The Chosen People Have Chosen Me!!!

So, I don’t know how many of you received my March newsletter (email madblacktress[at]gmail.com if you wanna opt in!), but I mentioned a gig that was unlike any I’ve ever had. Of course, being nervous and stressed about it, I was trying to block it out and not speak of it—you know, like how I handle sweating in public. Saturday, March 17, I was scheduled to perform at a Jewish Community Center in York, Pennsylvania, just an hour away from where Jewboo’s parents live!

One of these things is not like the other.....

Clearly, someone had dropped out at the last minute—but I’m not quite sure why I was the natural sub. Never one to turn down a gig, I said yes and figured I’d work it out later. It was kinda exciting—although I was getting paid to do “20 minutes, clean material, but can be edgy,” and my lover’s parents would be in attendance!!! As you can imagine, I was freaking out. I mean, what does ‘edgy’ even mean? Can I just get a list of forbidden words? You know, like:

YOU CANNOT SAY

• F word
• S word
• C word
• Vagina / Vajay-jay
• P in V without a C
• “I can’t passover those matzohballs.”
• Niggerbollen
• Honky Lumps

YOU CAN SAY

• The other C word (cancer)
• The other C word (Caucasia)
• "Save the drama for Obama"
• Bitch, when used as a pronoun
• Wintercourse, when used as a biological term

I was equally stressed out being in a JCC. We all know that I’m down with the chosen but I’m learning that non-New York Jews are a different crowd. And, like the New Hampshire country club I attempted to entertain back in October, these folks were going to be out of my target demographic in terms of age and lifestyle choices. Would they know what Roots or a Tyler Perry production was? Would they be offended by the use of the term ‘Jewboo? I just wasn’t sure how I’d play it.

After consulting some of the top comedic Jewish minds I know, I reached the Zen place of not actually dealing with it. As Jewboo and I headed to PA, I started to get stressed. This was quickly eclipsed by a near-death experience.

So, turns out that I have allergy-induced asthma...which I discovered on Saturday, the morning before my JCC debut. #fml

Remember the magical impression I made on my first visit to Jewboo's family/a suburban PA emergency room?

Well, turns out it wasn't the lady meds--it's cat dander plus wall-to-wall carpeting.

After a night spent wheezing, we finally decided to suck it up and go to the urgent care center. Of course, being Pennsylvania and not NYC, I was in and out in just over an hour, complete with prescriptions to pick up!
Of course, fear of death trumps fear of death by stage, but once I passed that hurdle, I was back to freaking out, and waiting around the venue for over 90 minutes didn't help--until I went to the bathroom, that is.
After closing the stall door, my own face looked back at me!!!

Seeing one's own face in the most unexpected places (i.e. not a mirror) was mind-blowing!

I felt like Rihanna.

Clearly, they were ready for me, as they'd had to see my face numerous times over the last two weeks. I went up second, which gave me time to read the temperature of the room. They were quite fun, actually, and opener Gilad Foss killed them with his Israeli sense of Jewmor. I followed, and just sorta went in with my same old stuff. And turns out, they liked me--they really, really liked me!

After my set, everyone wanted to meet Jewboo (who had to repeatedly say his real name in an attempt to assert his identity), and the head of the JCC even cornered me in a wine-induced stupor and asked if I planned to convert to Judaism.
"Um, let's go over to the cake," I replied.
BYOB at a JCC = TMI!

The night was fun and it felt good to share that side of myself with the boo's parents. I was, however, wrecked from the previous night and ready to get to bed when we got home at 2am. (Keeping the parents out til all hours!) Unfortunately, steroids and the inhaler kept me hyped up like Jessie Spano before the big dance contest. I spent much of Sunday lying on the couch and returned to NYC with a mountain of laundry and much to do--you know, like prepare for an audition for 30 Rock on Monday.

Yep, that happened! I got an email Friday afternoon while en route to the PA JCC (perhaps I was already creating Chosen People karma before the gig began???). After the insanity of "Schmobbie Jones" (remember her?) I had to do a bunch of sleuthing to make sure I wasn't being lured into a dark alley. After all, how did they even know me? Where'd they get my contact info? How did they know I'd be right for the part?

