill the void. In other words: I need to be playing Michelle Obama on SNL. Let me know your thoughts if you get a chance.

Best,
Blacktress

I was mostly being silly, but since she had complimented me several times on my sense of humor, I figured I could get her attention with some outlandish statements. She didn’t reply for a little while, so I started to get nervous (you know, just like I do after I tell a guy I have a crush on him). Just before I flipped out, I got an e-mail back from her titled “meet and greet,” addressed to be and some aol address. It only read:

C_____- meet Sojourner. She thinks she should play Michelle Obama on a miniseries.

Two minutes later I had an interview scheduled for 1pm!!!

Oh, and while I’m on an upswing, let me bring your attention to this wonderful video posted by the elite gay visionary Michael Martin. Re-post and spread widely!




*With a title espousing TRUTH, it's no wonder I love this book.

When Sinus Pressure Hits....I don't know what to do.

Guys, I'm feeling a bit low after last night's commercial class. I thought I'd be great, and was told the casting directors would "just eat you up; they'd love a blacktress on their roster." Instead, I was directed to "not be so stiff," and after three tries was directed to sit down with a "better. that's better."
Like my mom says, "better isn't good enough."
She also says, "I didn't work so hard for this to be your life," and then it gets awkward.

Anyhoozle, the class was just two hours, and there were 12 people--all white as the freshly driven snow, and even the boys were as thin as Justin Bieber's left thigh (they lacked Biebs' swoopy bangs, though). I went in with energy, but just couldn't shake the nerves and discomfort. We were on camera, but couldn't see our own face. Instead, two HUGE flat-screen tvs faced outward, giving all of the class access to every pore. "Dont' think about yourself here," one of the teachers said, voguing around her head to indicate a television screen. "We don't show you your tape because the point is to not think about how you look."

I just couldn't help it, though! I'm much more at home on a stage, with an audience I can't see because I'm blinded by bright lights--not a handful of folks that are looking at my face at 10x its normal size. I know that we were all there to learn, but there were some students who just "nailed it. great read." They had moved to NYC just for a moment like this, and knew how to bring the right amount of confidence and relief to a discussion about sinus pain and pressure. I will always be a type-A brown-noser (as evidenced by the immediate unearthing of a pen and notepad once we sat down), and blackting is what I love--I simply must be perfect!

I feel just like Bette Davis in Now, Voyager.

I know, I know--I need to stop worrying about what the gossip girls are doing and handle my own scandal. I just wish I hadn't had all that Upper East Side private schooling--I might have high self-esteem in situations like this. We're told not to practice, but I think I may have to have someone point a camera at me long enough that I cease to be nervous. We'll see what happens.

Unable to MoveOn.org

So I know I’ve been way behind on bloggery, and I have much to catch you up on, but I forgot to post a little tidbit from “Sad Girl” (remember her from that time I went to 8th grade prom?). She’s since graduated high school and is living on her own. Adult life hasn’t been so good to her. It seems, you can take Sad Girl out of high school, but you can’t take the….sadness out of the sad girl.


I don’t know if you guys know about this, but I’ve been going through a really hard time lately. Work is a total bitch, and my former drag queen of a boss (that’s not meant to be derogatory, that’s just a fact) keeps telling me that I’m “sick and suffering.” Yesterday, the online editor got pissed at me because I finally told her why I don’t like her (she doesn’t respect my dominance). And Halloween’s coming up, and I have no idea what to be (a slutty fireman? A slutty bunny? Muslim film star Delta Burqa?).

Not that I have anywhere to go anyway. No one invites me out anymore, and it sucks. I got Netflix a few months ago to help quell the ache, but even movies have gotten boring.

I check my email every 5 minutes, hoping for an Evite to som—

Oh my god, guess what?! I just got an email from a guy named Chuck S. It’s titled “Come to my party in New York on Saturday?”

I LIVE IN NEW YORK! Chuck knows that, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have invited me. I don’t know who he is off the top of my head, but I’m sure we met somewhere a year or so back, when I used to be social.

