Workin' it Out!

Hey guys,

Sorry for the delay. As you can imagine, the last week has been a flurry of packing, schlepping,* and weariness--but there's been no shortage of blog material. Let me share some highlights--or, rather, lowlights--of the "Great Migration of 2012."

Last Thursday was the beginning of substantial preparation, and it involved a trip to Ikea with my mom.
No, not Jewboo. Why? Well, when it comes to interior design, meticulous planning, and troubleshooting my poor choices, mom's got Jewboo beat by a landslide. She watches HGTV 24/7 and seeing as I consider vajazzling a bold creative choice, I needed her expertise. Add to that the fact that 30 Rock is my design for living, and I just couldn't risk Ikea tearing Jewboo and I apart.



As we attempted to lug disparate pieces of birch veneer onto our trollies (which, of course, had to have sticky wheels that wouldn't respond to steering), my mother went from "Design on a Dime" to "Turn on You on a Dime." I went back to pick up and item and we were separated like two Mormon missionaries just days after arriving in a treacherous foreign land.^ Let's just say that by the time we got in the car, we weren't speaking...because that is what happened. Because I don't like toiling, sweating, or feeling dumb, I opted for Ikea's delivery and assembly service for the most complicated pieces: the bed frame, the office desk, and the tv stand. As Jewboo sat in Brooklyn, attempting to organize and pack 30 years worth of stuff, I sat in the new apartment waiting for deliveries to arrive. What took place on that day were interactions unlike any I could have ever dreamed of.

They all started with me profusely apologizing because I live on the top floor of a 5th-floor walkup. As burly, surly men hauled dining tables and chairs upstairs, I offered to help and was met with BPEs--"'Bitch, please' eyes." At around 5pm, Chris from Ikea arrived. He called to say that he couldn't find a parking spot and needed me to come down and hold the door while he emptied the truck.
"It's just you?!" I said with what may have been mistaken for disgust and disdain.
I was stressed out and worried--I had 11 different boxes totaling 200+ pounds and they'd just sent one guy. I'd warned them it was a walk-up. I'd hoped there'd at least be a spotter!

I offered to help and he looked at me like I had 3 heads before telling me to just "sit tight." He then proceeded to carry every single box up 5 flights of stairs.

I offered him water. I offered him food. I offered him a warm air mattress. He declined all of it.
"It's just a workout. That's all it is," he said through heavy breaths as he wiped sweat off his brow.

I was officially frightened. No one could be that righteous about heavy lifting unless he'd experienced worse. Every time he came in with a new piece, I stood up because I felt like an asshole for reclining when he was toiling. Once he was done, it was time to start assembling. Over the course of the five hours it took him to assemble items, we really got to know each other--and by that, I mean I got to know about him.

For the first half hour, he talked about the importance of exercise and supported his points with loose quotes from the Bible. "Do you believe in God?" he began. "You know God says by the sweat of your brow comes the strength of your body. That's truth."
I don't know why he needed to question my faith before saying that. I think we all know we need our 30 minutes a day because Michelle Obama says so.

Within the first 5 minutes, I knew he had to have been institutionalized in some way, because everything was really intense, like he wasn't used to having casual interactions with fellow humans and he got most of his information from a prison library. He didn't just make statements, he offered 10 different synonyms, stressing the least important parts of his conversation with such conviction he had to have been convicted.

I don't know if I'm explaining this well. Let me turn it over to Kevin Hart, who really captures the essence of such a man.




Take, for instance, Chris's thoughts on his physical appearance:
"Am I bigger than I should be right now? Yes, at this moment, as we speak, presently, I am not at the weight I should be for my height. I am 204 and I should be at a buck-eighty, a buck-seventy-five. I should be approximately 30 pounds less than I am. It is just a fact that I am larger than I should be."

Um, okay. #uncomfortable #lifetimemomentoftruth

He also kept asking me if I was "following" him, as though he'd been used to talking to methadone addicts who were prone to nodding off.

Turned out that Chris wasn't an Ikea employee but actually worked for a company to whom Ikea outsources it's delivery and assembly. (Turns out Ikea's own people can't even put the shit together! You know that's F'd) Luckily, he had experience with all of the items I purchased, so it only took him FIVE HOURS to put everything together. 


WTF?! Who has that kind of time? Imagine if I'd tried to do any of that on my own, or if Jewboo and I had sat there struggling with the pictionary-esque directions? I would have started crying within 20 minutes and then stormed out to get a cupcake.


As he moves on to the second item, Chris tells me that I'm missing not one but two pieces needed for the bedframe to be ready for use: the midbeam and the slats. 
"But it said there were 3 parts to the item and I have 3 boxes!" I yelped helplessly.
"Yeah, but you have to get these two things separately," Chris said. "They must be purchased in addition to the 3 pieces. It's additional. They didn't even tell you, did they?"
No, they did not, Incarcerated Chris! (InCHRISerated?)


Ikea needs to stop bullshittin' and just change their logo:

Chris explained what I'd need to do once I purchased the pieces (which you know involved a lot of repetition) and told me it'd be fine. He then went back to discussing physical fitness, and explained why ping-pong "is the greatest form of exercise that God gave man."

Hear him out:

"What was the first form of exercise? Fighting. Think about it: you use your body, you build strength, you can do it anywhere. It's man's instinct. [at this point I start to text friends: If you don't hear from me in 30 minutes, send out the dogs.] I mean, I can fight. I used to fight and I'm telling you, I'd be sweating more than I am now. But we can't do that as our exercise. Why? Because we'd hurt our bodies. It's too much stress and risk on the human body. And it's illegal, too [he laughs awkwardly]. Yeah, you'll get in trouble. 


"Okay, what's next after fighting? Football. Again, too much physical injury. It's dangerous, no matter how much padding you wear. Then what? Baseball--please!" [I didn't say anything.] "Swimming is good for building flexibility, but there's no strength. Have you seen pro swimmers? They're weak. Ok, yeah, running, that's something, you're on to something." [Again, I didn't say anything.] "But runners are weak, too. They have endurance but they're all bones. Their bodies cannibalize themselves. It's all bone. 


"And then there's ping-pong. You ever get hit with a ping-pong? It doesn't feel like nothing. Whether you hit it 60 miles an hour, the most you'll get is a red mark. And you're in combat. You're against your fellow man, but you're never in physical contact. I'm on my side, you're on your side. Always. There's no touching. NONE. At most, I throw you the ball. It's a workout, for real. Believe me. For the record I am saying it's the best exercise. You can quote me. I lost 60 pounds playing ping-pong." 


What. on. earth.

It was the longest 5 hours of my life, made worse by the fact that I had no food to eat. Things started to get less intense once Chris asked if he could listen to music as he worked. "SWEET GOD PLEASE!" I thought as I said, "yeah, get in the zone."

