"UNEXPECTED FAILURE"

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

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

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

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

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

That's how love works, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

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

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

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

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

2012: Ghost Protocol

We did it, guys. We made it through another holiday season. No more cocktails with whole cranberries in them under the guise of “festive.” No more fancy dress parties that require I freeze my butt off. Of course, it always ends with the mother of all over-hyped parties: New Year’s Eve. I’m not tryin’ to front like I haven’t gone out and made a hot mess of myself in years past (see my 2009 mishap in Sydneytown). But my god, I am beyond over it. If we’re going to place great meaning on the end of the year, as we do with an NYE “bash” (the only time in which that word is used to described a gather), then equal meaning must be given to the start of a new one. With that thinking, why would I want to start my next year on earth with a hangover and shame? Nothin’ like being well-rested and eating a good brekkie to say, “Hello world! Blacktress is here!”

Not that I did that, mind you. Yesterday was the first workday of 2012 and I got to the office at 10:37am. Work starts at 9. (#depression:1,success:0) So far, I’ve been preoccupied with the Weight Watchers point values of foods and trying to figure out what side hustles I can take on to make a little extra dough.

It seems I’m right where we left off, friends. Then, I get a posting on my fb wall of this video with the line: "This is great, but I wish it was Sojourner." Yet again, there's another blacktress out there who's actually out there making things happen.

Add to that the “new looks” of Gmail and Facebook—which make everything far more confusing and create the same visual effect as a pile of vomit on my computer screen, and I’m already weary. Seriously, though: I am scared of Facebook "Timeline." I have a visceral reaction when I see a Timeline profile and fear mine may be next. I’m not even trying, y’all. I’m initiating Ghost Protocol on 2012. Disavowing the whole year, the country, all of it.

How’s TWENTYTWELVE starting for you? This could be our last year on earth, so let’s party like it’s 1999—you know, that other time it was gonna be our last year on earth.

I’ve Run Out of Toilet Paper (A Poem)

As you all know, sometimes I find it much more fitting to express intense emotion in iambic pentameter, as in the case of my extreme love of Harry Potter. This weekend was an emotional rollercoaster and I thought it best to get to the heart of the matter with a little poem.

I've run out of toilet paper
I’ve been out since yesterday.
I’ve been rationing out 1/8 of a roll
And I know that it’s not okay.
While I’m at it, I should also add milk to my grocery list
It’s hard to have cereal for dinner with I have nothing to moisten it with.

I need to buy toilet paper
Would I do it if it were called “The Great Charmin Caper”?
There’s nothing quite as depleting as
Looking over while excreting and
Realizing that you’ve
Run out of toilet paper
Which you knew all day.
All that time hunting for red velvet cupcake ice cream
Could have been spent in a more productive way.
While I’m at it, I should probably send that birthday present to my friend’s kid
It’s been over a year and now she probably can’t fit it.

It’s a hat.

I need to buy toilet paper
Especially because it doubles as Kleenex
And, on occasion, it serves as a makeup-removing towelette
I got a flu shot on Monday and now my underarm hurts
And I'm all like, Why can't I do anything right?
Yes, I baked a tray of brownies on Monday
And yes, I'm eating them for dinner every night.

With cookies 'n' cream ice cream.

SHOCKtober Fest!*

*This title in no way relates to the following post.

Guys, I am so sorry it's been forever since I posted. There's been so much going on--much of it ripe for bloggery--but I've been so busy that sitting down and writing it all out has been impossible. Now, of course, it's been 2 weeks and there's no way I can condense it all. But let's give it the ol'-liberal-arts-college try, shall we?

9/29/11
I. am. reeling.

I just finished the final book in The Hunger Games trilogy and I can't even cope. I actually re-read the last three pages twice before finally closing the book. It was simply so intense I couldn't let it be over. A tightly wrought political thriller for the tween set has somehow turned my world upside down. Katniss Everdeen is further proof that you don't have to be black to be a strong black woman.

I am still shaken and stirred, with a twist of lime in me. Suzanne Collins took my breath away, Top Gun style. I've decided to add her to my list of (s)heroes.

10/1/11
I'm heading to LA, guys! Los Angeles! The city of angels and demons and most of the cast of Angels & Demons. I'm going to a voiceover event produced by my VO coach in New York. I'm not one for 48-hour jet-sets, but my mom thinks I need to invest in my dreams, which means attending this event, so I will do so. I have no idea what to expect.

