I was walking in town today and nearly got whiplash because some man was yelling 'Fifty bob! FIFTY bob! Fifty BOB!' Now,the average Kenyan girl will stop at anyone that says those magic words, which are usually enough to make her stop and at least look at what he was selling.
Dear friends, he was selling books. My heart leapt with joy (across vast fields of sunflowers, of course), as if it had just found The One. I burrowed into that pile like darkness was not already eminent upon the land. (I have a sneaking suspicion that I've always wanted to use that line. Hm. Sounds like the Thriller line by Vincent...um...Price?)
Why are men randomly nice to mamas? Ok that's rhetorical. I'm always nicer to people I find attractive. It's weird, yes. Actually, it really isn't. You are naturally more inclined to be nicer to something that appeals to you...anyway, both guys I stopped at were being oh so helpful, mpaka I started wondering if I was selling crack when I bent over. Or is it that I was bending over, ha. Making conversation and stuff...I was like, ok. You sell books, and I'm nice, so whatever.
Plus, I found Books from My Childhood. There's something extra special tasty (like Special Seasoning from Steers. MMMMM!!!) about BFMC. They hold an ancient yet still fresh magic...something old, something still new. I can't wait to (completely interrupt my reading schedule and - sorry, Woozie) read them again. (In case you were wondering: Brian Jacques - Redwall, which is awesome coz I recently re-read Salamandastron - how now does my T9 not know how to spell Salamandastron? - and L. M. Montgomery - Rilla of Ingleside, only one of the books in some of the GREATEST series - ha - ever, Anne of Green Gables) Carried away by bookish, ha, excitement, I also got a book whose name I can't remember, which is fine, because...yay, new books. :o) :o)
Who needs men/cats when there's the magic of literature?
I only partially meant that.
tSN
Ps. Other Dude also had Lemony Snickets books 12 and 13, which I've always wanted to read/watch but couldn't very well buy, because, now, book 1? As well as The Two Towers (again. Book 2.) and A Lion Among Men by Gregory MacGuire, which is the third installment in the Wicked books (a really cool re-telling of the Wizard of Oz...damn,maybe I should go back tomorrow) so obviously I couldn't buy it. I was so very tempted to throw all bookish, ha, yes, again, etiquette to the wind, but...I'm no amateur. (HA! Looks at new books excitedly and feels a thrill.) NOTHING like a really good book to sink your teeth into.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
O. M. G., K. P. L. C.!!
Never again will I insult Kenya Paraffin Lamps- erm, KenyaPower and Lighting Corporation. Ok, not for like 2 weeks, anyway. :o)
I got home a couple of nights ago and there was no electricity. Feeling like The Cavalry and simultaneously trying to feel better about the state of our toothless bulldog service providers (ha! I should use that in spoken English so I sound like a politician/newspaper lacking creativity), I called the KPLC number (which, for some strange and uncanny reason, I have). Now, my cousin had already tried the numbers she had, but no one was picking up. The Cavalry, however, as we all know, tries all possibilities again and again until they are sure that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their mission, to save, in no way can be achieved, and the ghost of failure and loss looms eerily over a horizon of blood... *ahem* so I called. Just so I felt like I had done something. Just to be sure. It's like back when I was on The Other Network and I would call Customer Care. Not because they were going to help, or their system works. Just because I needed to feel like someone had listened.
The lady picked up, and I didn't know our account number (I'm still a child). She got tired of waiting and hung up. Things were looking bleak. I called again. The nice lady said they'll send a team over. I didn't really care, of course, because I just wanted them to hear what I had to say. I went to sleep, still in darkness, but content.
An hour later, 2 nice men came in a truck and fixed the part in our meter (that had apparently burnt. How now? As well as charred all the wires around it). It took him 20 minutes. I was overcome with impressed...ness. Impression. Impressarios? I wanted to give them gold, frankincense and myrrh. I felt their quick and excellent service befat (HA!) a reward (which I suppose is us payig for elec) (as they came in, Nice Man #1 said "Poleni kwa giza." I almost started drawing maps, I was so pleased).
We discussed among members of the household whether to give them money. I had no change. Tea, perhaps? They had to rush to save yet others thrown into the dens of deep, damp, dank darkness, and rescue them from the dastardly diabolical clutches of deprivation of light.We gave them bananas. In a swirl of KPLC-emblazoned capes, they were gone.
KPLC sent a technical team at midnight. Then I saw the lights come back...and now I'm a believer.
tSN
p.s. AllWoman.