He put the speaker at top volume on his iPhone and proceeded to blast 80s rock songs by Huey Lewis and the News, which only made him even more of an enigma.

If only I'd known that Chris would be the most steadfast of all the men who I'd meet over the next week. For the last 5 days our toilet hasn't worked, our shower dribbles like a public-school water fountain, and one of our dining chairs arrived broken and took 4 days to replace. When I called various men in charge, I discovered that the Ikea model had become universal. I was on my own Les Miz style, feeling very third world in my own (brand new) apartment! Jewboo and I have managed to make it through, however, and have actually grown closer (there's nothing like admitting to peeing in the shower to make a relationship stronger).

Here's to a first week of cohabitation unlike any other! At least I'm not Ashton Kutcher, am I right?!






*I'm so Jewish!
^I saw "Book of Mormon" on Broadway two weeks ago and it's changed my life.

There's Something About A Blacktress?

You guys know how I regularly attract randoms, right? Whether it's a random Southern gent in alphabet city or an Australian mafia member, there's just something about a blacktress that brings out the inappropriateness in people. Last week, while dining at one of my favorite restaurants with my mom, I realized that it just might be genetic.

After we ordered, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands (because I'm convinced everyone on the subway has bedbugs and Hepatitis A - Z). When I returned, the waitress--a 40-something Asian woman with long black hair and a paisley print top--came over to our table.

Waitress: Ooooh, look at you, big girl!

I looked at my mother, who was just sipping her soda and trying not to laugh.

Waitress: How old are you now? You're such a big girl!

Why is she talking to me like I'm 5 years old and we've somehow met before?

Me: I'm 27.

Waitress [incredulous]: What?! No! You look so young. That's good. Such good skin. Oh, I see your sushi! (she leaves to go get it)

I made a 'WTF?' face to my mother.

Mom [in her library voice, leaning close]: When you were in the bathroom she came up to me and started talking. She told me she had a black daughter who was, "good, with a lot of energy--cause of her Jamaican blood. She's not quiet, like Asian girls."

Me: What?! I left you alone for 90 seconds, mother. How could this happen?

Mom: I don't know. People just come up to me and say things. I have a face that says, "I won't attack you if you decide to share."

Me: Ugh, so I have you to blame. When I was inside Caucasia, they thought I was their Oprah figure or something.

Waitress [sets sushi on the table]: I can't believe it, you're 27! Mom, you so young. Me, I started late. My daughter's 7 years old. I'm 47. But she is a good girl, like you. My husband, he's from Jamaica--not Queens. Jamaica Jamaica.

[We didn't know what to do while this was going on. We wanted to eat our sushi but she was standing over us and it felt awkward.]

Why am I telling you this? Well, because I just got off the phone with my credit card company (gotta pay some billz!) and it seems that even my phone voice inspires randoms to overshare. Customer service rep "Ken" would not stop with the yackity yakkkking!

Ken: Your last name...what region in that from?
Me: It's Nigerian.
Ken: Ooooh, you're Nigerian. That's good. This is the Kansas office you're calling now. I went to KU and even though I'm from the US Virgin Islands, with my accent, they let me into the international students club. I had a lot of African friends--their last names were hard to pronounce. I said, I said, 'Can I call you a short 3-letter name instead?'
Me: ha ha ha?
Ken: Yeah, the Nigerians had some of the hardest names. ... I have a lot of Ethiopian friends, too. They spoke...Amharic.
Me: Don't know it.
[Ken then proceeds to recite every number and letter of my name and address as he types it. Ugh, this guy couldn't just sit in silence for a second???]
Ken: You live in New York?
Me: Yes

[Fuck, Ken is going to steal my personal information and show up at my doorstep.]

Ken: New York is the meeting place for every. culture. in. da. worl....

(that's not a typo--he didn't pronounce the 'd'.)
(he laughs lazily, like he's just gotten high and is watching a cartoon.)

Me: Ha ha ha?

Ken: Like the coastes [yes, that was his plural of coasts.] I was down in Miami one time--it didn't feel like America. It felt like Mexico and Cuba. And in California, there were so many street names in Spanish--it was really....interesting and unique....

[I say nothing. I'm just really hoping my payment will go through so I can get off the phone.]
Ken: I like a lot of world cultures.

[I continue to say nothing. Clearly, this man will take a mile so I can't even be polite.]

Ken: Okay, I'm waiting for the system to process....to process...to process......... OK, your payment went through.
Me: Thank you!
Ken: Have a great day--maybe I'll see you in New York City!
Me: AAAAHHHH!
I hang up.

Guys, I may have a stalker who works for Chase. I'm gonna have to get some Occupiers to protect me.

Riding the Elevator in a Post-Racial America

Conversation on an Elevator

The time is 4 minutes ago. I'm on the elevator heading back up to my office after grabbing some organic fruits at Trader Joe's. It's me and a white-bearded Caucasian fellow who works on the 4th floor.

Me [on the phone with a friend]: All right, girl, I gotta get back up to the plantation. I'll see you Saturday. Bye! [I hang up.]

Man [smiling to himself, looking straight ahead. then, in a sing-song voice]: Pickin' some cotton, pickin some cotton'.

Me: Mmm-hmmm. Always toiling.

DING.

The elevator opens on 4.

Man: Have a good day.

He exits.

I have to find out what happens on the 4th floor.

Another Openin', Another Show

I haven’t been sleeping much lately, guys, so my brain-hole is a little slow today. Every time I try to sleep, my mind goes all a-flutter and I spend the night rolling over more than Rosa Parks in her grave every time a Tyler Perry film comes out.

To make up for my lag, here's a lengthy post. [Names have been changed to protect those with internet]

On 4/28 a friend of mine sent an e-mail asking if I’d be interested in hosting a burlesque show on 4/30. When it comes to my blackting career I never turn down a gig and told her to pass on my info. Thanks to the magic/horror of Facebook, within 15 minutes I was in touch with my friend’s friend, and Lydia, the show’s producer, who weren’t the same person. (red flag #1)

I send Lydia my YouTube link and within minutes I was booked. At the end of the email, she adds, “bring your favorite pair of high heels for the finale dance number!” (red flag #2)
I don’t do choreography, y’all. I hold the talking stick and makey the people laugh.

After staying in bed all day with sinus issues, I showed up at the “venue” about half an hour before the show started. By “venue,” I mean the girl’s apartment.

