What Happens to a Blacktress Deferred?

Hey gang, how was your hurricane?

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

Yup, it was just like this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How are you doing?

Read It and Weep

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

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

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

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

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

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

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

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

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

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


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

Unable to MoveOn.org

So I know I’ve been way behind on bloggery, and I have much to catch you up on, but I forgot to post a little tidbit from “Sad Girl” (remember her from that time I went to 8th grade prom?). She’s since graduated high school and is living on her own. Adult life hasn’t been so good to her. It seems, you can take Sad Girl out of high school, but you can’t take the….sadness out of the sad girl.


I don’t know if you guys know about this, but I’ve been going through a really hard time lately. Work is a total bitch, and my former drag queen of a boss (that’s not meant to be derogatory, that’s just a fact) keeps telling me that I’m “sick and suffering.” Yesterday, the online editor got pissed at me because I finally told her why I don’t like her (she doesn’t respect my dominance). And Halloween’s coming up, and I have no idea what to be (a slutty fireman? A slutty bunny? Muslim film star Delta Burqa?).

Not that I have anywhere to go anyway. No one invites me out anymore, and it sucks. I got Netflix a few months ago to help quell the ache, but even movies have gotten boring.

I check my email every 5 minutes, hoping for an Evite to som—

Oh my god, guess what?! I just got an email from a guy named Chuck S. It’s titled “Come to my party in New York on Saturday?”

I LIVE IN NEW YORK! Chuck knows that, I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have invited me. I don’t know who he is off the top of my head, but I’m sure we met somewhere a year or so back, when I used to be social.

Ugh, thank god. I was freaking out over not having plans. Okay, now I’ll go to Ricky’s and get a costume. I wonder if anyone hot will be there. Maybe Chuck’s hot. Should I bring candy? Let me open the email and see the deets.

ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?

Hi,

We're just 5 days from the election, and dozens of races could come down to just a handful of votes. We could end up with narrow Democratic wins in a ton of close races, or a Republican takeover of our government, and it all comes comes down to which side has more volunteers getting out the vote.

I'm not going to let right-wing Republicans take over Congress.

So I'm hosting an election call party on Saturday in New York. I'm inviting people over to make calls to sign up volunteers for our candidates.

I can't do it alone. So if you've got a couple hours to spare this weekend—or even if you don't!--please, please, please come to my party. It's up to all of us in the next 5 days.

Why doesn’t anyone ever invite me anywhere fun?

Remembering A True Sister Act

After working the longest day ever (8am - 11:30pm), I was spent. When I got home after midnight, I anticipated passing out quickly, yet managed to wake up at 2am and 6:50am. When I finally woke up at 8am to get ready for work, I was groggy and out of it. My hatred of the plantation was already at full-speed, and I hadn't even gotten on the train yet.

As I turned on the tv to check the weather, Fox 5 News made the day worse than I could imagine.

I found out that my kindergarten teacher, now 84 years old, was killed yesterday.

I kid you not. There's no joke to this post.

The full story is here, but basically three wastes of space robbed a store and then sped down Lenox Ave, in Harlem, with the cops in pursuit. Of course, they ran a red light, injuring two pedestrians and killing Sister Mary Celine Graham--or, as I called her until I was 10, and when I saw her around the neighborhood, Sister Celine.

She was so nice (despite the occasional corporal punishment--but you know, they nuns were old school), and remembered my name 20 years after she had me as a student. Her convent focused on education, and I remember even spending summers in her house, waiting for my mom to get me after piano lessons. I would totally freak out when I saw her watching tv, cause in my child-brain, nuns didn't watch "The Price is Right" and they certainly didn't eat sandwiches or drink lemonade!

Anyway, I just had to put that out there into the ether, my little way of remembering someone who impacted my childhood, urged my mother to send me to private school when she saw I wasn't being challenged, and knew I was smart when other teachers just thought I talked too much in class.

The two suspects ran away from the scene of the collision, so I guess this means they're still at large. While this makes me sad and enraged, I have to think you can't just kill a nun and get away with it--there has to be some kind of justice in this world. I mean, what is going on in Harlem? I'd make some joke about how we're clearly not nearly as gentrified as people think, but this isn't really the post for it.

