Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I need to stop!

When did life and people become so complicated?

I just watched a movie that made me rethink everything I ever do with my phone.

I'm on my phone ALL the time. More or less, unless I am making a physical effort to engage with the people I am with. I'm shit at multitasking, and yet I have managed to deceive myself that I can talk and whatsapp at the same time. I really can't. (I also shouldn't drive and whatsapp at the same time...and yet, I do it on a daily. I really need to stop)

Anyhue. I've even made a career out of being on my phone the whole time. But I think I'm going to relax on that phone story a little bit. I've been trying to actually - Wolverine used to complain constantly about it, and I didn't realize what a shit person (slash robot who is always on their phone) I was being until it was being done to me.

I hate it when people are talking to me and looking at their phones. What happened to looking at my boobs? They're RL, you know. (Real Life) But I do it all the time. And I need to stop.

Also, did we see that? I have BOOBS. Look at those, for Pete's sake. Or my face. Or my mother's eyes. Anything but my phone.
It really is antisocial networking. OMG I'VE SPENT HALF OF MY LIFE ON MY PHONE BUILDING ONLINE RELATIONSHIPS AND IGNORING THE ONES IN FRONT OF ME. I'm sorry mom lol jk but seriously. Gaaaaah.

Maybe it just becomes more complicated when there are feelings attached. I have always said true friendship is when you two can sit in a room and just be on your phones without talking because you don't have to - which is basically saying, a, you don't have to work at a relationship anymore because it is already pretty much built, and b, comfortable silences have been replaced with the sound of tapping keys - but is it really?

Look at my face. I'll look at yours because it's beautiful and life is beautiful and we shouldn't be looking down all the time.

It's rude.


Thursday, December 4, 2014

Plain Jane

Maybe I'm not female.

I mean, I look there and I see all the parts are right (more or less, and of course, if we are talking about sex as opposed to gender, but that is a whole different story) (also I just wrote words in that sentence without looking at the keyboard, which is a dream of mine that I will one day fulfill at a respectable number of words per minute, just like my father's secretary when I was 9) (and that WHOLE LAST SENTENCE! Slowly. :D :D :D ). All the parts are right, yes, but there are some things that I see that feel, not right.

For example. I like boys. Most of the time. Men, even, more nowadays than before. But will I make an effort to get them to like me? Sometimes. More often than not, though, nowadays, I resort to the guy way - ie manipulation instead of seduction.

You see, I am the type of chick who if it is cold and I am going to the rave, I will be in a sweater and probably order tea. This isn't sexy (unless you're British or 60 years old). I'm the type of chick to just confess confess ovyo ovyo to emotions instead of playing hard to get because it takes too much energy and why play games when you could be doing valuable, fun stuff like making out? Which kills the chase. Or something. So I'm told.

Why is this manipulation? Why do you think people (most people) agonize over telling someone whether they like them or not - or even worse, someone telling them that they like them when they do not feel the same? Because then you have to think of what to say back. Human beings are programmed to reciprocate, even when they don't feel the same. Our automatic answer to 'thank you' is 'you're welcome' not 'don't ever borrow my shit again you two-faced bitch' (which, to be fair, sometimes, it should be). Our automatic response - or rather, the response we want to get when we say those three words - is 'I love you too.'

Not silence.
Or staring.
Or two ticks.

Because no one wants to really make people feel bad (except for sociopaths and an 8th grade math teacher - Mr. W, or he who shall not be named). And you generally want people to feel good about themselves, and feel good around you, and/or not stop loving you.
So you say it back.
So when I say 'I really like you. We should make out.'
Usually, the response is 'Yes!' if they want to, or 'uh...sure' if they don't. Win for me.
Woo! Tangent. So where was I?
This post is going to go on a while. I can see it coming.

I was saying I am not the type to put in effort. There are exceptions to the rule, of course (unless you've seen me naked, in which case it's downhill from here. Which, again, win for me. :D) What do I define as effort?

Oh Lord. Anything that has to be done in a salon, involves heat and/or tanning beds, really short shorts, barsexuality, wax or pretense in the face of a complete lack of humour (unless I'm being a wingwoman, in which case there is social capital being obtained, mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha).
Which brings me to today's point.
I can't stand spas.