I walked in to a flurry of Caucasian skin, as ladies ran around in tiny outfits, applying mascara and practicing their moves. I just sat in an armchair and tried not to get in the way.
The only person who was equally useless was a 40-something guy named George, who had silver hair and black-rimmed glasses. He gave off a grown-up-hipster-on-a-gluten-free-diet vibe, so I made chit chat and discovered that he was Lydia's roommate.
“So what do you do?” I ask. Really, I was wondering why he’d stay in his apartment on a Saturday night when his roommate’s having a burlesque show.
George takes a beat. “For a living I work in IT.” (red flag #3)

Okay, I’ve watched enough TLC and A&E specials to know when someone’s hiding a freaky secret. I asked him what he did for fun, laughs, for kicks. George looks me square in the eye, adjusts his specs, and says, “I teach rope bondage to couples, showing them how to engage in rope play. And I also do it for fun. I tie up women, men—mostly women—and explore the pleasure and sexuality in that.”
[I’m not even flagging that shit, guys. It speaks for itself.]

Oh good lord.

Before I could respond to this over-share, a young lady with nice boobs interrupted me. “Are you Starshine?” she asked frantically.
I am not Starshine.

Apparently, Starshine was the emcee, and at 20 minutes to showtime, still hadn’t arrived. (red flag #4) Meanwhile, I’m trying to locate Lydia so that I can find out when I’m going on and how long my set should be. I catch her in mid-sprint and she says, “30, 45 minutes at most.”
Um, unless this is an HBO special, I don’t think that sounds right. “No, not the length of the show-show--how much time do I have?”
She looks helplessly.
“Let’s say 8-10?” I suggest. She nods and waves me away.

At 10 minutes to 9pm, people start trickling in and the show’s nowhere near starting. The apartment was New York City huge—a loft with abstract art on the walls, brand-spanking-new hardwood floors, and an Ikea sensibility. Fancy, and all, but it was someone’s home. Strangers were putting things in the closets. I felt like I was in a youth hostel. A white-haired elderly couple walks in and heads to the kitchen. I take George’s seat so that I’m not in the way of foot traffic. He comes behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders (which are always tied in a Gordian knot). “Are you a drug dealer?” he asks.
Great, now this guy wants to get some heroin and start an orgy.
“You’re just really really tense,” he says in response to my sideways glance.
The buzzer starts ringing incessantly and I become the doorman, letting people in and directing them to take off their shoes, until 9:30—thirty minutes behind schedule, which is when the show finally started.

Starshine appears from “backstage” (the girl’s bedroom) and starts with a sexy opener: “Welcome to Ladies Night,” she says sultrily, trying to get them into the burlesque mood. “First off, the bathrooms are over to your left, down the hall. Tonight we’re guided by the rule, If it’s yellow, let it mellow; If it’s brown, flush it down. We have some lovely ladies for you tonight….”
WHAT?! We're opening a variety show with the notice that urine should remain untouched for as long as possible? What about silencing cell phones, a reminder to enter a raffle, or saving applause until the end?
This is when I realized that I needed to remember every moment of this night for blogging purposes.

The set list was as follows:

1. Starshine opening
2. Tango 1 – Lydia and a dude.
(quick change)
3. Tango 2 – Lydia and a dude—in different outfits.
4. Girl with a guitar, singing a song.

(quick change)
5. Lydia AGAIN—in a different outfit—doing a solo piece. It is an interpretive dance to "Walkin' in Memphis" which she dedicates to “all the workers.”
[NB: There have been three costume changes and Starshine has changed outfits twice. I do not know which workers she's referring to.]
6. Girl with guitar comes back again and does an original song.

[She is the best part of the show, and her voice sounds like she swallowed Etta James. I want to be her bff.]
Raffle-prize drawing—people have entered to win a sex workshop or a massage.
7. I come on and do stand-up.
8. Burlesque number.
*Random dude in the audience comes over and starts chatting me up, telling me how funny I was and asking where I regularly perform. Although I appreciated the praise, we were IN AN APARTMENT and he was talking way too loudly.*
9. Another burlesque number
[note: this is ALL TAKING PLACE IN AN APARTMENT. PEOPLE ARE SITTING ON THE FLOOR—EXCEPT FOR THE ELDERLY COUPLE, WHO ARE SITTING ON THE FUTON.]
10. Lydia COMES OUT AGAIN in a new outfit and performs a burlesque number “Teeth” by Lady Gaga. She is wearing a negligee and high heels, and smiles to reveal vampire fangs.
11. All the ladies come out—IN NEW OUTFITS—and do a group number to “In These Shoes,” by Bette Midler.


Did I forget to mention that this show cost $12 in advance, or $15 at the door?
When I asked what this was raising money for (since she’d already told me it wasn’t a paid gig), George said, “It's just for Lydia.”
Oh, really? You’re charging folks to come to your house, take off their shoes, sit on your floor, leave their valuables unattended, and probably exchange bedbugs while you do modern dance to an early-90s power ballad? I need to find some moneyed, non-actor friends who'll go to any lengths to support my art.

As much as the show was like something you’d see in a freshman dorm at a liberal arts college,* the crowd loved the blacktress. I was really flustered and not used to being in someone’s living room with 40 pairs of eyes staring straight at me. I also wasn’t sure if they could handle my truths, but a throw-away line about gentrification went over really well, and I loosened up quickly. I haven’t performed in front of a “normal” audience (i.e. not actors, comedians, or improvisers) in a while, and it was good to remember that regular folks aren’t so hard to win over.

After the show, a red-haired woman came up to me and gave me some love. I noticed her in the crowd because she was one of the few people to laugh at my joke about sister wives. “We were cracking up because I’m on a date with this guy and his girlfriends [that's no typo, guys], and before we got here we were joking about being his harem!”
I then spent the next 10 minutes following her around the room screaming “WHERE ARE THE SISTER-WIVES???”

I found them. They were sweet yet homely. It was just like TV.

The man in this equation was an Oklahoma transplant covered in tats, had a bar through his nose, and looked very much like he could commit a hate-crime. He quickly shared the story of his first black girlfriend (natch) and told me about how he was made an “honorary African American” in third grade. I was torn away from my real-life episode of “True Life: I’m Polyamorous” by a guy named Fernando. I had gone on a rant about the stand-up comedian/former marine/dating coach during my set, which spoke to his heart.

“I know that guy you were talking about in your set,” Fernando said. "We used to work together doing coaching."
OH MY GOD. Of all the burlesque shows-in-an-apartment, in all the world, Fernando had come to the one where I was doing a set. We went into a discussion about what a “nice asshole” the dating coach was, and I suddenly felt my entire night—nee, my existence—was vindicated.

I gave out my new business cards like they were candy, and Sunday night it came back to bite me in the ass. I got an e-mail from the Random Dude titled “Drinks?”:
I think the title speaks for itself. I'm the bald man from the burlesque show if you haven't figured it out :)
I enjoyed chatting with you and would like to have a chance to do it again. Normally, I call to do these kinds of things, but I'm currently out of the country. I'll be back thursday.
Wanna meet up on Friday evening?