10/3-10/5

LA is cool, but I couldn't live here. I did, however, meet a pretty blacktress from Texas who moved here to become a star. She was very domineering, which I really didn't mind all that much. I think the best part of our forced closeness was her gory, detailed account of her stalker attack a year ago. Of course, it was really terrifying and upsetting, but my first thought, as she explained that her Colgate smile was actually porcelain (because her stalker attacked her and knocked her teeth out), was "Oh my god, you had a stalker? That is so A-list. Have you sent a treatment to Lifetime (television for women)?"

The highlight of my trip was meeting hotel employee Tre Fabrice, who moved to LA three years ago "for the fashion." When I asked where he moved from, he revealed that he was a Detroit native.

I immediately began singing T-Baby's anthem.
"Nah, I'm mad at that," he said as he stretched out on the lobby couch (why wasn't he working?). "Everybody been makin' fun of me for that."

I asked him if he'd read any of my cousin's hood tales and he said no. I linked him up to Amazon and he was quite taken with the synopsis of his latest page-turner. After giving him my cousin's info--he wanted to contact him about being involved in a non-profit he's starting (I kid you not)--he urged me to stay in New York City. I told him he didn't have to worry.

LA is so intense with the healthiness. My friend and I went to a diner and even the diner was on Atkins. I asked for a glass of milk to go with my "7-grain pancakes," and the waiter goes, "Would you like soy milk, almond, milk, rice milk, hemp--"

I want milk milk, Los Angeles! Give me some skim stuff out of an animal I can find on a farm!

Don't get me wrong, y'all--I'm not against vegetarians and vegans, and I do believe animals have feelings. I just cannot stand a high-and-mighty non-meat eater acting like they can't wait to spend their 75th birthday jumping on my bloated belly like it's a trampoline. Just cause you don't eat meat doesn't make you a life-winner. How can it be okay to turn a bean into a nugget??? Everyone was so into their substitutes. And those bitches LOVE. TO. JUICE.

You know, drink a mixture of vegetables and fruits as a meal.

Speaking of juicing, they also love using nouns as verbs--juice. summer. veg. UGH.

That about sums it up, I guess. There's more I'd love to share, but ever since the blog became an un-safe space (needing to defend and explain every turn of phrase and humor-motivated generalization, etc), I'll just cut to the present......which brings us to today.

Last night I did a set at Broadway Comedy Club and it might have been one of my worst stage moments ever. I ate it so hard last night.

That’s comedy speak for “getting no laughs and having no jokes hit”—taken from the idea of “eating shit.”

Being on stage was painful. I felt like Carrie at the prom—except, in this case, I wanted them to laugh and they wouldn’t. Those bright stage lights may have well been pig’s blood, as they soaked me in a sticky liquid of shame and self-loathing that I still can’t get off.

Carrie, there’s no amount of Dove body wash that’ll get that scent out of your hair. After all, Dove is for real women, and you’re clearly a shell of yourself.

As I stood on stage, staring into the faces of white people who didn’t know who Harriet Tubman was or why “Caucasia” is a funny word, I had no way of winning them back. This was a set for TV and I wasn’t supposed to address the audience—meaning, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS?!” wasn’t gonna fly for the cameras. It was just really hard because I’d killed it (comedy speak for “slaying the audience with one’s rapier wit) the night before at Therapy, one of Hell’s Kitchen’s best gay bars. I mean, applause breaks and everything. I felt like I was at home.
Honestly, y’all, it was a straight-up Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List moment.


I know exactly how she feels.


Tonight I'm doing a set at another club, this time with family and friends in attendance. Not just mamadukes but also some of her coworkers, which makes me really nervous. I mean, it’s one thing to fail, but to embarrass my mom in front of her friends….let’s just say I better bring it on all or nothing like the love-child of Gabrielle Union and Hayden Panetierre.

I'm sorry I've been gone so long--I won't do it again.

L.Y.L.A.S!

--Blacktress

What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

Sorry for the lack of bloggery—I haven’t blogged since August! Completely unacceptable. I realized I should get on it before you started to think I got swept away by the Oprah & Gayle-force winds. I’ve had plenty blog-worthy points to discuss, but I've kind of been in a hole. I’m in the office today after working from home for two days due to illness. Before coming in on Monday, I spent the hurricane weekend at Jewboo’s house, where I mostly laid around like a 19th-century maiden who had the vapors.

Yup, it was just like this.

I was the kind of sick where I could still function, I just felt like a waste of space. I kept breaking out into these cold Requiem for a Dream-like sweats that were just uncomfortable. Then Aunt Flo decided to pay me a visit, and I was like, “I’m sorry, I am not up for having company this week. Can you go stay with the girl down the block?” And she was all, like, “No, that’s not how this works. I’m not an actual person.”