Hmmm...for some reason writing this post makes me feel a bit better. Sorry if it's too much of a downer, but even the blacktress' diary gets a little grim.

I'll follow up with a humorous internet video for your enjoyment.

A Weekend to Remember - RIP Brittany!

I lost my cell phone this weekend and was freaking the F out. Somehow, between texting and making a call at 11:12am on Saturday morning, and getting on the train at 11:32am, I lost my damn phone. Around 5pm, a blizzard began as I headed to Queens to babysit. After tending to two young Caucasian males (I believe in starting the brainwashing early), I headed over to a friend’s house in the treacherous weather. As I walked in the Big Apple-turned-life-sized-snowglobe, I was tense and anxious. I felt like, without my cell, I was a walking target. I just knew that Saturday night would be the night I was stalked by a serial rapist, simply because I had no ability to call for help. I was acting like, prior to this moment, I had been living in a T-Mobile-created protective force field, and the only thing between me and survival was 2 bars.

Just when I thought the weekend could get no crazier, as I was perpetually late for things on Sunday, and slipping on black ice, I was informed of the death of Brittany Murphy Sunday evening. I am still reeling. This is just one more icon of our youth who has left us. At only 32, death from a heart attack seems completely insane in the membrane. Alas, the heart attack was the result of severe anorexia. Remember in Girl, Interrupted when she kept all the chicken under her bed???? WHY DIDN’T YOU EAT THAT CHICKEN, BRITTANY?!

Can we just talk about Brittany’s effect on every 20-something walking around today? When she appeared as Tai in Clueless, the newbie through which we viewed the world of California rich kids Cher and Dionne, she was instantly likeable. Her makeover – complete with baby tee and corduroy skirt – was the jam and the jumpoff (and the inspiration for much of my 6th grade wardrobe). And let’s not mention her lines, some of which were the greatest in film history:


- “Cher, I don't want to do this anymore. And my buns: they don't feel nothin' like steel.”

- "You know, I don't care either way — just as long as his you-know-what isn't crooked." – When the film came out, I was too young to know that this was a very real possibility, and I’m now too old not to know exactly where she’s coming from.

- “If I’m too good for him, then why aren’t I with him???” This is a line I’ve used many a-time in my personal life. Oh, Britt, you were forever asking the hard-hitting questions.

And, of course, the best ever: “You’re a virgin who can’t drive.”
Burn of the THIRD DEGREE.

After Clueless, she went on to lock it down in various films, with her wide eyes and Betty Boop vibe. I must say, I even loved her in 8 Mile.

I’m gonna have to pour a bit of my cranberry juice on the ground in remembrance tonight – or, wait, maybe I should put down some food, give Brittany a little nourishment.

Dear Britt,

I hope you are ROLLING WITH YOUR HOMIES in the sky, and know that I’ll be thinking of you – I HOPE NOT SPORADICALLY! The way you sang the Mentos theme song changed my life. When I was younger, I totally wished someone would have taken me out of my flannel and put me in some cute outfits while Jill Sobule played in the background. You are one of my idols. I will eat twice as much for you today.

Xoxo,
Sojo


Let’s check out Brittany at her best:

Bea Arthur: Gangsta Geriatric

I have very little internet access on the island, so I was absolutely shocked when I hopped on the information super-highway just moments ago and discovered that Bea Arthur passed away 2 days ago!

As you all know, I am an old, weary broad. And Bea Arthur is my role model.

Look at her:

She is so sassy, and her shoulder pads give her the dominating appearance of a linebacker, which says 'don't fuck with me'.
It also says, "don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like BEA?"

Yes, yes I do.

The way she sulks about, that dry laugh, that beautiful baritone voice in which she chastised Rose for her stupidity, and tried to reign in Blanche's wanton sexuality. She is a strong black woman in a white woman's frame.

There are now only 2 Golden Girls left for me to idolize. This is very stressful for me. Luckily, Bea has left me pearls of wisdom to take with me for the rest of my life. Here's a little nugget from the great Miss Arthur:



Sniff, Swig, Puff. Done and done.