Well, turns out those casting folks are good! Based on a set they saw me do at a club back in September, they called me in for a strong black woman whose one line is, "I handle conflict appropriately and I'm up-to-date on my mortgage payments!" YES!!! THAT IS SO ME!!!!

I was pretty psyched and was totally hepped up Sunday night--and still trying to get that whole "breathing" thing under control. A trip to the bathroom at 3:30am turned nearly deadly as I walked directly into the doorframe, clocking myself in the head. Any attempt at sleeping was abandoned, as I worked to ensure that I wouldn't end up with a giant lump on my head for 30 Rock.

I went into the audition in my Banana Republic dress and was about 10 years younger than the other women, which was a bit awk. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from Waiting to Exhale, especially because they all seemed to know each other. For reals, they were showing pictures of their babies, talking about their New Jersey homes that were minutes from one another, and generally being BFF. Clearly, there's an elite group of upwardly mobile blacktresses that function similarly to the Freemasons that I need to be a part of.

I must find my way in.

How are you?

I Am a Hot Mess

No, really. I'm sweating profusely and apparently have been running around with a fever of 101 for over 24 hours. I swear, I'm ridiculous. I don't know how I make it through this world. I'm so cracked out, it's a wonder that walls don't catch me off guard. I imagine this is what Snooki must feel like whenever she looks at her picture in a magazine.

"Um, what are you talking about, Blacktress?" you may asking yourself. Let me explain:

I started feeling a bit rundown on Friday, but chalked it up to a "vacation" spent in the D, and a hard-core work week. Saturday night I was feeling so rough that I stayed in the house. At the time, I was watching a marathon session of "Private Practice" online, so naturally, my first guess was a brain tumor. After all, that would explain why I was both dizzy and crying profusely. Jewboo came over really late that night, and even at 2am, I was still unable to sleep, as no amount of Advil or Sudafed would take away the pain and confusion.

Sunday was a fog, but I met with my comedy gals and met up with Jewboo at a friend's birthday party. As we grabbed dinner, I found myself oddly full after eating a turkey burger and fries. Gentle readers, my stomach is often a bottomless pit, and this was no NYC-diner-sized burger. The fact that I was stuffed should have been my first sign--well, the third, after the searing pain and dizziness.

When we got to the karaoke party, I was feeling less than fabulous, and within minutes I was totally sweating like Whitney Houston.

Whitney needs to change the lyrics to "IIIII-EEEE-IIIIIIII will always love A COOL TOWEL....."

Guys, it's a blustery 19 degrees with a wind chill in NYC, and this Sunday night karaoke party wasn't exactly packed to the rafters. There was no need for me to be sweatin' like a ho in church.

When I wasn't able to sleep last night and the pain still hadn't subsided, I decided to call up a professional. I got an appointment for 6pm tonight, and it went something like this:

Dr. Enghart: What brings you here today?
Me: Well, it really went off and poppin' on Saturday night. It started out as pain--
Dr. E: What do you mean, "popping"?
Me: Oh, sorry. I mean, it all started on Saturday night. So, I started by feeling pain in my neck, but what was weird was that when my head would pound, I'd feel it in the back of my skull and my brow bone. Is that strange? Am I making sense.
Dr. E (typing intently as I speak, staring at his computer): Yes, yes. Have you had a fever?
Me: No, I don't think so.
Dr. E: How's your appetite?
Me: I ate a really small burger yesterday, which was worrisome.
[A beat. Dr. E doesn't say anything for a few moments.]
Dr. E: Okay, why don't you get up on the bench and let's take a look.
[He pokes the mini flashlight-thing in my ears, nose, and throat. Uncomfortable with the silence, and feeling as though I need to prove my right to pay him $30 to tell me I have a sinus infection, I start babbling.]
Me: I know it hasn't been many days, but I'm not really a headache person. I also don't get dizziness, and I don't have winter allergies, and it's so much pressure, I figure it must be a sinus thing.
Dr. E: And you said you didn't have a fever?
Me: No
[He sticks a thermometer in my ear. It beeps in 30 seconds]
Dr. E: 101.3
[He looks at me, unsure of how a grown-ass woman such as myself could not only not know she had a fever, but could be standing and blabbing with such a high temperature.]
Me: I guess I have the vapors!
[He doesn't laugh]
Me: Actually, I did notice I had been sweating a lot.