I got home a couple of nights ago and there was no electricity. Feeling like The Cavalry and simultaneously trying to feel better about the state of our toothless bulldog service providers (ha! I should use that in spoken English so I sound like a politician/newspaper lacking creativity), I called the KPLC number (which, for some strange and uncanny reason, I have). Now, my cousin had already tried the numbers she had, but no one was picking up. The Cavalry, however, as we all know, tries all possibilities again and again until they are sure that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that their mission, to save, in no way can be achieved, and the ghost of failure and loss looms eerily over a horizon of blood... *ahem* so I called. Just so I felt like I had done something. Just to be sure. It's like back when I was on The Other Network and I would call Customer Care. Not because they were going to help, or their system works. Just because I needed to feel like someone had listened.
The lady picked up, and I didn't know our account number (I'm still a child). She got tired of waiting and hung up. Things were looking bleak. I called again. The nice lady said they'll send a team over. I didn't really care, of course, because I just wanted them to hear what I had to say. I went to sleep, still in darkness, but content.
An hour later, 2 nice men came in a truck and fixed the part in our meter (that had apparently burnt. How now? As well as charred all the wires around it). It took him 20 minutes. I was overcome with impressed...ness. Impression. Impressarios? I wanted to give them gold, frankincense and myrrh. I felt their quick and excellent service befat (HA!) a reward (which I suppose is us payig for elec) (as they came in, Nice Man #1 said "Poleni kwa giza." I almost started drawing maps, I was so pleased).
We discussed among members of the household whether to give them money. I had no change. Tea, perhaps? They had to rush to save yet others thrown into the dens of deep, damp, dank darkness, and rescue them from the dastardly diabolical clutches of deprivation of light.We gave them bananas. In a swirl of KPLC-emblazoned capes, they were gone.
KPLC sent a technical team at midnight. Then I saw the lights come back...and now I'm a believer.
tSN
p.s. AllWoman.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
My 5 links...
I was TOTES going to write you a post today. Ah, screw it, I may do 2...
Work's been a bit mad. Hence the lack of narcissistic reading material. You know you miss me.
So thanks to @edgicovi (who blogs here), I must now put up this. She made me work. As in? Lol. *begins copy pasting*
...‘My 5 Links’, which @eGichomo (a blogging enthusiast, among other things) who blogs here calls a chance to go into the archives and share some of the links that you feel deserve another read. It’s also to appreciate bloggers in Kenya and share mini-blog rolls for a broader read. A most noble idea, I must say. If and when you take part, tag five bloggers whom you’d like to read a similar post from.'
That being said:
1. My Most Popular Post
Whaddaya mean, my 'MOST' popular?? They were ALL RIP-ROARINGLY SUCCESSFUL!! DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?? *buries head in sand* Hold on, lemme check the stats...HA! That's hilarious. It was A Moderately Offensive Post. No offense. I loved that one. :o)
2. Post that didn't get the attention it deserved.
Erm...refer to second sentence in previous category. HA. Erm...OH! Ok i can't remember so far back, but most recently (yeah, yeah, AFTER looking at the stats), June 25. How now was there no weeping and wailing an gnashing of teeth inserted there? Why were there no heartfelt tributes, memories, video clips? Are you people serious? You are NOT serious. And you are NOT serious about Pop. I'll make my OWN damn tribute. Shiiiiiiiii. (I'm calming down in just a sec)
3. Post whose success surprised me.
Ha. Really? Coz that was gonna happen. Lol. Erm... *checks stats...AGain*... Maybe Fears that Bind. It was really long. and emotional. Not exactly my normal style...
4. My Most Controversial Post.
Erm. Wow. I'm beginning to feel like I don't read my own blog. Erm...I'm not a very controversial kinda girl. I believe in free love, sharing blunts (HA!), that sorta thing. That being said...eish. I dunno. I'll go with The Ex Rule. People are generally nice to me. It's a round face/cute smiley thing. :o)
5. Post I am most proud of.
This is a trick question, isn't it? They've all been trick questions, haven't they. Just one? Ok... here.
Tagged:
- @Nigmwa who writes here.
- Angel, who writes here.
- @MoNahwi, who writes here.
- @abbakidenda, who writes here.
- @arungaian, who writes here.
tSN
ps. Check out AllWoman.
ps. A few favourites:
- The do-dos of doodoo
- C.