Ugh, thank god. I was freaking out over not having plans. Okay, now I’ll go to Ricky’s and get a costume. I wonder if anyone hot will be there. Maybe Chuck’s hot. Should I bring candy? Let me open the email and see the deets.

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?

Hi,

We're just 5 days from the election, and dozens of races could come down to just a handful of votes. We could end up with narrow Democratic wins in a ton of close races, or a Republican takeover of our government, and it all comes comes down to which side has more volunteers getting out the vote.

I'm not going to let right-wing Republicans take over Congress.

So I'm hosting an election call party on Saturday in New York. I'm inviting people over to make calls to sign up volunteers for our candidates.

I can't do it alone. So if you've got a couple hours to spare this weekend—or even if you don't!--please, please, please come to my party. It's up to all of us in the next 5 days.

Why doesn’t anyone ever invite me anywhere fun?

ColorED Commentary

Hey Gang,

Happy Hump Day!! I usually like to start off the work week with a blog, but there was nothing much to report--until today.

So, I just got back from my 11am Starbucks-procrastination run. I was gone for roughly 14 minutes. I come back to find some emails in my inbox in which our publisher (the magazine's overseer, if you will) suggests I emcee a presentation at our upcoming weekend-long painting event.

His exact description was "the painting smack-down on Friday."
Yes, a painting "smack-down."
(*Rolling my eyes so far I'm looking at my amygdala*)

This is why I like to keep personal and work life separate. After I was put on blast for being a comedian, my office thinks I'm the court jester. What they don't understand is that my humour is usually bitter, racial, sexual, and generally NSFW--even my television debut involved me cupping my own breasts!!

What's worse is that they have me teaming up with my office nemesis. I'm sure I've mentioned her. She's the newest employee who lost me the moment she wore leggings and cowboy boots on her first day of work, and goes further in the red every time she says "Have a good one!" and "bye-ya!" at the end of each day. Oh yeah, and in the morning she says "hiya!" It's like I'm talking to a hostess at Chili's. I just want to shake her and be like, "ARE YOU GOING TO OFFER ME SOUTHWESTERN EGG ROLLS FOR LUNCH??"

What's even better is that she, yet again, put my name in the running for something that I have no interest in doing. Looking back over the previous emails in the chain (that I hadn't been included in), she was first asked to emcee on her own. She writes:

"I think that’d be fun. Though I can’t promise nonstop laughs—that’s [Sojourner's] department!!"

Of course, this prompts the overseer to respond with:

"What if you and Sojourner did this together - treat it like a football game, with an analyst and a color commentator? The two of you would be fabulous!"

I think what he meant was colored commentator.

He even said in one of the previous emails, "Our emcee picture has gotten a bit middle-aged-white-guy heavy. Would you like to do the color commentary piece for the painting smack-down on Friday?"

If I had a nickel for every time things got too middle-aged-white-guy heavy, I'd have $45.30. Am I right, or am I right?

Of course, I can't say no. I'll be attending the entire weekend, and it's not like I have anything else to do at that time. I'm there on the company's dime, which means I'm also on the clock 24/7.
Of course, some of you may be thinking, "that's cool, Sojo! You can use your blackting skills at work!"
But guys, this isn't my forte. The California retiree crowd isn't exactly the blacktress' target audience. They want me to "use my skills," without actually being myself, which is pretty hard work if you ask me. What kind of jokes can I make about oil paint? I'm pretty sarcastic, and don't have the passion for art that my nemesis has--I could end up making fun of her out loud in front of hundreds of Caucasians! It could be the end of the blacktress as we know it!

I kind of want to just act really dumb, like Pepper Brooks in Dodgeball (one of my favorite films--yep, I said it.) This is the moment when Jason Bateman came back for me:



I love when he says "Ouchtown, population you, bro!!!"
There's got to be a way to bring that in to a painting "smack-down". Someone's gonna get cut with a bristle brush, I can feel it!