Honestly, I've tried.
I've gone to a couple to rid myself of this unfeminine trait, but quite frankly, I can't. They aren't havens of rest and relaxation. They are places to throw money to have someone feel you up without feeling guilty about it. Ok maybe not, but still, I hate massages. It's just painful. Can't we X-ray wellness into me or something? Bikram yoga? Which is still quite the workout but you see it is different when it is self-inflicted and I'm sure the heat does something for you to reduce the pain, no? When someone's little hands are trying to tear you apart tendon by tendon, how is that even remotely relaxing?
The answer is, it is not. Humans just like pain. When people feel pain, they think their remedies are working. No one trusts a sweet-tasting cough syrup or a cheap good looking watch. THAT'S WHY EVERYONE BOUGHT THE CREAMY ICKY-A-F SCOTT'S EMULSION INSTEAD OF THE ORANGE ONE. (*shivers* that thing was AWFUL)
And then, waxing. I...I just can't. For why? For what? For who?
And then, last but not least...manis and pedis.

I mean, come on. You let someone near these delicate parts of your body with tiny little metal appliances that look like something from a dentist's office, and it's supposed to be a pleasant experience?
Unfortunately (until today) I forgot that I don't like manis (OR HER LITTU FRIEEEENDS). I was talking Mi Madre on a date and decided, because Rupu told me so, that this Gel Manicure and Pedicure would be a deal. Spend a little money, spend some quality time with the one who gave me life funded by another one she gave life. Once more - winning.

We walked in and it was a bad idea from the get. The sulky staff at Maya's Spa barely acknowledged our existence (or the appointment I had made for 11 am). It wasn't until 11:20 that anything got going as we sat and twiddled our thumbs. Mi Madre was getting angry in like the first five minutes (I can't wait till I am too old to care about stupid people's emotions). She was (but in nicer language) After we had been sitting staring at them, asking who was doing our nails, wondering out loud what the hell everyone in the store was doing sitting down, was when one of the nail guys lackadaisically walks into work late and then the other ladies start to, oh, go find the nail polishes (Colours They Use to distract you from their true, fiendish aims), oh, the gel sijui what. When you know the torture that is coming your way and then your torturers look like they don't care about whether to use a blunt or sharp instrument, man, it does NOT inspire faith. Especially when they start joking about the weekend and using the nail file on their own hands (Big Scary Thing they use to BREAK YOU DOWN TO THEIR WILL).

It was ridiculously slow ridiculously bad service. I tweeted them as well on @mayaskenya
At the time of going to press, they have not tweeted back (and this manicure is already starting to irritate me). A couple of things irritated me, aside from them trying to feebly mend bridges with barely veiled attempts to get us to come back -
1. The guy ordered lunch and put it on the towel next to my nails. I know I have no standards, burram...
2. I was with my MOTHER, for Pete's sake. No respect for older people? Or, you know, people? know...customers? Damn.
3. It's a gel MANI and pedi. Not a gel MANI AND PEDI. Ha.
3. I'm supposed to go BACK to have this gel shit removed, ati, because, ati pulling it off will ruin my nail. I don't think I'm going back. And some of it is on my skin. As in? They bowl me over with their enthusiasm then trap me for more with their gel baby?

Guys, this gel is coming off by itself or not at all. Jesus will return and he'll pick me out from the crowd coz my nails will be a-twinkiling. Like his chariot, nininini.
Females, why? Camaaaaaan.

*checks parts*
*still female*
*not loyal to spas*


Tuesday, November 25, 2014

On women, on life

I went swimming today.

It was sunny. The Archangel and I had been waiting for a sunny day.

So we went to the pool - I won't tell you where - and changed into our swimming costumes - we had already changed in the house, so it was a simple matter of removing layers.

I swam two laps.

We're supposed to be trying to be fit - but I've been unfit for too long to start all gung-ho with 50 laps. But 30 beckons, and my muffin top has to go (or so it was described the other day, much to my secret mortification).