He does not respond.

Me: So, does that mean I shouldn't do my Jillian Michaels twenty-six-minute metabolism-boosting workout for the next few days?
Dr. E: No, you shouldn't.

I get off the exam table and he proceeds to write out several prescriptions, most of which are for OTC products from Whole Paycheck--I mean, Whole Foods. Homey had me get a neti pot and some spicy nasal spray, and I looked at the paper like Nicholas Cage in Knowing, and he wrote me a prescription for an antibiotic (I sweat just like Whitney, and also share her preference for a medicinal cure). With a high-dose pill waiting to be picked up, I felt a lot more confident in his skills.

So, now I'm at home, beginning my evening cocktail of pills: antibiotic, sinus spray, homeopathic sinus pills, advil PM, and then my evening antidepressant--you know, just for good measure.

I'm gonna rest up so that I'm somewhat fresh before tomorrow night's commercial class. How fitting that, after 2 hours of trying to sell the relief of sinus pain and pressure, I'd suffer from my own sinus oppression. Irony.

It's Always Drama With a Blacktress...

Hey y'all. I'm sure you're all waiting with bated breath to hear about what happened with the Jewboo's parents. Well, to make a long story short, it was great.

Wait a second--when have I ever made a long story short? Let me break it down....

We met up to get on the Bolt Bus at 2pm, and Jewboo arrived to find me freaking out because the assortment of mini desserts I'd purchased (all chocolate, since that's what he says the fam likes--holla!) were starting to melt and were all askew in the box, which wasn't the decorative box I'd asked for when I ordered. I imagined his mother feeding them to the cats because they were so hideous. Of course, this lasted through much of the train ride, despite repeated reminders that, "my parents are nice, normal people. Oh, and they're not retarded. They understand that frosting melts in heat."

The plan was for pops to pick us up around 7:30, when he got off of work. As we waited outside of the train station, I was nauseous. I suddenly became fidgety and had to pee. It was like the 6th grade recital all over again.

While we waited curbside for dad's car to pull up, I held Jewboo's hand. He suddenly pointed to a red car and waved. I saw a bald man in a suit with slick black aviators in the driver's seat. He was far too fashionable to be frightening. When he pulled up and jumped out to open the trunk, he hugged me before hugging his son. I instantly felt at ease.
Most of the hour-long car ride to Reading was father-and-son catch-up time, and I was glad to chime in occasionally and laugh at the right times. I found myself comfortable rather quickly, and I didn't feel forced to join in the conversation. I think the whole time I was more nervous about them grilling/interviewing me, and had been mentally preparing to give compelling answers and respond with thoughtful questions. Instead, I felt like they just treated me as though I'd been there all along, and didn't really make a fuss, which I liked. I knew I'd won dad over about 25 minutes into the car ride when he said,

"Blacktress, Andrew told me you were smart, beautiful, and funny, and I must say, he was not wrong."
Score!

Next up was mom, who was at home recovering from foot surgery. She was lying on the couch when I came in, and I shook her manicured hand. Although I'd been told over and over that mom was "chill," I didn't realize just how chill she was. She didn't say much, and seemed sorta perpetually tired--but not in a mean or glum way. She just had a kind of I've-been-laying-out-in-the-sun-all-day-and-I'm-wiped kind of vibe. She didn't really try to chat, but she also didn't make it seem like it was a big deal, so I didn't fight it.

Earlier that day, I'd gone to the lady doctor to get something for my business. She offered me a pill, which I find less messy than the other stuff (ladies, you know what I mean....). I went to take it before going to bed, as prescribed, and within an hour, I was coughing and wheezing. I went to sleep, trying to prop myself up on pillows to make breathing easier.

At 6:30am, after tossing and turning, I sprang up. I couldn't breathe, and I didn't know what to do. I try walking around the room, hoping to get air. My coughing wakes up Jewboo, but I tell him it's ok. I go downstairs, picking up the informational insert to my medicine on my way down. I call my doctor in NYC on the emergency line, but get no answer. I leave a message, but can't really wait for a response, as I read the insert:
Allergic reactions, though rare, may include: shortness of breath, difficulty breathing, tightening of the chest...should these occur, seek immediate medical attention.