The Client List--Lifetime's Guide to Being a Woman

God bless Lifetime Television. They have heeded the call for access to female stories of tragedy and provided live streaming movies—including the latest, featuring my favorite gal, Jennifer Love Hewitt. I was unable to watch it last Monday, when it first aired, as my job required I go to Pennsylvania to attend an art workshop. Because my company is super cheap and my boss has no regard for anyone's safety or comfort, I stayed in the home of the lovers Jim--two gay retirees, one of whom was leading the workshop I was covering. They were quite nice--although I was a bit put off when they sent me to bed with a book written by Jim #2's sister-in-law, which told the story of "a slave girl and her relationship with a white woman."

Um, okay..... Why do I still work here?

Anyway, not only were 48 hours of my life taken away, but I missed The Client List!! Luckily, I was able to watch it online, and provide live bloggery. Enjoy!

00:00 We open with honky tonky music and scenes of the south. Jennifer Love Hewitt’s EXCELLENT southern drawl fills my ears.
LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #1, courtesy of Jennifer Love Hewitt: JLH to her young daughter, who doesn’t want braces: “no matter what you want to do, it’s better to be pretty. It does a girl no good to be ugly.”
Thanks for the pearls of wisdom!!

01:56 JLH’s mom is played by Cybill Shepherd—classy!!!
02:27 LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #3: JLH, to her mom, before she heads to the bank with her husband to ask for a loan.
“I read that the smell of pumpkin increases the blood flow to a man’s you-know-what, faster than anything.” – This is the key to beating the economic crisis, people!!
04:05 They’re in economic troubles!! She can’t do her physical therapy work, and his knee problem means he can’t do his construction!
JLH leans over the banker’s desk, to reveal her cleavage. Thanks for the close-up on the rack, LT-TV.
05:05 JLH to the loan officer: "What about the government bailing you out to bail us out??"
JLH is making a searing comment on the economic crisis!!!
06:09 JLH recounts the exact words and outfit of the banker on the day he promised their life would be okay. I’m assuming her freakish photographic memory will come in handy when she starts outing her rich sugar daddies.
06:53 LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #4: “Men are easy. 'I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m horny.'”

08:40 – JLH goes to Lareena, TX, to follow up on a massage therapist job!!
Two scary-looking women give her the job right away.
LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #5: Women with bright-red hair can’t be trusted.
10:40 – “Daddy, what’s a hoo-ha?” a young son asks. Everyone cracked up at that one!!!
11:06 – JLH goes to the back of the massage parlour to meet the other girls. There’s a girl who doesn’t look a day over 12, and suddenly JLH gets a bit suspicious (it’s all very “I know what you did last summer”). When asked if the other girls are trained massage therapists, she’s sent over to a “two-way room” to watch exactly what goes on. CUE POT-BELLIED MIDDLE-AGED DUDE getting a handy.
The close-up on JLH's troubled face is intense!!
13:25 – JLH is talking to the Jesus figurine on her dashboard, asking for advice as she drives home—scratch that—to the bar, to pick up her drunk husband!!!
LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #5 – Jesus is my homeboy!!
14:45 – JLH sounds SOOOOOOO SOUTHERN!!
She gives herself a pep talk: “you’re Samantha dale hornton. You’re the prettiest girl this town ever seen, and you get everything you want!!”
16:23 – It sucks being the golden girl and guy of the high school, unable to reach those football dreams!
JLH and her husband don’t even have money for gas to get home. She’s on the brink.
LIFETIME MOVIE LESSON #6:“this is America—a girl this pretty, she’s not supposed to be poor!! I know that sounds braggy and awful, but it’s true…. I am Sam Hornton….I do not let life get me down!!”
17:54 – That’s all it takes to call the massage parlour and get back on the payroll.