I looked at all the men at the swimming pool. When we walked in, there were more men than ladies.

I looked at the cute one who looked like he'd just walked in from work, left his laptop bag in the car and carried this version of a gym one.

I looked at the happy, chubby one who struck up a conversation - maybe for motivation and company, you know those people who talk to everyone everywhere - with the Archangel after she did a beautiful lap of butterfly. Would it be him?

I tried to be as aloof yet not rude as possible to the lifeguard who asked me if I's already swum. Aloof because don't encourage them...not rude because you might need them soon. Like touts. Or not.

The thin one who came late and I thought I could take on easy if anything went down - he was thinner than my unfit thigh - and his friend who looked like he would be the one pulling him off from ripping at my clothes.

The anxious one who seemed to be being brow beaten into this pursuit of a six pack. Would the beaten become the beater?

The fully dressed man sitting next to the lifeguard who addressed me, talking in vernacular. I wondered what he was saying. Was he talking about me? Or what he wanted to do to me? Then I thought, maybe segregated swimming wasn't such a bad idea. The Romans? May have gotten it right.

I looked at them all and weighed them. Watched if they came too close to me or her. Don't underestimate. And run. Carve out a path of their blood and yours if you must - get away.
Because I am not safe. And you, you with the vagina over there? You're not safe either.
Public places aren't safe. Private places aren't safe. Your private places are not safe. Not private.
I am always weighing.

I thought about what to do if they attacked me. To run? To scream? To wait to be overpowered and hope that your cooperation will make it go faster? (as if in a robbery. And they are taking something that is not theirs, true.)
Would I fight back? Could I? Would I be scared to? Because aggravating the situation would leave me dead instead of 'just' molested, and that's better, in foresight/hindsight?

Am I to lay low every day? When I am walking in town, should I stare at my feet walking - and only my feet - scared to face this world that loves anything with a slit between its legs - loves far too much? Crosses the line to hate? To ugliness?

Should I carry a blunt knife in my bag ready to castrate someone knowing that there is a risk that they may castrate me instead? Follow me home to do so when I am coming from a pool I do not list on my blog because of fear? Will what he castrates bleed onto an Embassava stage sidewalk and the people filming and the Matatu Owners Association will do nothing?

Am I to carry pepper spray, maybe, which is illegal - but anyone would rather be at a police station facing charges for possession of illegal substances (because pepper spray is illegal, and women have no choices anymore) than reporting an assault. My sexual assault.

Sexual assault - our culture. When you're in primary school and boys can touch you and when you tell the teacher, he touches you too and laughs.

Sexual assault - when your ex can come to your house, barge in and refuse to leave even after you ask him to; because he knows that you cannot physically throw him out. Someone else - someone male - has to do it. Because a woman saying no is nothing.

Sexual assault - when your neighbour asks to come into your house to wait for a ride, then asks for a ride in your bed, and when you say no, he asks why not - as if YOU owe HIM an explanation about why YOU do not want to share YOUR body.

Sexual assault - when you are in a matatu and a drunk man is sleeping on your shoulder. When you move in protest and he wakes up, eyeballing and eyebanging you, threatening you because you moved, telling you he would have taught you a lesson, if not for the fact that you are properly dressed.

Are you nodding? Are you nodding? Are you screaming inside?

Sexual assault - when the church who is supposed to be on the side of right - when the politicians who you elected, 47 or so of whom are women - when the men who it would appear are the only form of protection we have because women do not own their bodies or a voice and some men will only listen to another man, continue to allow the attacks online and in the streets, watching, filming, pointing, laughing, cheering, quiet, and thus perpetuate our culture of stripping and rape and molestation and dehumanization of an ENTIRE SPECIES - keep silent.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

TV lessons

I had my first TV interview yesterday night and let me tell you something: they never tell you anything before you go on air.

Dude, first, my phone died and I was late and there was traffic so I couldn't find parking so I panicked and parked way too far from the studio and then I panicked even more because no one was watching my car so I was freaking out because someone's laptop was stolen from my car the week before...