I love the idea of having one workday each week where I don’t have to be in the office. Although I was sickly, I finally had the daytime hours to pick up clothes that had been at the dry cleaners since June 6.
Y’all, that was three months ago. They were about to give my clothes away.
I also managed to stock up on orange juice, and would have bought more groceries if the store wasn't all ransacked and random, 28 Days Later-style. (They had, like, all the sugar-free ice cream and Pillsbury crescent rolls you could want, but no bread to speak of.)

But after the initial surge of productivity, I fell into a pit of despair. Without having to look over my shoulder to make sure my coworkers weren’t judging my gchatting, I realized I couldn’t muster up the will to write--not stand up, not a blog post, and certainly not the solo show I've been thinking of for over a year. I started to wonder why on earth I couldn’t make anything of my life. It didn’t help that before my therapy session, I thumbed through the latest issue of Time Out New York and saw pictures and write-ups on three people I know from the comedy scene. I want to be writing a show or finding some way to get off of this plantation, but I’m too crazy and lazy (cray and lay? LRAZY?) to get it done.

I ate five English muffins yesterday.
FIVE, y’all.

To give you a sense of how gross this is, let me provide a visual:

Just looking at these pictures makes me want another one. I disgust myself.

Clearly I’ve given up on life. It’s probably because I don’t have money for my dreams. I’ve been told I need to get new headshots, but it’ll run me at least $500; and I want to get a demo reel made so that I can take over the voice-over world, but it costs over $2,000! I’ve been spending money to celebrate Caucasian marriages, but can’t actually afford these hotels and presents.
Oh yeah, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to write a magazine about painting flowers.

I know these are luxury problems, but can I start a KickStarter Campaign for my dreams? Cause they are are straight-up withering like a raisin in the sun.

I’ve been thinking about Australia a lot, which is always a sign that I don’t want to be in the world. I’ve also started wondering if I need to get a Splenda daddy—you know, one who’s impotent and won’t want me to do anything besides look pretty. And when losing the Hairpin’s Most Horrible Things That Moms Have Said contest actually makes me feel like a failure, I’m obviously in what one would call a “dark place”.

To help get myself back into the world, I’ve been looking at this picture sent by an “artist."

I don't know this man's name, and I'm not sure this cat has given consent, but at least I can safely say I'm not him.

How are you doing?

Read It and Weep

I lost my iPod some time on Tuesday. I hate my life.

I mean, I knew this had to happen eventually—that’s why I never purchased one to begin with. When I was in elementary school, I was always losing very basic and vital items, like my sweater, backpack, and glasses case. I remember my mother’s tight lip as she tried not to yell and began a search-and-rescue mission more focused than a Navy SEAL. Her biggest concern, being a single mom, was how we’d pay for a new version of whatever I’d lost, and I felt it, too (glasses ain’t cheap!). I think this had a profound impact on my adult life, as I always try to avoid having nice things for fear of losing them.* It wasn’t until I was going to Oz that I thought getting one of these newfangled Apple gizmos would be practical. And even then, I inherited one from an elite gay visionary who was upgrading.

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

It’s amazing how something so minor can cause a shame spiral. I am gutted. I'm replaying every moment in the last 48 hours, wondering where it could have gone. I remember hearing the echo of an object hitting the subway platform on Tuesday night as I exited the subway—did it fall from my bag without me even knowing??????? I can't stop shaking.

As if my work trip wasn’t going to suck enough, I’m now without my music.

The best way to deal with self-loathing is to get out of self, and thank goodness for a friend who knows how I feel about the D. I received the following link this morning and it really helped me check myself before I wreck myself:

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

Forty-seven percent of adults in Detroit are functionally illiterate. That means almost half of residents can't do basic things like read a newspaper, fill out a job application or other forms, or understand the instructions on a medicine bottle.

Guys, this is getting out of control. First T-Baby, then old ladies scamming folks, and now everyone’s illiterate?????? I used to joke about Detroit being the city that God forgot, but maybe I wasn’t that far off.

I guess I should just be glad I could read and write my way to making enough money to buy a gay visionary’s hand-me-down iPod in the first place.


*paging Dr. Freud—Jewboo, does this explain my fear of letting love in?

BlacktressFail

Guh.
It’s Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will NOT be making the same mistakes in 2010!

Okay, y’all, I think I am officially over foreign dudes. They lack the boundaries my American self is accustomed to, and it’s not cute.

Saturday night, I got the following facebook message from my Swedish paramour – you know, the one from the worst New Year’s Eve night ever

Subject: :)

Hello there!