Ah, memories of my slutty days, where this drunken bald man’s oddly formal email, complete with the intimation that he’s worldly, would have given me something to swoon about for days—and blog about for weeks. Despite the 3 minutes of my set that I devoted to my Jewboo, I still had to explain to him that I was off the market. I guess it’s good to know that I’ve still got it after all these years! It’s even better to know that I am not tempted to stray from Jewboo out of fear, boredom, the desire for a tall man, or a need for attention. Growth!







*(You know, right in the middle of second semester, when everyone’s talking about gender as a performance, and your roommate’s now going by the name ‘Zev’ until he/she can decide how to self-identify.)

Poetry In Motion

Hey Gang,

I've got no particular reason to blog at the moment, but I felt compelled to do so because I AM ON A MOVING BUS, BOUND FOR BOSTON.

I am blogging on a bus!
Technology is fucking insane in the membrane.
Just when I was finally mastering and accepting the iPod as a concept, here comes Bolt Bus, with it's free wifi and outlets at every seat. All this, for only $15!!! Holla at a recessionista! I'm heading to Boston to clear my head and reconnect with my main gay, JJSiii. Nothing says "I'm over you and doing me" like Cape Cods on Cape Cod!

Anyway, while I'm here (CAUSE I CAN BE), I guess I'll give you a follow-up to the bicycle random.

So, I threw out his card but remembered his name, so I could find out who the heck this crazy was. I found him on facebook and it turns out we have a mutual friend - a girl I went to school with. I had to know how she knew him - was she, too, a victim of his cycling? Just last night, she appeared on my gchat list. Here's the scoop:


BLACKTRESS: GIRL!!!
i have something very random and important to ask you
[a few minutes go by, i briefly leave the computer]
WOMAN: this sounds like it mite b spam
Blacktress: so, basically, i was bothered on the street by this guy
he wouldn't leave me alone until i took his card
i'm not interested, cause he was mildly predatory, but i had to look him up. you came up as one of his friends on facebook/our mutual friend. i must know how you know this character
his name is Marc W
Woman: ewwww
hes my uncles friend dont call him
Woman: he facebkd me, but i dont really know him
Blacktress: oh good god
your uncle's friend
girl, you need to read the transcript of our conversation
i was real pissed and angry with this fool
followed me ON HIS BIKE
i had to make him go away cause i was almost at my door and didn't want him to know where i lived!
Woman: yea, he is stalkerish, he tried to get me to cook him dinner for like 2 yrs
Blacktress: oh my god
girl, this is too good
the insanity
Woman: he helpd me w/ my resume like 1 time... borderline insane
hes like functional psycho
that sucks tho,im srry
Blacktress: you just painted the very picture i expected
Woman: i thnk the bike is a midlife crisis thing


OMFG, guys! Homey is her uncle's friend!!! She's a grown woman like me, so her uncle has to be nearing retirement. This would put this guy in the 40-something range AT LEAST, right? He helped her with a resume and kept asking her to make him dinnner???? What a weirdo!

Thank god I'm on a bus outta town. The men in NYC are toxic - and not in the fun, Britney way.

Playa, Please!

I came home from meeting idol/future life partner Augusten Burroughs last night and was semi-bummed out and also very hungry. I figured I could cure both of these ailments by purchasing ice cream and cookies, and then consuming them. As I headed to my crib from the store, a random on a bicycle said hello. Being a bitter New York City born-and-bred hag, clearly I ignored him. Moments later, he reappeared.

Random On Bicycle: Did my saying hello offend you?
Blacktress (rolling eyes): No, but you following me is now creeping me out.
ROB: I'm sorry. Can I get your name?
Blacktress: No.
ROB: Why not?
Blacktress (sighing): Please, leave me alone. I am not in the mood.
ROB: I just want to say hi.
Blacktress: Don't. I'm mean.
ROB: Mean people don't usually say they're mean.
Blacktress: I'm very self-aware.
ROB: Self-aware of what?
Blacktress: Um, myself.
ROB: You're not from New York, are you?
Blacktress: Yes, I am.
ROB: Harlem? You don't seem like it.
Blacktress: Um...
ROB: I'm from Harlem, too, on the East Side. I'm going over there now, to my aunt's house.
Blacktress: Well, you should get there now.
ROB: I'm gonna put up her curtains. Or drapes. One of those.
Blacktress: Well, you should hurry up.
ROB: With this thing [he gestures towards his bike.] it doesn't take any time.

There is a pause. Dude is still following me and we're mere steps from my door. I can't have him know where I live. My patience is beyond thin.

Blacktress: WHAT DO YOU WANT?
ROB: How about I give you my facebook or my information, and you can contact me.
Blacktress: No, I'm not going to do that.
ROB: Is because of how we're meeting.
Blacktress: Among other things, yes. But mostly cause I don't want to be bothered. I'm not in the mood for this foolishness.
ROB: Well then, why don't you let me contact you. Can I have your facebook?
Blacktress: NO!
[For some reason he finds my shouting endearing, and I'm getting more and more annoyed]
Blacktress: Look, I'm almost home, and I'd like you to stop following me. What can I do to get you to leave me alone?
ROB: Why don't you take my information.
Blacktress: Fine.

He gets off the bike, searches in his FANNY PACK for his business card. He then finds a pen. He flips the card over and begins to write.

Blacktress: This is taking too long. I've got ice cream in this bag and it's not going to eat itself.
ROB: I'm giving you my personal email. [beat] That's funny. I got ice cream at home, too. It's Tofutti.
Blacktress: Oh god, stop writing, I'm done.
ROB: It's dairy free.
Blacktress: I know what Tofutti is.
ROB: Did you have braces, or are your teeth naturally like that?
Blacktress: I had braces twice.
He laughs, as though I just said something hilarious.
ROB: I like your glasses, they're cute.
He hands me the card.
Blacktress: OK.
ROB: Can I get your name?
Blacktress: No.
ROB extends his hand for a handshake.
Blacktress: No.
ROB: No?
Blacktress: It's swine flu season. Can you please go now?
ROB: Ok. Looking forward to hearing from you.

He bikes away and I continue walking forward. I look back and see he's still going, going, gone, so I double back and head in my door.

Good lord, can't a blacktress just come home on a cold night and not be bothered by a man on a bicycle? I think you all know his business card is in the trash right now. Of course, I'm dying to hyperlink you to his website, but I can't risk him finding the site and then NEVER LEAVING ME ALONE!

If I lived in Charlotte....