I go back upstairs to tell Jewboo we need to go to the hospital. His mom and dad, who heard me coughing, are already up. Dad's getting dressed, just in case we need to go. Part of making a good impression means NOT forcing dad to spend his day off in the ER, so I ask Jewboo to take me to the hospital. He doesn't know where it is, so he and I get into the car and dad drives. He's totally calm about the whole thing, and we have a laugh (well, I just gasp repeatedly) about the fact that the ER entrance has moved since their last visit to the hospital.

We get to the ER at 7am and I'm immediately seen (thank you suburban hospitals!). My lungs don't sound congested and my oxygen levels are high, so it's unclear why I'm having such a reaction. I hand the nurse my prescription, and even bring the Benadryl I took, so they know everything. I'm placed in a room and put in a gown. Jewboo is by my side. It's a very tender/terrifying moment.

For the next hour, nurses buzz in and out, and info is taken. Jewboo is still half asleep, but he's being super chill about this whole thing. When I'm asked about my marital status, he says, dryly, "What if you were married this whole time and this is how I found out?" He's cracking me up, but that's actually doing me damage since I can't breathe, so I just shoot him fake-angry stares.

At around 10am, I'm given a breathing treatment to open up my airways, and blood is drawn. The doctor sees me, and he says they're going to test my blood for a chemical that'll indicate a blood clot. The breathing treatment ends up working, and I'm just waiting for results, taking mini naps the whole time. Jewboo is going back and forth between me and his dad, who he's keeping updated on the status. I keep telling him to send my apologies (and at one point, promise to get Dad a blizzard from Dairy Queen), and we're finally ready for me to be discharged. Although I found the hospital bed quite comfy, I felt bad that Jewboo got no sleep, and dad was spending his free time surrounded by sickies in the waiting room. I asked anyone who came my way about being discharged, and one nurse finally told me that I couldn't just leave--if I didn't sign my discharge papers, my insurance wasn't going to cover it.

That's all I needed to keep my ass right in that bed.

In the meantime, I got dressed, confident I was all well after the breathing treatment. I sat in bed, chatting with Andy, when my nurse, Celeste, came in.
"What are you doing dressed? Your blood test [indicating a blood clot] came back positive, you need a CAT SCAN."

HOLY FUCK.

As I change back into my gown, every episode of House I'd ever seen began to pop into my head. I was also surprisingly calm throughout the entire to-do, as I tend to be when faced with actual problems (not the emotional ones I make up), but suddenly I went into drama-mode. How could I have a blood clot and not know about it? Why did the test come back positive if nothing's wrong? My mother was in Mexico with her latin lover, Julio, and other than Jewboo, there was no one to call. Most of the week, no one had been calling me. I could go into that CAT SCAN, find out I'm on death's door, and no one would care but my boo. It all became very tragic in my head.

I went up for my scan, and came back down. Jewboo was being really strong and positive the whole time, and helped me every second of the way.

At around 2:30pm, the doctor finally came back in. The scan showed no sign of a clot, but I was sent away with an inhaler, in case I had breathing issues later on. He, along with all the nurses, were super apologetic about keeping me so long (bless the suburbs), but I wasn't even angry with them. We made it out a little before 3, and dad and I hugged in the waiting room. We went home and ate bagels and napped, and then had a nice family dinner.

As Jewboo put it, "The moral of this story: always go for the vaginal suppository."

With my life threatened, I think the family felt extra kindly towards me, and we were able to laugh about the whole incident by dessert. When we got home, mom and I had a real breakthrough when we discovered we both love the show Criminal Minds. I got way more excited than I should have, and me and his sis ended up talking about the hotness of Criminal Minds character Dr. Spencer Reid, for, like, 45 minutes.

All in all, I felt like the weekend was a huge success--although, with the ER visit, not exactly the relaxing time I'd hoped for. I feel like Jewboo and I took our relationship to a new level--I was able to see what he's like in a crisis; I know he comes from good people open to miscegenation and into a good police procedural drama; and he's now my official In Case of Emergency contact in the state of Pennsylvania. When we got home Saturday night, he had the following email from mom in his inbox:

From: Jewboo's Mom
Date: Sun, Jul 4, 2010 at 1:45 AM
Subject:

Hi Andy,

[Blacktress] is terrific, so treat her well.