I hope you are doing great, and that you foot has heeled by now ;)

Just letting you know that Im traveling to New York over a week end in December (4-8th). Im traveling with my girlfreind, but I though Id let you know anyway incase you are in town. Id love to come see your show (if you still do stand up), or maybe meet up for a drink and see some other act, or if your not availible that weekend maybe you could recommand a comedy club that we should check out.

Anyhow, take care now


Not only is that my birthday weekend and sitting home in fetal position is part of my schedule, and cannot be changed around, but I'd rather have my fingernails ripped out by Hannibal Lecter than entertain this fool. Clearly I can say no to this – using either a thoughtful lie or the gospel TRUTH (can he handle it?!). It’s really not that deep, and I will survive like Gloria Gaynor. However, I’d like to just note some things for you gentle readers:

Okay, I’ll start with positive reinforcement:
- Unlike certain redheaded Australians, he at least had the good sense to tell me he was bringing his gf from the outset. Of course, there are no illusions of relationship, and it’s not like I’d try to rekindle that flame and start an F’in forest fire, but at least there will be no misread signals. Good for you, Swede! I think this is due to the fact that he’s a lawyer, and aims to avoid litigation at all costs.

HOWEVER:
- A smiley face icon as a subject is the lamest thing I’ve ever seen. You’re a grown ass man, get it together. Clearly you fear me and would have done better showing up at my door with freshly killed game. At least then, I would have respected you.

- How are you going to ask me about my foot damn near a year after the fact?! Fool, if you don’t know by now, you better ask somebody! This does not retroactively count as kindness and interest. YOU FAIL at being even a minor friend who at least keeps up with facebook updates and comments on the serious ones.

- Why on earth are you trying to meet up with me when you didn’t have the decency to check in and ask me if I could walk again after you put your P in my V on one of the most traumatizing nights of my life? If memory serves, he also chose to ask me to hang out on his last night in Sydney, then blew me off in a most unsavory manner. If memory will serve me seconds, I also recall landing in his home country in May and him not moving a beefy muscle to meet up. If this isn’t just another example of white male hubris – nay, OVERWEENING PRIDE – then I don’t know what is! What was that saying about giving an inch and taking an ell? I think that was applied to the wrong race!

It’s also quite curious that he’d think I’d want him to see me do stand up – what if I put him on blast in front of the gf? That’d actually be quite hilarious. But I won’t, it’d just be too wrong. I wonder how he’s explained her to me. “Oh, honey, I have this blacktress friend in NYC who might take us out one night.” Chile, please! I am friends with you like I’m friends with Jenna Bush.
Which is to say, not at all, and there’s even some ire there.

In summation, what you can take from this is this, gentle readers: don’t think that just because you do the dirty on the other side of the world that that ish won’t come back to bite you on the ass. You can’t get rid of a mistake in this LinkedIn, Facebookin’ world, where every damn Tom, Dick, or Swede wants to be up in MySpace, asking me to play tour guide. Why didn’t you want a guide when I was trying to tell you how my parts worked, dude?! Let’s talk about that!

Homeless Blacktress?

Hey gang,

I am starting to panic a bit.
On Wednesday, October 22, I will officially lack accommodation.

I've only seen three apts., and it's not looking too good. No one has gotten back to me on any of them, and they weren't even so great to begin with. I think, keeping in the European vein of small portions, the apartments are also made to be petite. In one, I actually felt like the Old Blacktress Who Lived in a Shoe--only, instead of the shoe being large and full of children, it was tiny and would just be me and an Asian girl.

Nigel's cousin hasn't called me, so I'm going to have to just lay my cards out there and get desperate. It's only 10:30am, but believe you me, homegirl will be getting a textual eruption in about an hour's time.

I must be honest: I don't know how much I like Sydney. It's reminding me alot of New York (with a splash of Shanghai, Seoul, and Singapore), but it's not very easy to get around. Public transportation costs alot, and it is perfectly normal to wait 30 minutes for a train. I feel like everywhere is a tourist trap, and last night's quest for a normal pub to just grab some dranks and chill with locals turned out to be impossible. I went to bed at 11:15pm, feeling like I may have been in the West Village, where I could at least get free stuff and talk to people I know.

Okay, sorry for the complaints, but this is where the blacktress is emotionally. I'm trying to work out some travel plans--if I'm going to be homeless, I might as well see some things, right? I mean, I do have a year-- it's not like time is of the essence. A 15-hour bus ride to Melbourne is totally worth my time.

Well, unless it's likely that I'll be fondled by a drifter.