- The Mr. T. Chronicles - Chapter 1: The Beginning.
- Holding out for a hero.
Work's been a bit mad. Hence the lack of narcissistic reading material. You know you miss me.
So thanks to @edgicovi (who blogs here), I must now put up this. She made me work. As in? Lol. *begins copy pasting*
...‘My 5 Links’, which @eGichomo (a blogging enthusiast, among other things) who blogs here calls a chance to go into the archives and share some of the links that you feel deserve another read. It’s also to appreciate bloggers in Kenya and share mini-blog rolls for a broader read. A most noble idea, I must say. If and when you take part, tag five bloggers whom you’d like to read a similar post from.'
That being said:
1. My Most Popular Post
Whaddaya mean, my 'MOST' popular?? They were ALL RIP-ROARINGLY SUCCESSFUL!! DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM?? *buries head in sand* Hold on, lemme check the stats...HA! That's hilarious. It was A Moderately Offensive Post. No offense. I loved that one. :o)
2. Post that didn't get the attention it deserved.
Erm...refer to second sentence in previous category. HA. Erm...OH! Ok i can't remember so far back, but most recently (yeah, yeah, AFTER looking at the stats), June 25. How now was there no weeping and wailing an gnashing of teeth inserted there? Why were there no heartfelt tributes, memories, video clips? Are you people serious? You are NOT serious. And you are NOT serious about Pop. I'll make my OWN damn tribute. Shiiiiiiiii. (I'm calming down in just a sec)
3. Post whose success surprised me.
Ha. Really? Coz that was gonna happen. Lol. Erm... *checks stats...AGain*... Maybe Fears that Bind. It was really long. and emotional. Not exactly my normal style...
4. My Most Controversial Post.
Erm. Wow. I'm beginning to feel like I don't read my own blog. Erm...I'm not a very controversial kinda girl. I believe in free love, sharing blunts (HA!), that sorta thing. That being said...eish. I dunno. I'll go with The Ex Rule. People are generally nice to me. It's a round face/cute smiley thing. :o)
5. Post I am most proud of.
This is a trick question, isn't it? They've all been trick questions, haven't they. Just one? Ok... here.
Tagged:
- @Nigmwa who writes here.
- Angel, who writes here.
- @MoNahwi, who writes here.
- @abbakidenda, who writes here.
- @arungaian, who writes here.
tSN
ps. Check out AllWoman.
ps. A few favourites:
- The do-dos of doodoo
- C.
- The Mr. T. Chronicles - Chapter 1: The Beginning.
- Holding out for a hero.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Paper-chasing pontifications
Depending on how this whole I'm-in-the-rat-race-now-and-I've-sold-my-soul-for-fiscal-security thing goes, this may or may not become a thing.
So irregardless of how absolutely gorgeous I am, it still shocks me when guys hit on me for no reason. I mean, obviously there's always a reason, but a lot of the time, I like it to be an obvious one. I don't, really. I don't know why I said that. I think I'm secretly a control freak and just like to know everything. That must be it. That must also be the reason why anonymous commenters annoy me. I like to look at your name, your profile, read your blog...can't do that when you're anonymous. *shrugs* Oh well. I suppose then I would be able to hunt you down as well, so I guess privacy and whatnot is a good thing.
So yes, the reason. Usually, there is one. Sometimes, the twins are making new friends. Or, we're the only people who don't know everyone at the party. Or, you're cute, so I go out of my way to say hello. Either way...there's usually a reason. But today...there was no reason. I'm in a jacket that covers everything between my chin and my pelvis in a thick non-curve showing layer. I had my don't-bother-me-I'm-reading-plus-you-stole-half-of-my-table-you-punk mug on. We weren't in a club/at a wedding/working a speed-dating event.
I left the office to go have lunch at The Place - you know, the one with the excellent sausages. Since I was alone, I left the office well-armed with my current literary preoccupation, A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair, generously lent to me by the (apparently generous) egregious @woozie_m (he isn't actually. I just wanted to use that word. Isn't it weird how it means both remarkably bad and extraordidarily good?)
It was pretty full. So I sat on the table I wanted that had four seats. Considering the popularity of the place, someone was bound to ask me to share. I hate sharing tables at restaurants. I mean. Dude. I'm sitting here alone for a reason. Clearly I do not desire company, unless I'm waiting for it, in which case there's no point in you asking to share. Then when there's a stranger sitting with you, there's an annoying pressure to make small talk or smile when your eyes meet, like some awkward blind date. I hate such things. Also, if I was doing something, say, scratching my toe, putting an evil plan for world domination into effect or reading a book while using half of the table, I can't do that anymore because of YOU. GRRR.
