Blacktresses & The Blues

**I started writing this post on Friday. Today is Tuesday. That should give you a sense of where I'm at.**

Guys, I am so dead tired. Don’t you ever wake up and have one of those days where it’s like, “Yeah, I could totally kill myself right now and it wouldn’t even be a big deal.”?

No? Just me? Well, anyway, that’s where I’m at.

I hung out with my mom last night and, as always, it was a mixed bag—a dash of hope, humbling gratitude, a bit of self-loathing, gut-wrenching frustration, and a feeling of powerlessness that makes a gal eat bread pudding for breakfast—natch. We had dinner with my voice over coach and it was straight out of Waiting to Exhale. They got along swimmingly, which I’d expected, but also banded together to point out several of my shortcomings.

You know, like how I don’t “invest in myself.”
And how I “dress like someone who doesn’t care.”
And how I “don’t focus on what really matters”
Oh yeah—and how I need to purchase some really good wigs and hair pieces if I want to be seen as a professional on stage and in auditions.

I feel like a character in a Carson McCullers novel.

Of course, it always helps to keep it in perspective. After all, I could be little Paisley here:

When questioned, her mother didn’t really get all the hoopla. “Well, at this pageant there was an option to do celebrity-wear,” the mom said. “And we thought about what we could wear with her being a brunette, and Julia Roberts is my favorite actress of all time. I thought it was real cute to do Julia. She’s 3. If she was 10 I never would have considered this. But as young as she is I thought it was very comical.”

With that in mind, I’m trying to shake off mom’s words, but the timing couldn’t really be worse—this Sunday is round 1 of NBC’s StandUp for Diversity auditions, where oppressed comics can finally get their reparations.

Last year, I didn’t even make it past the first round.
I was beaten by an 11-year-old boy with braces and rubber bands who talked about putting vodka in his cereal.

Needless to say, I’m nervous. And I only have 60 seconds to prove myself. If I win them over, I get to go on to the second round, which allows me 2 whole minutes to bring the pain. If I pass that I get to be on the showcase the following night.

I know, I mustn’t count my chickens. But it could be fun.
If only I could find a way to be hilarious in 60 seconds and stop thinking about how my natural hair makes me look like, “Whoopi Goldberg, not caring, wearing a moo-moo.”

I'm gonna go get a pedicure and re-watch "Good Hair."

Blacktress out!

Normal is not an option.

I have reached a new low. Only, this isn't as outwardly tragic as much of the events during the "Summer of New Lows." This is more of an internal low, an emotional low that I thought, as a grown ass woman, I'd be over by this age. I am seriously Aspberger's right now.

Let me set the scene.

So, I'm on the interwebs, just typing on some F-book walls--you know, the nightly usual. I switch tabs and notice that a certain crush is online (damn you, gchat list!). Our last date was a week ago, and he's currently in the South America for a week, on a business trip (damn you, Southern Hemisphere--you're always taking my men away at the most delicate times!). My course of action and thought process went something like this:

1. Aaaah, he's online!
[I immediately go invisible so that he won't know I'm online.]
2. Wait, why am I hiding myself? There's nothing bad about being on the internet at 11:45pm on a Wednesday night. Right?
[I go back to visible]
3. This feels oddly invasive. I should not be able to know he's online, I feel like I'm inadvertently stalking.
[I set my chat settings so that he "never" shows up in my chat list.]
4. Wait, maybe it is weird that I'm online so late. He'll think I'm watching web porn or something.
[I set my chat settings to block, so that he doesn't know I'm online.]
5. I wonder if he'll email me. Should I have emailed him? If he was having sex with Gisele Bunchen's cousin right now, he probably wouldn't be checking his email, so that's a relief.
Unless he was going online to write everyone he knows to tell them he'd just slept with a total Brazilian hottie.

Note: Never once did I think it was acceptable to IM him and say "hello, how's Brazil?"
Cause, you know, that'd be too logical, and bordering on polite. I mean, what if he--gasp!--knew I was interested in him even though I hadn't seen him in a week? Can you imagine how disinterested he'd be as a result of my interest?

It seems, gentle readers, that Sojourner can't handle her own truth of crushing. What is wrong with me? In my head, every woman in Brazil looks like Gisele Bunchen. They are all hot and lithe and oiled, in an effortless sort of way. And when you enter the country, customs officials check the duration of your stay. If it is longer than 28 days, you are required to undergo cosmetic surgery, so as not to ruin the national character by bringing down the general hotness of the country.

And this, my friends, is where the line between sanity and insanity can be drawn. This is also where you can draw the line between, "single gal in her twenties," and "future smelly cat lady."

Sometimes I feel clumsier than Fergie.


Why did this song come into my head just now?

The Unanswerable Question-- I Need Your Help!

So, as you know, I had a wonderful Friday night- Saturday morning date (holla!) with Whiteley.

It ended pleasantly, with him telling me he was free this week (which would make sense, cause he ain't workin!) and saying he wanted to see my next stand up show. I told him he had to call me (he just hasn't done any work!). We shared three kisses, and he said he'd call before I got in the subway and he biked off into the sunset (park).

Today is Wednesday. I have not heard from him.

Please, tell me: WHY WON'T HE CALL? WHY GOD WHY?!

As one friend pointed out, long-distance charges apply to all calls made below Prospect Park and above Central Park, so perhaps he'd prefer to utilize free nights and/or weekends. But he ain't workin'! There is no reason for this!

Comment with words of wisdom and encouragement. After the Greek dog ("god" backwards!), this is just more than I can take! I just want a winter spoon-- I need my Frosty the Snowman!