21:01 – JLH gets her stripper name. “We’re gonna call you Brandy, cause you look like you go down real smooth….”
We learn a bit more about the other girls at the parlour: “Jenny used to be a bounty hunter”— Um, what?! When asked how they can do this, they all say, in unison: "It beats the hell out of waitressing”
The freakishly young one, who looks like a slutty Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” tells her: “I ran away from home to try out for American Idol,” – AMERICAN IDOL TURNS PEOPLE INTO PROSTITUTES!!!!
23:47 – Jennifer Love Hewitt gives her first massage, and ends up giving romantic advice to her client. She then takes her phone to talk to her kid, who won the spelling bee. She is SO BAD AT BEING A PROSTITUTE!!!
25:30 – He gets ready to leave, and JLH gets naked.
25:54 – JLH talks to Jesus on the dashboard, explaining the money, and that she'll only do it for a little while. But Jesus is clearly judging, and she has to pull over to vomit.
26:57 – She goes to her friends bar for “girlfriend talk.” Since when does revealing you’re a prosti-mom count as “girlfriend talk”?
Of course, her friend is shocked, and JLH responds to her look with. “I was just hoping for some sympathy. I thought Pretty Woman was your favorite movie.” Luckily, her friend gets it. “When you work in a bar, you stop judging people.” Really? When I worked in a bar, I was Judge Judy!!

Two gals, just having a chat about one's foray into a prostitution ring. Girl Talk!!!

29:30 – JLH comes homes with presents for all. When hubby asks if they can afford it, he seems relatively satisfied with “We can now.” Um, I know he was playing football all through high school, but how dumb can you be?

[The next minute is a montage of JLH entering her massage room in various slutty outfits, then dropping money on the banker’s desk to pay for her house, then taking her daughter to the orthodontist, then getting bling from customers]

31:58 – LESSONS FROM LIFETIME #7, JLH to her gal pals over lunch: “I love having money. You know I’ve always dreamt of never having to look at pricetags.” MONEY IS THE KEY TO HAPPINESS—oh, and remember to always dream big!

33:04 – JLH and hubby in bed. He’s hurt because she’s the breadwinner and he’s not. She offers him a massage—after all, it’s how she’s making her money!
34:48 – JLH walks into her room and finds the husband of someone she knows. She kicks him out—she’s still classy!!
36:16 – It's Christmas. She gets her husband a brand new motorcycle. Um, ok, how is no one questioning the fact that a masseuse in East Texas is making enough money to buy motorcycles and fancy bling?
37:35 – Slutty Dorothy sees the pastor from her church in a private room!!! OH GOD, EVEN MEN OF THE CLOTH HAVE SEX!!! She runs outside, disgusted, and JLH encourages her to get out the business, and head home.
“I can’t go home, and Idol auditions aren’t for another 6 months.” Yep, that’s it, slutty Dorothy—stick it out til Idol
39:40 – Dorothy goes to the Christian Ministry across the way and speaks to the preacher at the door. “I think god wants me to tell you what’s going on at the massage parlour across the way.”
40:32 – Sam arrives at her son’s game and she’s late!! Oh, the guilt, as evidenced in the spinning close-up camera!! She talks about how she’s tired of being tired.
42:00 – 43:30: Two other girls watch JLH in her private room, to see “why she’s busy as popcorn” (What does that mean??). Well, turns out that awesome memory we saw in the opening scene helps her remember everything about her clients, which is why they love her. She basically gives them The Girlfriend Experience.
44:45 – One of her doctor-clients offers her up some coke, so she can stay awake. She declines, but of course, like every beguiling tempter in a film, the doctor leaves the baggie there—you know, just in case. And, like every woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown, JLH puts it in her bag—you know, so the story can continue to get worse.
45:36 – JLH is face-down on her bed, and her daughter wakes her up to tell her to get ready for the bakesale.
How late is she ‘tutin’? I’m not clear on the hours, but I guess giving jobs and acting like you like sex with strangers is tiring, even if she only does it for 9 hours a day.
After slapping herself repeatedly to wake up, and closing her eyes, she says aloud, “whew, I’m tired.” Thanks for the clarification, Lifetime writers!
47:14 – JLH looks at her bag—clearly, where the coke is. She stares it down before reaching for it.
47:32 – The whole family wakes up to the world’s most amazing castle-shaped cake.

THESE ARE THE THINGS YOU CAN DO ON COKE, PEOPLE!!! GET TO SNIFFIN'!! THE BAKESALES OF THE WORLD NEED YOU!