In spite of the slight anger expressed in the above paragraph, I still don't have enough steam to go on (usually) to stop someone from sitting at my empty tables. So this dude sits down. I pretty much ignore him in favour of Gilbert. When he's done with his meal, he begins to talk.
'That must be a pretty good book.'
I look up. 'Yeah.' Look back down.
'What's it about?'
My momma brought me up right. (I think. Ha.) If I meet a stranger, I don't talk to them. However,in some situations, I'm forced to be polite. Like this sharing table nonsense. Which could be prevented if I had just said I don't want to share a table. *sighs* I told him what the book is about. He then dragged me into a conversation with him, kicking and screaming, when he said 'I never read fiction.' I hold such people in incredulous surprise. I took the bait.
We talked for a bit. He told me what he does. Asked polite, intelligent I'm-a-good-listener questions. Kept his eyes well above what he must have approximated to be Twin Area. As did I, above Ring Area. I really should have looked (you would think I'd've learnt by now). Not that it matters, seeing as, you know, he's a stranger. He casually slipped me his card and asked for mine. (I want a card, damnit. In other news.) He gave me advice on life and careers...he's lived an interesting one, of course. Did I mention he probably has a child right around the age I don't like? (i.e. anywhere from 0-17) (Ok,15,because I like Justin Bieber. :D) He told me an interesting theory about how the less you pay for your scurity, the more likely your guards are to liaise with thieves to rob you. It made sense.
He waited for me to finish eating. The bill came. I paid my own. He didn't offer. Which means the speech to preserve my dignity that I had rapidly concocted in expectation went to waste. *sighs* He said, with a shy smile, that he wants to have lunch again. I said something vague in agreement and hope he didn't hear because I didn't mean to agree. We both got up. We walked. He shook my hand. I walked away.
He wasn't ati bad looking. And I didn't hate his shoes, which is usually one of the first signs that nothing is going to happen, thanks to @MuriMuriz.
I bet he's gonna call me. And has a criminal record or something disastrously wrong with his otherwise...nice persona.
tSN
So irregardless of how absolutely gorgeous I am, it still shocks me when guys hit on me for no reason. I mean, obviously there's always a reason, but a lot of the time, I like it to be an obvious one. I don't, really. I don't know why I said that. I think I'm secretly a control freak and just like to know everything. That must be it. That must also be the reason why anonymous commenters annoy me. I like to look at your name, your profile, read your blog...can't do that when you're anonymous. *shrugs* Oh well. I suppose then I would be able to hunt you down as well, so I guess privacy and whatnot is a good thing.
So yes, the reason. Usually, there is one. Sometimes, the twins are making new friends. Or, we're the only people who don't know everyone at the party. Or, you're cute, so I go out of my way to say hello. Either way...there's usually a reason. But today...there was no reason. I'm in a jacket that covers everything between my chin and my pelvis in a thick non-curve showing layer. I had my don't-bother-me-I'm-reading-plus-you-stole-half-of-my-table-you-punk mug on. We weren't in a club/at a wedding/working a speed-dating event.
I left the office to go have lunch at The Place - you know, the one with the excellent sausages. Since I was alone, I left the office well-armed with my current literary preoccupation, A Closed Book by Gilbert Adair, generously lent to me by the (apparently generous) egregious @woozie_m (he isn't actually. I just wanted to use that word. Isn't it weird how it means both remarkably bad and extraordidarily good?)
It was pretty full. So I sat on the table I wanted that had four seats. Considering the popularity of the place, someone was bound to ask me to share. I hate sharing tables at restaurants. I mean. Dude. I'm sitting here alone for a reason. Clearly I do not desire company, unless I'm waiting for it, in which case there's no point in you asking to share. Then when there's a stranger sitting with you, there's an annoying pressure to make small talk or smile when your eyes meet, like some awkward blind date. I hate such things. Also, if I was doing something, say, scratching my toe, putting an evil plan for world domination into effect or reading a book while using half of the table, I can't do that anymore because of YOU. GRRR.
In spite of the slight anger expressed in the above paragraph, I still don't have enough steam to go on (usually) to stop someone from sitting at my empty tables. So this dude sits down. I pretty much ignore him in favour of Gilbert. When he's done with his meal, he begins to talk.