So, this summer has proven itself to be the Summer of New Lows (more on that later). I'm actually in a place of acceptance, as I roll solo and try to keep myself entertained in this jobless world. Much of my time involves sitting at bar 99 Below, where I chat with Ollie, a 6'6" Irishman who I like to refer to as 'heterosexuality's greatest loss.' He's also, in true Irish fashion, a champion drinker and thanks to him I now have the tolerance of a sailor on leave! Every trip to 99 Below ends with a boost, either from the buzz of too much Jameson, or the meeting of a random, such as the 45-year-old married guy last Tuesday, who told me that the only reason I was single is because men my age can't handle what a dynamic woman I am.

Anyhoo, so Friday night, after a dinner with a friend, I headed to 99 Below.
Yes, by myself.
Yes, at prime bar-hopping hour.
This is no different than walking the streets of Sydney on my own, and at least I get free drinks when I'm at 99. I also find it much more tolerable to interact with strangers than frenemies, so this solo roll is often my own doing.

So, I'm planted at the bar, chatting up Ollie, when these two random dudes come up to order their Budweiser. Ever the enabler, Ollie goes, "you want shots, fellas?" The shorter one with the spikier hair turns to me and asks, "do you want one?" Never one to turn down a free drink, I agree, and of course, the group shot makes us all new best friends.

The DJ is playing early 90s jams, starting with Montell Jordan, and going all the way from Boyz II Men, to ABC, to BBD--the east coast family! We're singing along and their reminiscing about college, and the dudes automatically assume I'm their age, cause I know all the words. They made some joke about "the 25 years olds on the side who just want to hear The Killers," and I fake laughed, waiting for the right moment to tell them I'm in that age bracket.

Spikey haired dude introduces himself as Ryan, and he tells me he's visiting his buddy from Charlotte, NC. His friend Mark, who has lived in NYC 7 years, is quite standoffish, but I don't mind cause he has an overgrown soul patch.

Not one to go down the same road twice, I instantly ask Ryan why he's not wearing his wedding ring. He's taken aback, as he hasn't mentioned a wife. He laughs, and explains that it's back at Mark's house.
"You're good," he says.
Ryan goes on to say how much he loves NYC, and how close he and Mark are. "Seriously, it's my two daughters, then this guy."
Um, what about his wife? I think I need to get Dr. Phil on the horn, cause this marriage sounds like it's full of hate-fucking.

As we talk, and after I reveal my age, Ryan says, "you're the smartest person I've ever talked to at a bar." Clearly, this is true, but it's also sad. What is with men's low standards for people--and women especially? As soon as I string together a sentence--and especially if it ends in a punchline--the dude loses his shit and can't cope. The rest of our conversation was so magical, I feel as though it must be transcribed.

Ryan: What are you doing here by yourself?
Me: I'm a lone wolf.
Ryan: What? You're not here with anyone?
Me: I live on the edge, on the fringes.
Ryan: I don't understand what you're doing here alone.
Mark (suddenly at attention, super excited): Dude, this is what I'm talking 'bout! This is what's so awesome about New York! Hot girls all over the place, none of them have boyfriends. Hot girls, just sitting by themselves, dude!
[I laugh, the sad laughter of a clown]
Ryan (looking wide-eyed and thrown, as though he just found out one of his daughters was pregnant): Dude, that is crazy.
Mark: That's why I fucking love this city!
Ryan (to me): If you were in Charlotte, you'd have 17 boyfriends right now.
Mark: You'd have a husband, 6 kids, and a big ol' house, baby.
Me: Um, can I fly back with you tomorrow, Ry?
[laughter ensues]
Mark: So, does that mean I can take you out for dinner on Sunday?
Me: What?
Mark (to Ryan): See how they do? (to me) Seriously, dinner Sunday?
Me: Oh, I can't, I'm busy.
Mark: What about Monday?
Me: I have an improv class, 7 to 10.
Mark (to Ryan): And that's another thing about New York, dude--every one of them's a fucking actress!!
[They laugh as I playfully hit Mark kinda hard in the shoulder and am not joking at all.]
Me: Whatever, dude. Okay, then, what about Wednesday?
[I'm not even all that interested in this dude, but his reverse psychology is working like a charm, and it really gets my goat when someone hears I'm a blacktress or comedian, and instantly writes off all my positive traits as being "on," or full of shit.]
Mark: Oh, um, I can't. I have to travel for work.
Me: Where?
Mark: I'm going to Dubai.
Me (to Ryan): And that's why I can't date in New York. They've all gotta go to Dubai!!
[laughter ensues]
Ryan: You're seriously the smartest woman I've ever met.
Mark: See, dude? They're all busy though. That's the thing that sucks. They've all got an improv class and a show and an opening, and a wine and cheese party?
Me: What?
Mark: You heard me, wine and cheese!
Me: Whatever, dude, you know you love it. You love that I'm fucking busy, cause it makes you think I'm cool as hell.
[Mark cracks up, and high fives me.]
Me: So, why are you single, if NYC is so great? You're southern and, what, 37? What's your damage?
[Mark laughs again, and Ryan joins in, but neither of them answer. Most curious indeed.]
Mark: You're not free Tuesday?
Me: I thought you leave for Dubai on Tuesday?
Mark: I do, at night.
[What kind of Dubai flight is this, where he can have a dinner date beforehand? Are we going to grab a bite at the Chili's Too in JFK Airport?]
Me: Whatever, call me when you get back.
Mark: That's in, like, a week. This connection will fizzle by then.
[What connection?]
Me: No it won't. You won't meet anyone cooler than me in the next 10 days, let's be real.
[There's much laughter, and Mark high fives me yet again.]
Ryan: You're the smartest woman I've ever met. You should come live in Charlotte.

After 5 free dranks on these two southern gents, I must say, hopping on a midnight train to Charlotte started to look pretty damn good.

Oh, and obvi I have not heard from soul patch. Goes to show that even the most southern of gentlemen can still become tainted by the NYC. You know, the city that never sleeps...with the same girl twice.

Zoo for Two

(my titles are getting so bad, I know.)

Blacktress' Log, Star Date Monday, 29 December 2008.


Today I went to Taronga Zoo with a Swedish lawyer I met last night while at work. Talk about randomness!!

So, I went into my Sunday night shift determined to have energy (and buoyed by the fact that we close at 1am on Sundays), and got off to a decent start. I started at 6pm, and actually prefer the bar when it's relatively quiet and people come in to order food, have a beer, and just sit around. It's alot easier to get along with folks when you don't have to shout over music and they aren't working their ESL skills while blind drunk. It's at these hours that I can be my best, chatting up customers, making them laugh, and making transient vagabond friendships.