So I was a little late (ie 10 minutes as opposed to Kenya late, ie an hour) and I was immediately mic'd and put on air. I was NOT ready. They had not ati told me what to wear, or...what they were going to ask...I didn't have like a dressing room where I could throw a Mariah Carey level bitch fit...nothing, guys!

Anyway so I went on air and I thought it went well. I also thought I looked a smidge nervous but I thought I answered the questions ok and stuff...

Then when I came out...

I was informed that my sweat patches were also very present and answering questions during the interview.
Cue absolute and total mortification and a rabid rewatching of the clip over and over again to figure out how to photoshop that ish AWAY??
That's one thing they don't tell you. That the studio thinks it is a beach and must therefore provide beach-like temperatures (Kenya beach as opposed to everywhere else beach, ie SUPER BEACH) which will then cause you to sweat all over your grey tee and onto screens worldwide.

Whoop! Mummy, my armpits are famous!


Wednesday, October 22, 2014

News and New Things

There's a weird kind of getting used to people part of new relationships with anyone when they start. Like, when you came screaming out of your mother's vagina, that was you acclimatizing to the fact that life will not always be a warm, cushy, jacuzzi-like setting (oh, how life lessons start early) and your momma ain't always going to have your umbilical cord - uh, back. Not because she doesn't want to, but I mean, you did just rip her apart. No?

Even with friends, it is weird. You don't know how much you should care. Whether to ask about their bipolar sister. To inquire if they are fat or pregnant. How their really hot cousin is. Their truthful opinion on Michael Jackson (look, for me, a friendship can end right there. Please say anything to my face about MJ that I don't like to watch our amity dissolve and bloooow in the wiiiiind). You don't know what to say. How to react when they're mad. What to get them for their 2 and a half month relationship anniversary, or indeed whether you should get them anything at all, and should it be something related to the theme of the party that they just invited you to.

Even with relationships, there is a formula that needs to be, in the words of my dear cousin on Dear Doris, calibrated. Two people have to calibrate themselves to each other. And this is probably the most uncomfortable, no? Like...those delicate questions that really show what a horrible person you are and have people screaming for the hills. Questions you pee in the shower? What's your honest opinion on anal? (the sex questions are ALL awkward. Especially any that involve bleeding from a snatch)/ Are you a cuddler? A tickler? A moaner? A screamer? (or infinitely more frightening - a silent, serial killer type of lover) If we go to a restaurant, can you eat nuts or will you swell up and die, thus taking the crown for Worst. Date. Ever.? Do you like to kick kittens like I do? Are you into that whole let's share toothbrushes thing? And do you identify with that deep, deep satisfaction that comes from mining out a booger deep, deep in the crevices of your nasal cavity? Wait, where are you going? Hey! Heeey! You didn't pay your bill!

New things are uncomfortable. Some snarky adaptable guy once said that change is the only constant and unfortunately, that is true. I have gone through a lot of changes lately (funny, my last post was about change too) (or not funny. Maybe tunnel vision.) (Tunnel buddies. Raaaaawrrrr.) (No?). I moved house...I've been burgled twice...changed jobs...the list is not long, but it does have a few heavy hitters that got me writing this post (guys, when someone steals your laptop and you write for a living, sometimes, it kills you inside.)

I have found the answer to dealing with change. Silver Linings (PLAYBOOK!). When your laptop is stolen, look at it as an opportunity to shop for that shiny upgrade you always wanted. No money for that? Show a little support for Koinange Street. Hustle. Find a way. Power through. When your heart is broken, tell yourself that all that unprotected sex was a bad idea anyway (lol, JK. Mostly. I mean...your genits are yours to herpify with. Do you.). When your boss is being an idiot...quit. The only person responsible for your happiness is yourself, and life is far too short and full of potential misery to not grab it when you can (now, THAT's what they should teach in high school). Unless you have kids. Then you can't quit. Because you're responsible for their happiness. Sorry. LOL.

I felt to share a few of the new things that happened to me this month:

For one thing, they have increased the cost of transaction on the Buy Goods function at petrol stations from 2 to 3 bob. WHAT SORCERY?
Also, nowadays, in town, you can Lipa na Mpesa on a bodaboda. Whose idea was this anyway? Mpesa is the past present and future. Bow down, b*s.