48:00 – JLH sniffs for the next 25 seconds. She’s doing coke, get it?
48:43 – 49:20 – JLH sits at home with the kids. She's short-tempered and tired. Addiction, here we come!!
49:55 – JLH walks into her doctor-client’s room, asking for coke all shaky-like. She tells him she’ll “make it worth his while” if he can get it quickly!!
LESSON FROM LIFETIME #8 - It only takes 50 minutes to become a crack-whore!

51:32 – JLH is in the doctor’s office with her daughter, and takes her to the bathroom so she can pee in the cup (the daughter, not JLH). When the daughter says she can't pee, JLH loses her mind like a Jerry Springer guest!!
51:57 –Bedtime with the hubby. He tires to initiate sex, and JLH says, “not tonight, I just can’t.”
There’s nothing that hurts a former football star more than being rebuffed in the bedroom!! This is the beginning of the end, y’all!
53:17 – JLH is meeting with a client, and the police burst in!!! AAAHHHH!!!! This IS the beginning of the end!!!
54:23 – Cut to the local bar, where the husband watches the game with friends. Apparently, you can interrupt a national football game for late-breaking news, such as busting the local prostitution ring. They see Sam being taken out of the spot in cuffs!!! Aw shit, she was just put on blast!!
55:59 – Her friend, Dee (you know, who loves Pretty Woman) leaves the bar. She’s in the car with JLH, who looks broken down. Like, even more broken down that in I STILL Know What You Did Last Summer. She gets out of Dee’s car, and goes inside. AAAH, I AM SO NERVOUS!!!

57:09 – She walks into a dark house. Her husband turns on the light from his armchair. You know he’s pissed if he’s been sitting in the dark, all creepy-like.
57:43 – Lessons from LIFETIME #9: JLH, to her husband. “Yell at me, swear at me, hit me—I don’t care.”
When you want to get your man back, offer him the chance for physical violence!!! It’s the way to save a marriage.
58:20 – He just breaks down and cries—then tells a story about putting their dog down at the vet. I think the dog is a metaphor for their relationship. Wait, no—it’s a sign of how he used to love her strength. Now, she’ll be forever remembered as a prosti-mom. (sidebar: JLH has excellent crying chops. )

1:00:00 – Cut to a video on the tv—the 1999 Miss Bixby Hills beauty pageant. JLH is watching her pageant video for a little bit of a pick-me-up. “I just wanted to revisit a time in my life when I felt like I was doing everything right.” Ugh, I know how that goes, Jennifer. Sometimes, when I’m feeling awfully low, I just pop in the 5th grade spelling bee and mouth along with some of my best spelling.
1:02:00 – JLH Is in her black friend’s office—she’s a lawyer! She’s looking at 2 years in jail! That is, unless…. “did you have any clients that were prominent members of the community?” She hems and haws until her friend mentions her kids. “We need good names, Sam—we need our Eliot Spitzers and Tiger Woods.” SO TOPICAL!!!
1:05 – JLH proceeds to write down names. Cut to the conference room, where the ‘tutes sit around the table, naming names. There are 69 names on the list! How appropriate!
1:07 – Cut to folks all over town, talking about who may or may not be on the list.
1:08 – LESSONS FROM LIFETIME #10 - ALWAYS MAKE YOUR CHILDREN FEEL CALM. JLH says to her children: “No matter what happens to me, I want you to know my life has been very full because I brought the 3 of you into this world.”
The kids go to the car, and Rex stands with his back to her. He’s got a lone, Navajo-style tear.

1:11 – Thank god there are only 17 minutes left of this.

1:12 – Cybil Shepherd is at the dinner table, and JLH walks in.
“Thank god your father’s dead!” she says.
LESSONS FROM LIFETIME #11 , Courtesy of Cybil Shepherd. “I think my problem is, I gave you too much self-esteem. You were so pretty and so bright, I thought you’d be Miss Texas, or go to Hollywood, or marry a rich man.” - When you’re attractive and somewhat intelligent, the world can be your oyster!!!
1:16 – Women are in the courtroom. JLH has got way too much cleavage out for a court date!! Look:
1:17 – The women get processed as we hear a preacher’s sermon, all about FORGIVENESS.
GET IT????
Seeing JLH behind bars effects me less than the Perdue commercials they keep showing between segments.
1:18 – 5 weeks later!
JLH, looking fresh as a daisy, walks into the kitchen. “It just too darn quiet in here, it’s not natural for a mother of three to be this quiet.”
It’s so boring not having kids or johns.
A car is heard outside. Fancy local women come to the door, and want to talk to her. Why on earth would she let them in her house?!
1:21 – The women want to know how she gets their husbands so excited!! They want tips!
JLH picks up a banana and an apple, and gets to work.