Two older Australian guys came in around 6:30, and I instantly made a joke about them being on the prowl, which they appreciated. Then, a third guy came and joined them, and we all got to talking--where are you from, how long are you here, the usual. The third dude was visiting from Sweden, so I instantly mentioned my Swedish friend/inspiration to earn some street cred. They went off to play pool, and I started chatting with others. I got a break (finally!) and as I tried to eat*, they pounced on me, mocking my large flavourless meal. Out of nowhere, Swedish guy sits next to me.
"So, what are you up to this week?" He says, as though we're old mates.
"I'm off tomorrow, so I think I'm going to go to the zoo." I mean, he wanted to know, so I told him.
"Oh, I'd love to do that," he said. "What time are you going to go?"

Next thing you know, we've traded numbers and we've got a 1:30 E.T.A.

Um, okay. This is what moving to a foreign land is all about. Meeting randos for zoo trips and just going where the day takes you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the bar, there's Shane, another customer who I'd met the week before when I was off the clock. I was talking to him while my homegirl chatted up his hot friend, simply doing my sacred wingwoman duty--which was completely selfless seeing as Shane is about five feet two inches tall.

Now, those of you who know me know that what I'm looking for is a TALL glass of milk--not a shot glass! He also had scary eyes that made me uncomfortable, so you can imagine my surprise when he took my phone (it was out cause I was checking a text) and put his number in it. I'm telling you, male confidence never ceases to amaze me. Of course, I deleted his number post haste. When he came in last night and stood on his tip-toes at the bar (I kid you not, tippy tip toes!) he asked me "where I've been."

Um, what's with randoms coming to my place of employment and questioning my whereabouts?? These blokes need to slow their roll!

Just when it couldn't get any better, this 21 year old who came in Saturday night clearly mistook my awesome bartending/social skills as a sign of interest. He was really nice and funny and he was my favorite customer--primarily because he ordered simple drinks and boxed annoying dudes out of my area. And because I'm bored and living life on the edge (and because I have a pay-as-you-go phone that can be ditched at any second) I gave him my number thinking he'd be too drunk to call, or that we could just do a friend thing.

Oh, how wrong I was. I'd ignored his text the night before (which said, "so when are we going on our date?"), and he came into the bar AGAIN on Sunday and sat right in my section with his friend. I asked him how old he was, and I burst out laughing when he told me. (For some reason, me being 47 didn't phase him.)

As the night gets busier, he comes up to the bar and says, "What's the best restaurant you've been to in Sydney?"

"Oh, Chat Thai would have to be it. Tiny place, great food, always packed."

"Ok, I'm going to take you there on our date."

Oh good lord. I'm such an accidental cougar.

Anyway, back to the Easy Swede (which, ironically enough, is a signature cocktail we make at the bar. I couldn't tell you what's in it, though--I always sort of make it up or read the menu when someone asks).

We meet up at Circular Quay at 1:30 today, both hungover. For some reason I thought it was a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine during staff drinks after work, and have been paying the price all day. We stopped to get a quick bite to eat, then took the ferry to the zoo. The Swede is 29 years old, has been practicing law less than a year, and has been to Sydney several times because he has family here. He's very buff, sort of like a Lego man, and also worked as a prison guard.

Yes, I went to the zoo with a Swedish former prison guard. LOVE IT!

The conversation went pretty easily. Swede was quite unimpressed with the zoo because most of the animals were in hiding or inert--although, to be fair, as we rode the Sky Safari up to the top of the zoo, we did see that one of the elephants had a massive boner, so I'd say we scored.

Early on, during the "Australian Walkabout" exhibit where you can take great photos of kangaroos, we came to a startling conclusion. The barrier in the exhibit is about 3 inches high, and yet the kangaroos didn't move. It's like they had no will to live or desire to escape. Clearly, these animals are being given sedatives to keep them complacent and zoo-friendly. I mean, look at him:

I am, like, totes in this kangaroo's George Foreman (grill) and it's not even batting an eyelash.

The only animal with the good sense to try and be free was this lizard we saw as we were being kicked out about 10 minutes after closing time:

For serious. This lizard was just on the pavement, heading toward the ice cream truck. I figured he was going to climb in and try to get a ride off the island. I think I saw its cousin in the reptile room only 10 minutes before.

After a couple of hours at the zoo we grabbed some dinner and chatted. He told me about this famous case he worked on back home, in which a woman killed the children of her ex-bf's current lady. Of course, being the weirdo that I am, I was fascinated by the case and kept making comparisons to CSI, which he didn't appreciate. He apparently grew up in the "mean streets" of Sweden, and is very comfortable "with all sorts of people," having many Iranian, Arabic, and African friends. He's even dated a black girl, so you know he was clearly feeling the blacktress. At first, I thought we were just being friendly, but we he said I could "google him" instead of "googling myself," I knew there were some sex in the subtext.

All in all, it was a decent day. I'm glad I fought the urge to stay inside and watch tv, and I may have even gotten New Year's Eve plans out of this. Yay for doing things!

Oh, I should also add that, while looking at the red pandas, we met a lovely Caucasian family from Boston. How? Well, I hear a little girl whispering and the dad saying "ask her!" And I turn around.

"Excuse me, but we were wondering how you get your hair like that?"

Ah, another lesson in black hair care. I leaned down to the girl's level and took it slow, explaining that no, I didn't do it myself, and that it took 6 hours. I'm glad I caught her early, to educate her on the black plight before she embarrassed herself at a liberal arts university.



*Note to self: never order vegetarian lasagna at a backpacker bar. It does all sorts of bad things to you.

Free Walking Tours - You Get What You Pay For

Yesterday I went on a free walking tour of Melbourne's CBD, sponsored by the city of Melbourne. I was really proud of myself for not only finding something free, but for actually showing up at the visitor's centre and taking part in it. This tends to be the running theme of my travels thus far. I look up activities 24/7, read through my 'Let's Go! Australia- On a Budget' and 'Lonely Planet' guide while taking notes on what's cool, and trying to memorize the city map so I avoid looking like a tourist in public (although my nubian nature gives me away). When I reach a destination listed in my book or recommended to me by a friend, I feel as though I'm super human, as though I was able to bring something from the pages of a book to life, causing it to materialize in front of me exactly where the map says it's going to be.

I arrived at my tour with energy, ready to get the inside-scoop from a Melbourne resident. As I waited for the group to gather, Glenn came out to wait. Glenn was a 60-70-something year old pensioner (retiree, in Australian) who gives tours simply for the love of the game. The other two members of my tour were Anne, a middle-aged Swedish woman, and Tibia, a large German woman.
Both wore sensible walking shoes and had harsh accents.
Glenn asked us our interests so that he could tailor the tour to our needs. I told him I was interested in the arts scene, as well as seeing the tiny sidestreets for which the city is famous.
Anne and Tibia* said they were interested in history.

