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?!

Step by Step on the Road to Recovery

For all of you dying to know, here's the latest on my foot scandal:

Still in pain after 8 days, I went to see a third doctor on Friday. I'd gone to him about a month ago when I had sinus issues, and he knew how to handle an ear-nose-throat-related scandal, so I thought I'd hollar at a scholar once more.

I get there and show him my foot, explain the situation, and his first question is, "Has anyone done an x-ray or ultrasound to see if there's glass in your foot?"

"I KNOW!!!" I scream--way too much like Chandler from Friends. We have a good ol' laugh, and he reckons there's glass in my foot, which is why it's infected and not healing. He makes me an appointment for an ultrasound three hours later, then tells me to come back to him with the results about two hours after that.

So I'm hobbling around Sydney, trying to get it all together. It's a damn shame that it took an Asian Doogie Howser to get on the ball, and the two old doctors I went to before weren't even trying to help a blacktress out--just like a White man.....

Anyway, I'm lying down for the ultrasound while the guy puts sterile jelly over my wound (oh, and he totally didn't think it was funny when I said, "Um, I don't think I'm ready for this jelly"). He runs his magical ultrasound wand all around my foot and seems to look a bit confused, which is never any good. After a few minutes he gets up, and, attempting to sound casual, says, "I'm going to go get the radiologist."

Now you know it's not a good sign when the doctor's gotta get another doctor before he can tell you what's up. Clearly something's not looking good.

The radiologist, a spunky Asian woman, comes in and they start talking about me in low tones. I try to explain that I'm just American, not Deaf, but they don't really pay attention. I hear something about "tendons....snap....20%, no 40%" and wonder if I'm going to end up an amputee playing a didgeridoo at Circular Quay just to make ends meet. They finally address me and say that there's no glass in my foot (yay!), but that it's going to take a while for this wound to close (boo!).

I get up, head back home, and then return in 2 hours to pick up my results and take them to Asian Doogie. When I get there, he reads the results and explains that some of my tendons were cut, and the infection I can't seem to shake could be in the tendons.

Score one for the blacktress.

He then asks me to bend and flex my toes, and to both our surprise, I can't.
Can't move my damn toes, y'all.
WTF?!
And why was this not discovered sooner?!

So, I'm on another round of antibiotics, hoping the ability to move my toes returns, and making an appointment with a podiatrist on Monday.

So, in summation: still a hot mess, but now with answers, and if you want anything done right in this town, get an Asian.

Playing Footy

I went back to the doctor last night, seeing as my foot was still bleeding, which I knew couldn't be a good sign 4 days later. The doctor was different from the first one I'd seen. He was a Santa-like figure whose jolly beard and portly middle instantly put me at ease. Well, put me at ease until he told me my foot was INFECTED and the wound wasn't at all closed.

So, yeah, apparently there will be no walking in 2009. I'm supposed to really stay off of it if I want it to close up, especially cause it's in the most awkward place ever--right where the foot bends. This means that when I walk into my 2pm interview with a temp agency today, I'll have to find a clever way to explain why I'm dragging my foot much in the manner of Quasimodo. I may even suck it up and force myself to walk normally, since, you know, no one hires the disabled.

I'm way over the Swede, seeing as nothing good can come of stressing over someone who clearly doesn't appreciate the goodness that is the blacktress. Unfortunately, this means he'll have to be deleted from Facebook, because reminders of my transgression--and his rejection--aren't what I need when I'm trying to write witty wall posts consisting of inside jokes about things that happened hours earlier.

I think what I most need to shake off is feeling so lonely. I wish I had someone who could come over and hang out, just chat with me while I'm sitting around. Or I wish I was on the same time zone as my friends so that we could g-chat all day long and I'd maybe forget that I'm on the road to becoming a goddamn amputee. For some reason, since the incident, I've become addicted to the TV show "How I Met Your Mother," and it's the only highlight of my day. I think it's mostly because, after watching most of my Buffy DVDs, I need more Alyson Hannigan in my life and just try and pretend she's still a lesbian witch.

I just feel like I am spending my time in this city just wasting money on rent for a place that isn't so great and not doing much else. I feel like James Caan in Misery, and the city of Sydney is like Kathy Bates, torturing me into staying with her even though I must get out to see my daughter. I'm trying to save for trips, then I have to run to the medical centre every ten seconds and pay out of pocket cause, you know, "I'm not a citizen," or whatever the surly lady is trying to explain to me through my grumbling as I look for my credit card.

Okay, guys, this can't be my life. I've got to get it together in 2009. Maybe I should use this immobilization period to write a major novel, or a screenplay.

Or maybe I should just chat with every single person on OasisActive.com until I get one of them to wire me all the money in their bank account as part of a sham marriage (I'll say I'm a Nigerian prince, of course).

Back In the Saddle/ Dickheads

Blacktress' Log, Star Date 5 January 2009.

Went in to work tonight--had a 6pm- 2am shift. I was walking around with my pimp limp, doing my darndest to serve customers. Luckily, Sunday is relatively quiet, but it was still more than I could handle with my rough foot.

We also had a new girl on a trial shift--a really perky 19-year-old Canadian girl whose optimism and energy offended me in every way. I didn't let it show, though, seeing as since I was last in, we'd lost 5 employees (which puts a monkey wrench into my plan of quitting). Three girls went traveling, one guy quit for visa reasons, and one girl was fired after she left a bag of weed in the handicapped bathroom.

Clearly, we need all the help we can get.

For some reason I keep thinking of the wise words of the nurse who applied my dressing at the medical centre on New Year's day. Perhaps it's the bloody wound that keeps her still so fresh in my mind. Perhaps it's merely the ring of TRUTH that speaks to Sojourner.

Referring to the ambulance that treated me on New Year's Eve, she said:
"Oh, the ambos are great. God bless 'em. And I bet people were being real dickheads, weren't they?"
I said yes, recounting the tale of the drunkards who decided to hop on the back of the ambulance as it attempted to get through the crowd.
"Oh, dickheads," she shouted, as though they were in the room with us. "I just hate dickheads. People come in here and I say to them, 'Are you gonna be a dickhead, or are you gonna be nice? If you're gonna be a dickhead, get out. And you know what they say? 'I'll be nice.'"
We share a laugh, and I wonder what I can do to make sure I can be her when I grow up.

I mean, who does like dickheads (or, as I'm currently calling them, Swedish men)? I can't say she's really taking a renegade stance on that one. What I do admire is the fact that she calls people out and tells them to handle their scandal or to get the hell out of her medical centre. I think I need to adopt this kind of attitude, even if I'm not a surly elderly British woman with a surprisingly soft touch. I may have to start yelling at customers who come in the bar, making sure they're not dickheads before I serve them. And I may have to ask dudes if they're dickheads before...um...serving them--if you know what I mean (and I think you do).

I came home and attempted to wash away the grit and grime of a long hard day of bartending, but it was difficult with one foot hanging out of the shower wrapped in a plastic bag. As I dressed and dried I saw that my foot was bleeding again--this is 4 days later, guys! WTF? I think I'm really going to have to stay off it if I want it to get better. Or, even worse, may have to go back to the medical centre--which my wallet won't really appreciate.

But first, I sleep. it's now 4:09am, and once the birds start chirping, it's hard to nod off.