1:22 – Cut to JLH waitressing with the prostitute that used to be a bounty hunter! They celebrate JLH’s birthday with a cupcake--That they SPLIT WITH TWO FORKS
LESSONS FROM LIFETIME #12: No matter what you’re going through, you are NOT ALLOWED TO EAT A WHOLE CUPCAKE, FATTY!
1:25 – Cybil says that maybe she shouldn’t have put all her stock in her daughter’s looks!
1:27 – JLH and hubby Rex share a tender conversation, as we fade to black.
EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE OKAY!!!!

Whew, what a wild ride. I learned a lot from The Client List and I hope you did, too.
I'm gonna go read some Heidegger, to try and grow back the brain cells I just lost.
Happy Monday, gang!

Guess Who's Coming to Seder?

Hey gang. Sorry I’ve been off the grid. I’ve been kind of down in the dumps. I won’t go into it, because it’s best to erase, replace, embrace THIS SPACE (hmm…what do we think of that? I’m not sure, but I’ll leave it out there).

I haven’t slept more than 5 hours a night for the last week, but I’ve gotten myself into quite the tizzy. Tomorrow afternoon, I head to Reading, Pennsylvania with the Jewboo to meet his parents!!!


I feel like Dr. John Wade Prentice must have felt—only, you know, without the confidence that comes with being a doctor.

(How did you do it, Sidney???? Was it your crisp suit, your fancy degree, and your voice, that could lend gravitas to a grocery list?)

The blacktress will go deep inside Caucasia, hoping to make a good impression.

Only, um, I’m not sure how to do that. What do middle-aged white people like to talk about? What outfits say, “your son and I have never had pre-marital sex”? I was just running around midtown, looking for a fancy box of chocolates, and they have to nerve to charge $41 dollars for a 4” x 4” box containing 8 pieces!! What do I look like to these Rockerfeller Center fools?!

What’s a good gift that will look nice (not some, tiny, overpriced box) but not cause clutter? He said his parents “have enough trinkets and crap” (and I’m now imagining a house full of unicorn figurines), “so they don’t need anything.” Then again, this is coming from a man who’s never really taken me on a formal date, so I don’t know if I trust his judgment. Obvi, momma didn’t raise no fool, so I know I can’t show up to spend two nights at a stranger’s home and have no gift!! Besides, I need them to love me and think I’m awesome so that Jewboo decides to marry me.

Okay, okay, it’s only been 4 months, I know. I partially jest. But, like, why is he bringing me home already if he’s not for serious about a blacktress? Add to this the fact that he dropped the L-bomb first, and I feel like this could be a really important step. But he’s being sooo friggin cavalier about this, acting like it’s not a big deal for me to cross state lines and show up on mama’s doorstep, spending the holiday weekend trying to prove my worth. Clearly, I’ll be celebrating Codependence Day.

See, the trick to getting someone to marry you is to become so embedded in their life that it’s simply more convenient to have you around. You know, like the song goes—it’s cheaper to keep her. I’ve already provided food and orgasms for three months, so now it’s about winning over mom, dad, and sis, so that every time he calls them up, Mama goes, “How’s blacktress? She’s a great girl, son, don’t fuck it up!” I want us to get so close during our 48-hour visit that after I get back home, mom starts me links to articles she thinks I’ll find interesting, and asks if she can speak to me when her son calls.

Is this too much to ask for?

I’m thinking of showing up in crisp bridal whites—you know, something that says, “pure, virginal, and makes a great in-law.”