Love,

Mom

Yes!!! I won her over!! Is it wrong to start shopping for wedding rings?

Okay, blacktress out.
Peace!

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).

2009: The Year of the Hot Ass Mess?

I don't know if this is going to be my year, gang. I currently write this post in bed with my right foot elevated and in serious pain. I am also fighting the urge to obsessively check the facebook status of a certain Swedish zoo-friend because, you know, that would be stalkerish.

This year has gotten off to an awkward start, to say the least. It started out rather nicely, as I headed to North Sydney with some friends to a bbq/pool party at 6pm on NYE. I was dressed for an evening of tarting it up, and felt a bit awkward considering it was daytime, we were by the pool, and there were children present. The party was fun, hosted by a brilliant gay man who knows that the key to a good party is booze, booze, sausages and potato salad.

Around 10pm, I started itching to go see the fireworks in the city, even though I knew it would be madness. As someone who hates unruly crowds and is sometimes autistic, I thought this sudden urge was out of character, but must be entertained. Luckily, a lovely Brazilian couple at the party also wanted to go into the city, so we ventured off together.

We got down to The Rocks around 11:30 and after I found a port-a-loo, we saw the magical light show that is the fireworks off the Sydney Harbour Bridge at midnight. I was in a good mood. I was in Sydney, celebrating 2009, with no close friends around me, but I was content. I wasn't worried, I wasn't sad, and I wasn't disappointed. Perhaps the year would be all right after all.

Shortly after midnight I received a textual eruption from the Swede--let's call him Sven. He was at a friend's place nearby and asked if I wanted to meet up with them and head to a club. I was dying to wear my dress in an environment where it would be appreciated, and I wasn't tired, so I said yes. I started to walk back through the Rocks to get to his friend's place, where they were hanging out. As I went against the massive crowd, I bumped into someone and heard a glass bottle hit the ground. I looked down and saw that there was blood on the top of my foot.

At first, oddly enough, I thought maybe it wasn't blood because it was so red and bright and looked almost fake. Then, as it continued to flow, I thought it was someone else's blood, some gross party foul that resulted from too much drinking and silliness. Oddly enough, I wasn't even drunk, more just shocked and confused--and annoyed--by the turn of events.

So I was by myself, walking through the crowd, not sure what to do, as blood is flowing out of my foot like whoa. There's no way I can catch a cab home in this post-New Year's crowd, and because I'm bleeding so much, I thought I probably shouldn't be alone. I have no choice but to call Sven, who is the only person I know close by, and ask him to meet me. He and his friend say they're on their way, and I wait outside the Burberry store (gotta keep it classy, even in times of distress). As I'm waiting, I'm bleeding all over the sidewalk, and a woman and her bf stop and ask me if I'm okay. Not actually feeling pain from the cut and not seeing any glass, I was weirdly calm, and assured them I'd be all right and that I had friends coming. Meanwhile, crowds of people are walking by and totally grossed out and confused by the combination of factors: I'm in this hot dress, leaning against the wall, sighing and muttering to myself, much in the manner of a weary prostitute, and there's a blood pooling at my feet.

Soon after, some African guys come by, one of whom is a doctor, and they take out some disinfectant wipes and start applying pressure to the wound. They tell me to sit on the ground and elevate my foot to slow the bleeding.
"I can't sit on the sidewalk in this dress!!!" I protest as they lower me down.
The woman who originally found me tells a security guard to get an ambulance, and next thing you know, I'm in the back of an ambulance getting bandaged by a medic.

He says he sees no glass, but if I'm still bleeding in the morning, to go to get stitches. He was really nice, and really knew how to make a lady feel special. He said he hated blood, and when I joked that he was probably in the wrong line of work, he said, "but I like your blood, it's okay."

Um, paramedic boyfriend?! Holler at a (medical) scholar!