Ugh, way to start a snooze-fest, guys.

We headed out at 9:30 and started off strong, with views of St. Patrick's Cathedral, the historic Flinders Street station, and the architectural schizophrenia that is Federation Square.
Soon, however, it devolved into what I can only describe as getting what you pay for.
At one point, we walked through a shopping center, into the entrance of a hotel. Without explanation, Glenn took us into the elevator, up to the 35th floor, and we exited onto a floor that held restaurants and a bar.
"Believe it or not, this is the best view you'll get of the entire city," Glenn said. "But, to really see it, you have to go into the bathrooms. [beat] so I'll just wait out here while you ladies duck in and have a look."

I kid you not.

We all went into the bathroom, which had a floor-to-ceiling window through which you could indeed see most of the city. It was quite nice, but....it was in a hotel bathroom. How were we even allowed in here without being guests? Where's the security?

Apparently, we weren't the only ones who knew about the view. After a minute, in walked three elderly women. One of them was tiny and Asian and I wanted to put her in my pocket when she said, "This is the most beautiful bathroom view I have ever seen."
I was dying to know what she was comparing it to.

We then walked through the restaurant, which was just finishing up breakfast, and looked out of the window from there. At one point, to illustrate Melbourne's penchant for "hidden gems," he took us down an alleyway into a small store that sold hats.

Seriously. We just walked in, he showed us the hats, and we left.

Glenn later tried to show us the banquet hall of an old hotel that used to be Melbourne's biggest and best, but there was a conference being held inside. Instead, he just described what it looked like.

At around 12:30, Glenn explained that if we wanted to see more, he just had to pop back in to the visitor's centre and sign out because he was only allotted 3 hours, but "was happy to continue on my own time." I wondered if Glenn was running from something in his sordid past by constantly giving walking tours, but refrained from asking. I politely explained that I had errands to run and thanked him for his time while Anne and Tibia decided to stay on board Glenn's derailed party train. While I think it's totally tender of Glenn to offer his time and loved the idea of getting a free overview of randomness, I couldn't give my whole day over to posing as a hotel guest so that I could admire architecture.

But the city really is awesome. Tiny side streets with hidden bars (it's like having a Bourgie Pig on every corner), delicious foodstuffs, and cool stores. It's all there, and I am feeling the Euro vibe. Tonight I'm seeing a play called "Macbeth Re-Arisen," which touts itself as "Shaun of the Dead meets Shakespeare" (finally! thank god someone is reading my memos!), and tomorrow I'm heading on a wine tour of the Yarra Valley--Melbourne's nearest wine country. Let's hope I'm not surrounded by French Canadians.

Learning and Growing, the Aussie Way

Blacktress’ Log, Star Date 16/10/2008, 11pm.

I think things are looking up, gang. I found the gays!!! This is a crucial step towards not only getting acclimated, but becoming an Oprah or RuPaul-like figure in the community.

I just got back from Surry Hills, a happening gayborhood in Sydney. I met up with a friend of a friend who’d I’d never met (you know, in true Blanche Dubois fashion), and she introduced me to her crew, which consists of elite gay visionaries and kindly heteros. It was a mix of Ozzies and Americans, so I got a lot of great advice, both from people who had been through the transition and those who have been in the know all their lives. It was the highlight of my day, the majority of which was spent in a dank room partaking in a Responsible Service of Alcohol course, which I needed to take in order to work with booze.

The interesting thing about the class was that the old Ozzie guy who was teaching it—in addition to looking like the Monopoly guy would after getting a bad hit with Community Chest—was really into booze. Although the main goal was to teach us not to let people get intoxicated and fuck up shit, he really just made me want to get a drink and engage in other vices.

Such gems included:

“Drink, Drink, Drink. That’s the Ozzie motto. We’re not here to stop this. The main goal is CYA—cover your ass.” Good to know. We’re not here for ethics, we’re here to avoid litigation.

“Okay, 15 minute break guys. You have time for approximately three cigarettes and a cup of coffee.”

He also spoke of the perils of both “drink driving and drink walking,” which I’d never heard of.

I think the best part was that we were told there’d be an exam at the end, and we had to pass in order to receive RSA certification. Instead of making sure we perked our ears up and really focused, our instructor would preface his important points with, “there will be a question on this, so listen,” and repeatedly reminded us that we could use our coursebook during the exam.
God bless the Ozzie ethic.

Although I was bored, I was prepared for this seminar after Wednedsay’s 3-hour orientation on the basics of the IEP program—what they offer, tips for finding a job, an apartment, etc. Like the RSA course, it was one of those typical meetings one often dreads in the workplace or in school: a person speaks aloud while navigating a PowerPoint presentation that shows exactly what is being said onscreen. You then are told toward the end that there is an accompanying book which reiterates all information covered both verbally and on screen. This would have been highly boring and irritating if the presenters didn’t have magical accents and random asides that really drove the whole “no worries” concept home.

Gems from the orientation presenters included:

Re: Choosing an apartment. “Bad smells don’t go away, both in life and in an apartment. If you walk in it’s a bit whiffy, don’t think it’s a coincidence. It’s not, and the smell will probably get worse.”

Re: Beach Culture. “This is a great time of year to be in Sydney, and everyone will be on the beach. If you’re not on the beach, you’re not normal.”

In Defense of Vegemite. “We don’t do peanut butter and jelly. That is the most disgusting, most foul thing on earth.” [Note: when asked about my personal thoughts on Vegemite, I simply said “It’s…not the most pleasant flavor I’ve experienced.” Why Peter couldn’t be as diplomatic is beyond me.]

On Australian Wildlife. “It’s not a koala bear, okay? It has nothing to do with a bear!” [He was quite adamant about this, actually. I got a little uncomfortable.]

“We’re the only country that eats its national animal [kangaroo]. But they are delicious, seriously. You should eat them—and don’t feel bad. There are 21 million people in Australia and 140 million kangaroos, so we’re really trying to get through as many as possible.”

On Beach Safety. “The colors of the uniforms and flags are yellow and red, just like on Baywatch--we can’t pull it off as well as Pam and the Hoff, but we do what we can.”

“Alcohol makes you think you’re good at all sorts of things—like swimming—but you’re not.”

So far, I’ve been keeping pretty busy, getting back to the hostel (which is, seriously, the tricked out Cadillac of hostels—it’s out of control) really tired and feeling like I’ve accomplished something. I even looked at my first apartment yesterday, and although it’s only a 6-month lease, I think I want it—not only because it's a 3-minute walk from the train in a great area, but because the woman I’d live with is first cousins with none other than America’s Next Top Model photographer/judge Nigel Barker!