I am Sidney Poitier.
(as always, Photoshopping courtesy of JJSiii)

Seriously, guys, I alternate between excitement (getting out of New York! Getting to see pics of Jewboo when he was little! Thinking he may actually be so into me that he wants me to meet his parents!!) and nausea (What if they think I’m boring, and not as pretty as his previous girlfriends? What if they aren’t as down with the brown as they think they are? What if I wet the bed?!). I’m thinking of getting an assortment of Crumbs cupcakes in a fancy box. Nothing says, “love me” quite like mini cupcakes.

Marriage Material

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

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

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

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

I love "The Dice's" bedazzled vest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Wish I Was Above This Foolery....

but I'm not.

Hey friends!

I'm totes crushing on my new Jew boo. I feel like Ron Burgundy in Anchorman, after he and Veronica take a ride to "Pleasure Town." Like Ron, I, too, want to shout it from the rooftops, but I don't have a rooftop--I have Facebook (you know, the way Ron had a newsroom). Should I let the world know?

But what'll happen once he sees me cry for the first time and realizes I'm a hot ass mess? What a dramatic to-do when I have to change my status back to "single." Imagine all the awkward "likes" and "dislikes" I'll get. Imagine the comment feed--it'll be sad on so many levels.
Ugh. I wish I didn't have the emotional depth of a 13 year old.

Being boo'd up is cool and all, but it comes with it's own set of stresses. Now that I've found the fool, I gotta worry about keeping him--my legs aren't even used to being shaved this regularly.

Sometimes, when I wonder how the heck I got into this REALationship, I'm reminded of the perils of my single life. Take last night for instance.

I was IM'd by a random fella on FB chat (red flag #1 - who uses FB chat for serious?). He's a stand-up comedian I've met a few times over the last few months. The first time, he made quite the negative impression. It was at a party in BK, where me and my homegirl were dancing. This clown comes over to us and starts talking. He seemed normal enough, so we didn't shun him immediately. However, instead of plying us with questions, he proceeds to talk at us -- you know, the way male comedians are wont to do. After getting away from him, I bump into him on the lower level of the party as I'm heading to the bathroom. He comes over to me and after saying something so lame I can't remember it, he runs his clammy palm down my face.
He FACED me.
[not to be confused with the "face, face, face/I give face" that drag queen Bebe raps about in the song "CoverGirl (Put the Bass in Your Walk)"]
Who does that?! Who on earth clogs someone pores with their grubby, unwashed Bushwick hand???
As my friend Adam (you know, the one who went into the heart of Nubia) put it: "That's one of the creepiest things a dude could do without cause."

I ran into this weird toucher a few weeks ago after I hosted a show in Queens. He was sitting with someone I knew, and when the mutual friend introduced us, I reminded him of the "facing." He was not at all surprised or apologetic.

Then, on Easter Sunday, I had a show and he was also on the lineup. This joint appearance led to a facebook friend request from him later that day. Not one to turn down a networking opp, I accepted.

I am now paying for my friending haste.

Last night's chat started off innocently enough, although I was instantly on edge due to the fact that this guy is kind of a d-bag. I try to push him to get to the point, with a "to what do I owe the honor of this IM?" but I'm met with vagueness. Not one to be cocky, I try to see this as an olive branch of friendship--and I do love me some olives. However, I was promptly proved wrong, and reminded that, no matter how unattractive you may think you are, 9 times out of 10, a single dude who speaks to you has a desire to get into your pants. The convo veered in this direction:

Sketchy Stand-up Comedian: So, where you do live?
Me: Harlem
SS: Well there goes trying to charm you into a drink tonight :P"

Good lord. I give a weak "heh," then finally put it out there.

Me: Oh, you... unfortunately, I'm recently off the market.
SS: Just recently?

I say nothing and ask Adam how on earth I can ward off this person who I'll certainly run into at shows in the future. I try to turn the conversation into networking, and he mentions he's jobless.

SS-uC: "you can be my sugar momma if you want. i'll pleasure ya whenever and don't have to tell your bf or whatever this person might be haha"

W
T
F
?
!