'That must be a pretty good book.'
I look up. 'Yeah.' Look back down.
'What's it about?'
My momma brought me up right. (I think. Ha.) If I meet a stranger, I don't talk to them. However,in some situations, I'm forced to be polite. Like this sharing table nonsense. Which could be prevented if I had just said I don't want to share a table. *sighs* I told him what the book is about. He then dragged me into a conversation with him, kicking and screaming, when he said 'I never read fiction.' I hold such people in incredulous surprise. I took the bait.
We talked for a bit. He told me what he does. Asked polite, intelligent I'm-a-good-listener questions. Kept his eyes well above what he must have approximated to be Twin Area. As did I, above Ring Area. I really should have looked (you would think I'd've learnt by now). Not that it matters, seeing as, you know, he's a stranger. He casually slipped me his card and asked for mine. (I want a card, damnit. In other news.) He gave me advice on life and careers...he's lived an interesting one, of course. Did I mention he probably has a child right around the age I don't like? (i.e. anywhere from 0-17) (Ok,15,because I like Justin Bieber. :D) He told me an interesting theory about how the less you pay for your scurity, the more likely your guards are to liaise with thieves to rob you. It made sense.
He waited for me to finish eating. The bill came. I paid my own. He didn't offer. Which means the speech to preserve my dignity that I had rapidly concocted in expectation went to waste. *sighs* He said, with a shy smile, that he wants to have lunch again. I said something vague in agreement and hope he didn't hear because I didn't mean to agree. We both got up. We walked. He shook my hand. I walked away.
He wasn't ati bad looking. And I didn't hate his shoes, which is usually one of the first signs that nothing is going to happen, thanks to @MuriMuriz.
I bet he's gonna call me. And has a criminal record or something disastrously wrong with his otherwise...nice persona.
tSN
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Of bovines and best maids. (HA!)
WARNING: Digressions will be rampant and arbitrarily placed throughout the course of this post. Peter! :o)
If you have been reading my blog, you have good taste, and you know that I'm the best maid for my friend's wedding. You should also have been commenting, because how do 196 people follow the blog (you awesome people, you. Much like the author) and like, 10 people max comment? People. People. People. CaMAAAAAAAAAAN. Ok I'm done. No I'm not. How do I make it easier for you to comment? How do I make it juicy for ya? Bribes? Lap dances? World peace? I want to know what you think. It's important to me. *deep, soulful look* A writer writes to write, but also to be appreciated, unless I don't like your comment. HA. :o)
So in accordance with true wedding fashion, it was necessary to receive cows for dowry for the bride-to-be. Why do we give cows? Why do we give anything, really? I won't have a dowry, whether it is 1.2 million (ridiculously calibrated by my pseudo-educated self) or 10 cows. You can't really pay back what your parents did for you anyway, so why bother? Why attempt to bother? Why allude to the fact that your MP-like exorbitance *cough highway robbery cough* is a silly attempt to bother? For something that I can't get a refund on or a guarantee? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. If you want to give a token, take us all to Zanzibar. Whoop. :o) How much is a cow these days anyway? Duuude. Yeah, definitely Zanzibar. My colleague (:o) was talking in our (cold) office about how your parents obviously did not educate you in the hope that they would be paid back in dowry at a later point. Is that then to say that they would not have taken you to school had you decided to become a nun? Mschw.
Sunday was the cow delivery day. I woke up at 6 to be on time, and of course no one else was. The problem with punctuality is there is never anyone around to appreciate it. We ate and went. I slept all the way, because frankly, road trips are really not my thing. I come from a land far far away where men are men and women...hehehe. (again. If you've been reading the blog.) The valleys and caverns, ditches and plateaus one traverses to get to my roots are have cultivated a healthy dislike for travel that is not air. Train, maybe. Cars? No.
We get there and it begins. The men walk the cows up the hill. We eat. We leave before the rain starts and we're trapped there. Forever. Never to be seen or heard from again. Lost. (HA!)On the way back I notice huge stones jutting out from lofty crags above us. I begin to have fear in my soul that somehow the boulders will break off and crush us into dust. My heart palpitates...and I come to the realization that I am old. No longer can I simply enjoy a road trip. No longer can I pass a bunch of stones without thinking of mortality, or sit in a car with a window wide open and not leap to ideas about nine madmen a-flinging. Age AIN't nothing but a number, damnit. The rave now seems like a gargantuan effort(well, I'm stretching the truth a little to keep the flow going, burram...), an effort to freeze and be overcharged, underclothed and underwhelmed by the number of Supras about.