Seriously, there were pictures of the two of them on the mantel. There's even one with her, Nigel, Ms. Jay, and Twiggy.

When the other woman pointed it out, I reacted like any normal person would—by jumping up and down and squealing, of course. She really appreciated the enthusiasm, and even said she was excited to meet someone from New York. They say they’ll have a decision in a week, but I think I’m in there like (red-and-yellow) swimwear. Seriously, I must make this woman (and her apartment) mine.

Until then, I’m just roaming around the city, trying to be as friendly as possible. Today I met a lovely Italian man named Alberto, who showed me where to get free internet during the day. Because I hadn’t brought my laptop, he totally let me borrow his, which was tender. I knew I had him firmly in my grasps when, after hearing he was from Italy, I spoke the only phrase I knew: “Ciao, tu sei divortziato?” which means, “Hello, are you divorced?” He laughed, and asked me if I knew what I’d just said. I translated it, and explained that I don’t know much, but I know what I know. He has a bit of a hair gel issue, but I’m willing to overlook it because he’s too precious and nice, and I’m hoping we can do a language exchange.

Sonya, the German hippie in my hostel, is a gem. I actually make her laugh, which I always find to be an accomplishment when I'm dealing with a non-native English speaker. I told her the story of THE Australian, and she said, "You're very...um...hot-blooded."

I think she gets me.

Okay, well, my internet time is limited, but soon I will discuss my first male suitor. You can take the blacktress out of Harlem, but you can’t take the crazy-attractant off the blacktress.

I Am Blanche Dubois

For, like, Blanche, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

It’s day 2 in Sydney, about 11am on Tuesday morning, and it’s raining. I don’t really mind this because it gives me an excuse to be lazy and prevents me from being touristy. Yesterday took a positive turn, and gave me the boost I needed to keep my head up.

I first got a text from my Ozzie friend who was supposed to meet me, saying that she couldn’t come after work because of an event. I immediately got stressed and upset, wondering when I’d get my massive bags out of the hostel (seriously, the room is so tiny, there’s not even room for all my crap. I’m feeling very “Troop Beverly Hills,” compared to the other three girls’ “Outback Jack” vibe). I then realized I’d have no one to hang out with. I texted a friend of a friend who also lives in Sydney, and he said he wouldn’t be able to meet until Wednesday. Boo. Hiss.

I then went to the IEP office, where yesterday’s post was created, and then came back to the hostel, where I tried to look breezy and social while reading David Sedaris in the lounge area (which is huge—this hostel is hard core!). My eyes started to droop, but being only 2pm, I knew I couldn’t give in. My energy briefly peaked when I noticed a scruffy-faced bald man sitting on the couch. We made eyes a couple of times, but it was unclear whether he was looking simply because I was looking, or because he was feeling a blacktress’ sleep-deprived flava.

I worked up the nerve to chat up the foreign hottie as we waited for the elevator (my opening line: "Is it good?" I asked, as he ate an ice cream cone. For serious. I've got more game than Milton-Bradley). I learned that he was German, and actually working on building some big... building not too far from the hostel. I still, however, don’t know his name.

I simply planned to put my book down and take another walk, but all hope for beating jet lag went out the door when I went back to my room and saw that no one else was in there. I instantly went into freshman-year-of-college mode, where you immediately do something you hadn’t planned on doing simply because you now have the privacy to do it.* I went to lay down, and I was out. I figured sleeping was better than lamenting being lonely and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. Soon, though, I received a call from my Ozzie friend, just checking on me. This instantly warmed my heart, and I felt like someone did care whether or not I was dead in a ditch.

Shortly after that (time is unclear when one is half asleep), I received a call from a young man I’ll call “J-Date.” I will call him this because he’s Jewish, we discussed J-Date at one point, and he said he really didn’t want his name on the blog.

A friend I haven’t seen in years put us in touch before I left, because J-Date was coming to Sydney on business for a couple weeks and would gladly hang out with me. We’d exchanged some emails, and I gave him my Aussie number, but was unsure whether or not he’d use it. One of the benefits—or downfalls, depending on how proactive you are—of my new Aussie pay-as-you-go phone is that incoming calls are free, so I’m pretty much waiting for everyone else to make the first move for financial reasons.

J-Date asked if I wanted to hang out, and noticed I sounded groggy. He urged me to wake up and fight jet lag, and said he knew exactly what I needed to see on my first night. I immediately woke up, put on something half-decent, and chatted with roommate Sonya, who I discovered is not Dutch, but German.

“I met a really hot German boy in the lounge,” I said, to connect with her culture.

“Did you?” She said.

“YES!”

She laughed. This could be because she didn’t know what else to say, or because she actually could handle Sojourner’s truth.

J-Date arrived 20 minutes later. He immediately ushered us into a cab, and told the driver “Opera Bar.” It was very bad-ass and James Bond-esque. He’d explained that he’d been to Sydney several times on business, and knew what was what, and “we’ve got to get there before sunset.” I mean, of course gut reaction was, “Will J-Date propose me? He is moneyed, and lives an international lifestyle. Granted, I’ve only known him 4 minutes, but we could make this work.”

We got out of the cab and there I was, in front of the Sydney Opera House. It was gorgeous. It was the icon. We managed to catch the final minutes of sunset, and the Harbour Bridge looked all magical and dynamic as the sky turned.


It finally hit me that I was actually in Australia. I got excited. It felt good.

We got drinks at the opera bar, which has a beautiful view, and J-Date and I chatted. I could tell I was pushing his boundaries, making him refer to me as “blacktress” at all times, and telling him I wanted to become an Oprah-like figure, but he rolled with the punches. He even revealed to me that he secretly watched “I Love New York,” and he agreed with me when I called her a tranny hot mess. He’d only arrived the day before, so we were equally tired, but managed to entertain each other and find a random outdoor burger place for dinner. As he asked me about “my plan,” he assured me that I’d be okay, and at times even told me I could probably be a stripper or turn tricks if things ever got really dire. I appreciated the vote of confidence.
I headed back to the hostel at 10:00pm, proud to have made it through my first Aussie day, and not having to go it entirely alone. I managed to sleep pretty well, although I was woken up by another vagabond who’d taken the bed below me and seemed to just be crumpling plastic bags, for, like, half an hour.
Today is looking up, and I’m feeling energetic enough to try and make out with a foreign stranger. The hot German guy is sitting next to me, using his computer. Wish me luck……teeehee.



Here's me. The direction from J-Date was, "Japanese Tourist."



*No, I don’t mean masturbating—but, whatever tickles your pickle (in this case, it would be you).

Sidebar: as I write this post, the radio in the lounge is blasting Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.” If that’s not a sign that I’m a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.