See, if I was listed as "In a Relationship" on FB, I probably could have avoided this situation. Then again, Adam (he's my go-to for insights in the Caucasian male mind) reminded me that, "assholes aren't very easily detoured."

What do you think, gentle readers?--you're the boos I can count on to never leave me. Your opinion matters most.

xoxo,
LYLAS
-Blacktress

Sojo Goes Solo -- A Solo Show, That Is

So, as you all know, the Sojo has opinions. I’ve been inside Caucasia, got hos in different country codes, and love to share my business. This clearly means I need to have a one-blacktress show—first on LOGO, then on Bravo, then on EVERY CHANNEL POSSIBLE.

My first step on the path to world domination is taking a solo-show writing class, taught by a strong black woman in a white woman’s candy coating. I’ve heard great things about her, and although this brain of mine is teeming with ideas, I have no idea how to organize them, or what’s worth expanding upon.
And also I’m lazy and can’t motivate myself. (see any post regarding gchat, which often takes place at work).

So, I started this class on Saturday, and after hosting two shows the night before, was feeling excited to nurture the blacktress within. These feelings quickly disappeared when I walked into the classroom and found myself, yet again, in the heart of Caucasia.
And not just any Caucasia, but smiley, excited, creative types who, despite being able to tap into their emotions, seem to lack self-awareness.

The class was 11 girls and 1 guy, which actually could have been pleasant, given my last improv class experience, which consisted of 14 white boys and one blacktress (such a circle jerk!). But I walk in, and I suddenly felt like it was the first day of Dalton (NYC private school that blacktress attended in her youth. The school’s motto should have been, “Dalton: it’s where self-esteem goes to die.”) All the girls know each other from previous classes and shows, and are giggling and gabbing in their high-pitched tones, and everyone has taken a class with the teacher already—and is her BFF—except for myself. I swear, if there had been a stool in a corner, I would have sat in it.

To make matters worse, the first person I see when I walk in is this girl from my college who I could not stand. Although I’m open to her surprising me, I find her to be overly confident and she gets under my skin. Whatever, I need to let it go and let it flow, right?

So, I try to shake it off, take opposite action and engage in class, not make myself the last person to present as we go through exercises, and generally remind myself that I’m here to work on me, and I don’t need to be besties with anyone.

It’s not really working, though, and the last 30 minutes of the class are spent playing "questions," where one person gets in the circle and everyone else fires questions at them. This exercise is meant to get us closer, remove that awkward feeling, and foster a sense of comaraderie. Here are some highlights:
When asked her favorite book, one girl answers, "The one I wrote."
WHO DOES THAT?
Really? The one you wrote? She seems like a nice girl, but I’m sorry, that is a first-impression FAIL.
Another girl’s questions only consist of drug-related experiences. "When was the last time you were really fucked up?" she asked, or "What's the hardest drug you've ever done?" Of course, when placed in the center of the circle, she spent much of her time recounting the time she did 7 hits of liquid acid after several tequila shots.
I’m sorry, but like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon, I’m getting too old for this shit.

When asked, "When was the last time you stole something?" one girl, whose name I've blocked out, replies, "Oh, god, I stole some lipstick from CVS, some bracelets from H&M, and a sweater from Century 21--and I got caught for that one." This girl is 20-something, started class whining about crashing with her parents in Westchester while the person she's house-sitting for comes back to town for a week, and is a non-working actress. I don’t think she really needs to steal things. No one has oppressed her--why is she engaging in thievery?

These are basically long examples to explain that, as a blacktress working on a personal-story-driven solo show about time inside Caucasia, and my own conflicting feelings about race, class, and both of these things as modes of performance, these students may not be good for me.

So, this is a bit of a rant, but I had to get it out. Should I stay in the class? I think the teacher could be really great, very smart, and she’s kind of a bad-ass lesbian I’d want to hang out with on the weekends. But if I’m not comfortable and trusting of my fellow classmates, how can I really write and express myself freely? Ain’t I, Sojourner, a woman?! Don’t I deserve to be there? Don’t I need to hang up my hang-ups at the same time that I hang up my coat? I need to get it together, cause I am not being a strong black woman!

How are you today, gentle readers?