One of the younger ones at said gathering was required to give a vote of thanks. He did it with a youthfulness and panache that made me regret not being as self-possessed, yet suposedly older and more...knowingy. He reminded me what it meant to just...be yourself, because that's the coolest version of you you could ever hope to imitate. Does that make sense? This is something I need to constantly be reminded about, because secretly, I'm socially awkward. Go figure.
So God never had, like, a childhood? He never learnt how to tie shoelaces, or count till a hundred? Can you imagine God as a toii, figuring out how to mix colours so he could paint the world?
Moral of the story? No cows for me. I'd rather have a cat.
tSN
p.s. AllWoman.
If you have been reading my blog, you have good taste, and you know that I'm the best maid for my friend's wedding. You should also have been commenting, because how do 196 people follow the blog (you awesome people, you. Much like the author) and like, 10 people max comment? People. People. People. CaMAAAAAAAAAAN. Ok I'm done. No I'm not. How do I make it easier for you to comment? How do I make it juicy for ya? Bribes? Lap dances? World peace? I want to know what you think. It's important to me. *deep, soulful look* A writer writes to write, but also to be appreciated, unless I don't like your comment. HA. :o)
So in accordance with true wedding fashion, it was necessary to receive cows for dowry for the bride-to-be. Why do we give cows? Why do we give anything, really? I won't have a dowry, whether it is 1.2 million (ridiculously calibrated by my pseudo-educated self) or 10 cows. You can't really pay back what your parents did for you anyway, so why bother? Why attempt to bother? Why allude to the fact that your MP-like exorbitance *cough highway robbery cough* is a silly attempt to bother? For something that I can't get a refund on or a guarantee? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. If you want to give a token, take us all to Zanzibar. Whoop. :o) How much is a cow these days anyway? Duuude. Yeah, definitely Zanzibar. My colleague (:o) was talking in our (cold) office about how your parents obviously did not educate you in the hope that they would be paid back in dowry at a later point. Is that then to say that they would not have taken you to school had you decided to become a nun? Mschw.
Sunday was the cow delivery day. I woke up at 6 to be on time, and of course no one else was. The problem with punctuality is there is never anyone around to appreciate it. We ate and went. I slept all the way, because frankly, road trips are really not my thing. I come from a land far far away where men are men and women...hehehe. (again. If you've been reading the blog.) The valleys and caverns, ditches and plateaus one traverses to get to my roots are have cultivated a healthy dislike for travel that is not air. Train, maybe. Cars? No.
We get there and it begins. The men walk the cows up the hill. We eat. We leave before the rain starts and we're trapped there. Forever. Never to be seen or heard from again. Lost. (HA!)On the way back I notice huge stones jutting out from lofty crags above us. I begin to have fear in my soul that somehow the boulders will break off and crush us into dust. My heart palpitates...and I come to the realization that I am old. No longer can I simply enjoy a road trip. No longer can I pass a bunch of stones without thinking of mortality, or sit in a car with a window wide open and not leap to ideas about nine madmen a-flinging. Age AIN't nothing but a number, damnit. The rave now seems like a gargantuan effort(well, I'm stretching the truth a little to keep the flow going, burram...), an effort to freeze and be overcharged, underclothed and underwhelmed by the number of Supras about.
One of the younger ones at said gathering was required to give a vote of thanks. He did it with a youthfulness and panache that made me regret not being as self-possessed, yet suposedly older and more...knowingy. He reminded me what it meant to just...be yourself, because that's the coolest version of you you could ever hope to imitate. Does that make sense? This is something I need to constantly be reminded about, because secretly, I'm socially awkward. Go figure.
So God never had, like, a childhood? He never learnt how to tie shoelaces, or count till a hundred? Can you imagine God as a toii, figuring out how to mix colours so he could paint the world?
Moral of the story? No cows for me. I'd rather have a cat.
tSN
p.s. AllWoman.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
MURDER MOST FOUL!!!!
Today morning, I was gripped with a desire to cut my talk-time costs, much like your average Kenyan. I'm on a great network, which I sing the accolades of as if it were paying my rent. I get all the texts I want to to the same network, low rates for calling other networks (in fact, it costs me the same to call other networks as it would to call the States. Please note that other networks only did this after my network blazed the trail) and...well, really, that's all I need. I'm low maintenance. 3G isn't a big deal to me. I'll live. Plus the customer service is very accessible, and if I say I've been stolen from, there actually is a chance that they will refund me. It's happened. Twice. (how many people can say that?)