THE 3 Rs
Rest, Rejuvenate and RECYCLE. Or something. I'm going to go back to the old school and buy glass bottles of soda from now on. When I buy plastic bottles, that I am going to throw away anyway because you can't use them again because sijui cancer sijui sunlight reactions, I don't feel like I am helping the world. SO. Glass/sand thaaangs from now on.

And if I am sijui at a fast food place where we have to rush out, I'll just sip everyone else's soda if they don't have botis hehe. Make THEM the bad guy. Or carry my own water. Basically, NOT contribute to leaving a legacy of myself behind that will be waaaaayyy more detrimental (and last waaaaahaaaahaahaaaayyyy longer than, like, my bones) to the future. You know, the one with robots. Who they should make eat plastic. I like this plan.

has added new things to their menu and it is making me excited. Even though it shouldn't be. Like the guy who's been loooooking at you the entire party who is cute but is making absolutely NO moves and then waits until you're leaving to be like, 'Hey.' You brush him n* you SAW me here the WHOLE time...psssshhh...but you're still excited as you stalk past him in a cloud of indignation and assurance that you're still attractive, and he's just slow, thank Jesus.
Java and I have a love-hate thing going on where I cheat often and tell them that I'm cheating...but always end up coming back. Sigh. Someday I'll wean myself of you, Lithium, with your overpriced burgers and inconsistent food quality. Someday. But for today? (ok, this week...) That strawberry chicken salad thing they've got going on? I'm. So. Ready.


P.S. Ndiransh, my love, I miss you. Come back to me. Warm my heart with the warmth of your witty words and wily whisperings.

P. P. S. While we're on that new tip, Samsung gave bloggers TVs and the one who wins gives away the TV to someone and I want that someone to be me. So go check out this ka-blogger and share and like and facebook...because I want a new TV, obviously. It's the #Samsung Blogger Challenge. Tweet with it. And stuff. And. Yeah. So. TV. Get on it.
I'll, like, do something too. Flash a boob, maybe. Who knows?

Friday, August 15, 2014


it's funny how money changes situations
miscommunication leads to complications

It's funny how life changes too.
My life is so different from what it was when I finished university. I thought it hadn't changed much. In some cases (like in Wolverine's case) I am glad it hasn't changed too much. In others, I am extremely glad that I am smarter than I thought I was.

I have ditched jobs I hated, or jobs I thought were ok, for jobs I loved. I have worked just for the money - things I never thought I would do (because, duh. All the movies say that is a terrible idea), which I am, surprisingly, still doing in some aspects of my career (job trajectory? Shit I do for rent? I don't know). I have also ditched bosses I loved for the ability to sleep as much as my seemingly 40 year old body needs to. One is curious about what I will actually be doing at 40.

I have ditched belief systems I thought I had for ones I thought I was already living. I was reminded of this today, when after a (very important) meeting (that made me shower and get out of the house), I met a friend of mine.

Well, he is not a friend. We go to the same church. He used to be the bad boy that all the church mamas keep their innocent (not so innocent) children away from. He always hugged to close. Had the look in his eye. Had the thing in his walk like he was carrying something heavy that he wanted to share.

Now, he is the one trying to convince me of salvation.

I wonder if I was like that during my saved phase? I don't remember. His life makes a good testimony towards what he so clearly believes in so much now - from what I can see, anyway.
I wonder when I changed so much?


Saturday, July 26, 2014

Crushing Season

He's young.

I don't think it never has in the past. Others have been young. And they were still good kissers.

We talk almost every day. I tell Wolverine that I am talking to him. He knows. I don't know if I am validating that I am or trying to be as open as I can about the fact that we talk every day. Not almost every day.

He looks cute in the picture. And he likes my legs (but wants 5 kids so we know that isn't going anywhere). Doesn't make him less cute in the picture, though.

I wonder what he wants. I think I know what he wants.
I wonder if he's going to say it.
I'm pretty sure I know what I want.