Just then, the Swede and his friend come over to the ambulance window. I'm done being bandaged, hop out, and the Swede lets me lean on his burly arm as we walk back to his friend's place. I apologized for taking them away from their party, but they were nice about it. Apparently, I sounded very calm on the phone, so they were quite surprised to arrive and find a pool of blood and an ambulance, but no me. Sven joked about how this "Really worked out in his favor," and that I could spend the night there.
It's amazing how a day at the zoo can create such a false intimacy.
Knowing I was wounded and immobile, I figured I'd just stay there anyway, but wasn't sure if anything would happen, given my wound. I also didn't really mind if anything didn't happen--I was just glad to be able to have someone around during my time of distress and just needed a place to chill.

We got back to his friend's apartment, where a small party was going on. His friend's girlfriend is American and really nice and we hit it off right away. Sven and I flirted as I sat on the couch with my foot elevated. At around 3:00am everyone headed off to another house party. Sven, who was off to Adelaide the next day, said he didn't want to go. I was oddly relaxed (maybe I'm finally adopting the Aussie way of life), and figured I'd stay, since I didn't want to walk around anyway, and enjoyed hanging out with him.

With the house empty, we sit on the couch and flip channels, finally settling on a Sex and the City marathon. We're making fun of episodes, I'm talking about New York City, we're both tipsy, but not out of control. He puts his hand on my leg and is holding my hand while we watch. It was a deadly combination. Physical contact plus Sex and the City! Ugh, SATC, how you mess with my mind! It gets me feeling all empowered and sexy-like.

Next thing you know, Sven kisses me and we're making out on the couch like two boy scouts at camp after lights out. I'm sitting on his lap and he suddenly carries me into his bedroom (hello strength and hotness!) where, well...you know how babies are made.....

There is sufficient post-coital cuddling, which feels really nice. I know he's heading off to Adelaide in the early evening, so I start to mildly panic at around 10:30am. Should I just get out of bed now and leave him alone, so as not to seem too interested? I mean, he's not a vampire and I have no interest in men--where is this all coming from? On the other hand, my foot was killing me and I really had nowhere else to be and didn't feel like sitting at home and being sad about being wounded.

So, when his friend asked if I wanted to go to lunch, I said yes. I mean, shit, he's had his p in my v--we can't go get a fucking burger now?

The walk to lunch was a bit too long for my wounded foot, and I spent it walking at a snail's pace and talking to the friend's girlfriend, who was really cool. I was consciously trying not to be in the way, or be clingy, but wondered why Sven was no longer showing love for the blacktress. I chalked it up to male idiocy, a possible hangover, and definite fatigue.

After lunch, dropped me off at a bus stop and Sven said he'd call me when he got back from Adelaide, but I'm not convinced.

I then came home, desperately in need of a shower, but unable to take one with my bandage. The pain was still intense and it looked as though I was still bleeding, so I decided to go to a medical centre. Unfortunately, I had no way of getting to the one that was open, and the one person who I knew lived near me with a car wasn't answering her phone. That lonely, helpless feeling kicked in and I became so frustrated. I got in touch with one person who said she'd give me a ride if I felt I needed to go. I was really grateful, but having already taken advantage of her kindness too many times, hoped I wouldn't have to impose again.

At around 3, my landlady called me downstairs and upon seeing my wound, offered to take me to the doctor. I felt so bad, but really appreciated it. At the doctor, I'm told I should have been stitched in the ambulance, and they couldn't do it now. Instead, they put on sticky tape to try and close the wound. He told me to stay off of it for two to three days, and gives me an antibiotic to take to get rid of any possible germs that could come from being cut open with a dirty beer bottle.

So I spent the remainder of the day with my foot up and feeling totally bored. Although this means I have three days off from work (yay!), I can't really do anything with this freedom (boo!)....except nurture a mild crush on a Swedish lawyer who is probably nothing more than good breeding stock.

Ugh, wtf, mates?! I am supposed to be a strong black woman, and yet in both mind and body, I have been weakened! What does this mean for the start of my year? I feel like a total idiot for sleeping with someone I have no future with, and have no distractions to stop me from thinking in such circles (why hasn't he texted to check in? will he actually call when he returns? why is it I can't keep a man's interest?--lame!)

So, as I sit here on the 2nd day of 2009, I feel a bit of dread, a dash of sadness, and a pinch of regret. I try not to believe in foreshadowing, but the series of events that took place were just so random and ridiculous on every level that I can't help but feel like 2009 is going to be the year of the Hot Mess.

Thank god I have inauguration day to look forward to.