I think because the other people like me on my network are happy-go-lucky easy-to-please folk, they are beginning to dole out crap plans and hope no one notices. In a bid to reduce my significant phone expenditure, I went online to look at their postpaid plan.
My eyes thought they were deceiving me and decided I must be temporarily blinded by all the cake that's been in the office. The sudden effluence of calories had obviously shocked my retinas into brief but complete blackness. So I called Customer Care, hoping my ears were not suffering from the same disease.
The man I talked to was nice. He tried to calm my troubled brow, and yet I was too riled up to really pay attention. Maybe it's just me who expects more from 500 bob a month than a total of 200 minutes talk time. Is he serious? Are THEY serious? I proceeded to ask him how long it takes HIM to use 100 minutes. He tried to deflect my violent attack, tell me about 10k limits (which were horrifyingly unstructured and completely senseless) but it was too late. I had already started the opening lines of this blogpost. I hung up promptly...shocked. Dismayed. But most of all, and worst of all, betrayed.
I have been too busy to blog (can you believe it?), but this injustice caused me to leap onto my keyboard. It's therapeutic, you know. Seeing as I can't burn their offices or civilly speak to their incompetent promotion officers/marketing managers/people in charge of products and free texts and monitoring public opinion, however douchey, I do what every Kenyan with a phone and a brain and absolutely no political and/or otherwise clout does. I tweeted their company.
If they don't reply, I'm calling on higher powers. @WMutunga.
Not really.
Ok maybe.
No, not really. I'm just a bit...emotional right now.
*flees the scene to wail in the corner*
tSN
p.s. The title refers to the murder of my trust. Gory. Unscrupulous. Swift. *bursts into tears again*
p.s. Check out www.allwoman.co.ke. For all your online entertainment needs. *winks*
I think because the other people like me on my network are happy-go-lucky easy-to-please folk, they are beginning to dole out crap plans and hope no one notices. In a bid to reduce my significant phone expenditure, I went online to look at their postpaid plan.
My eyes thought they were deceiving me and decided I must be temporarily blinded by all the cake that's been in the office. The sudden effluence of calories had obviously shocked my retinas into brief but complete blackness. So I called Customer Care, hoping my ears were not suffering from the same disease.
The man I talked to was nice. He tried to calm my troubled brow, and yet I was too riled up to really pay attention. Maybe it's just me who expects more from 500 bob a month than a total of 200 minutes talk time. Is he serious? Are THEY serious? I proceeded to ask him how long it takes HIM to use 100 minutes. He tried to deflect my violent attack, tell me about 10k limits (which were horrifyingly unstructured and completely senseless) but it was too late. I had already started the opening lines of this blogpost. I hung up promptly...shocked. Dismayed. But most of all, and worst of all, betrayed.
I have been too busy to blog (can you believe it?), but this injustice caused me to leap onto my keyboard. It's therapeutic, you know. Seeing as I can't burn their offices or civilly speak to their incompetent promotion officers/marketing managers/people in charge of products and free texts and monitoring public opinion, however douchey, I do what every Kenyan with a phone and a brain and absolutely no political and/or otherwise clout does. I tweeted their company.
If they don't reply, I'm calling on higher powers. @WMutunga.
Not really.
Ok maybe.
No, not really. I'm just a bit...emotional right now.
*flees the scene to wail in the corner*
tSN
p.s. The title refers to the murder of my trust. Gory. Unscrupulous. Swift. *bursts into tears again*
p.s. Check out www.allwoman.co.ke. For all your online entertainment needs. *winks*
Friday, July 1, 2011
My first day at work.
So, today, I woke up earlier than I have ever woken up...since high school, anyway. Ok, since my 9 a.m. uni classes. My body was in disbelief and refused to get into the shower until I coaxed it with the showerhead...PSYCHE. (too early for such. Give me like an hour. :D)
The shower done, I sluggishly put on clothing befitting of my awesome job...i.e. sandals and a waistcoat that looked like I was trying to be trendy, and my favorite leather jacket. Don't ask. I had breakfast (nyoyo, matoke and tea. MMM.) and deliberately stopped myself from getting to work 20 minutes early. Despite my inherent laziness, I was surprisingly punctual. This possibly has more to do with the stars aligning with the geographical location that my parents chose to live in than any industry on my part.
I walked into the office and we were moving desks. Then we sat down and got to...well...work. It wasn't rocket science, as it wasn't NASA, so I was excited about that. Then I got to watch a script I'd written in action. Then the Boss came in with heartily and unashamedly unhealthy chocolate cake. When she walked in I thought, wow, for day 1? Damn they do it big...but turns out I was being narcissistic, it was 2 colleagues' (I can say that now :D) birthdays. I pigged out, because no one else wanted as much chocolate and so kept giving me theirs. I think that's what gave me a headache. And in addition, lots of chocolate makes me flatulent. Hm. BossLady gave me Hedex. I kept working. Then, oh joy, lunchtime!
I walked down to a quaint little cafe at the end of the road. A friendly waiter gave me a menu and cracked a joke. I was getting a very good feeling about this work thing (especially considering I'd just met an old schoolmate who apparently works in the same building as me, and I was venturing out of my comfort zone). They didn't have the breaded chicken I wanted, but they had chips and excellent sausage. Excellent sausage is...hard...to get. Believe me. I've been around. This is only the second place whose sausage I like.
The waiter was so nice. The place was clean, and not full. The food came fast and was tasty. I was in heaven. As I ate, I literally began to make little moaning sounds because I was so happy. The conditions were optimum. I felt like an exultant petri dish. I seriously considered leaving him an exorbitant tip, but held myself back, because that would result in expectations I could not maintain. I walked back to the office, but in my head, there was a field of tulips. And sunflowers.
Then we had to move the set from the company's last production, which took about an hour of heavy lifting and sweating and general manual labour. So basically, I worked off lunch AND the cake, and probably breakfast. And last night's dinner. After that my productivity curve went south and conversation deteriorated into concerts we'd pay money for. @shikodaisy said she'd pay money for a potato festival. I laughed and begun to contemplate the strawberry daquiris that awaited me at 5 with @Thogii, for no reason at all except being young, and gorgeous.
FIVE!
tSN
The shower done, I sluggishly put on clothing befitting of my awesome job...i.e. sandals and a waistcoat that looked like I was trying to be trendy, and my favorite leather jacket. Don't ask. I had breakfast (nyoyo, matoke and tea. MMM.) and deliberately stopped myself from getting to work 20 minutes early. Despite my inherent laziness, I was surprisingly punctual. This possibly has more to do with the stars aligning with the geographical location that my parents chose to live in than any industry on my part.
I walked into the office and we were moving desks. Then we sat down and got to...well...work. It wasn't rocket science, as it wasn't NASA, so I was excited about that. Then I got to watch a script I'd written in action. Then the Boss came in with heartily and unashamedly unhealthy chocolate cake. When she walked in I thought, wow, for day 1? Damn they do it big...but turns out I was being narcissistic, it was 2 colleagues' (I can say that now :D) birthdays. I pigged out, because no one else wanted as much chocolate and so kept giving me theirs. I think that's what gave me a headache. And in addition, lots of chocolate makes me flatulent. Hm. BossLady gave me Hedex. I kept working. Then, oh joy, lunchtime!
I walked down to a quaint little cafe at the end of the road. A friendly waiter gave me a menu and cracked a joke. I was getting a very good feeling about this work thing (especially considering I'd just met an old schoolmate who apparently works in the same building as me, and I was venturing out of my comfort zone). They didn't have the breaded chicken I wanted, but they had chips and excellent sausage. Excellent sausage is...hard...to get. Believe me. I've been around. This is only the second place whose sausage I like.
The waiter was so nice. The place was clean, and not full. The food came fast and was tasty. I was in heaven. As I ate, I literally began to make little moaning sounds because I was so happy. The conditions were optimum. I felt like an exultant petri dish. I seriously considered leaving him an exorbitant tip, but held myself back, because that would result in expectations I could not maintain. I walked back to the office, but in my head, there was a field of tulips. And sunflowers.
Then we had to move the set from the company's last production, which took about an hour of heavy lifting and sweating and general manual labour. So basically, I worked off lunch AND the cake, and probably breakfast. And last night's dinner. After that my productivity curve went south and conversation deteriorated into concerts we'd pay money for. @shikodaisy said she'd pay money for a potato festival. I laughed and begun to contemplate the strawberry daquiris that awaited me at 5 with @Thogii, for no reason at all except being young, and gorgeous.
FIVE!
tSN
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