The human mouth has a surprising amount of saliva. I discovered this once again on my most recent trip to the dentist’s.
Ah, the dentist’s. That chair holds several joyful childhood memories. For me, it has always been a place of great happiness. Looking back, it’s rather ironic that they gave you lollipops when you left. Always loved the dentist’s. Until my teeth became adolescents and started rebelling…i.e. got cavities.(Not milk.)
So the other day I traipse on over for a visit because one of my teeth is hurting. This may have been the beginning of the end of the passionate love affair that was me and the dentist’s chair. I mean dude. It vibrates. And acts like Robocop, with all the fun-sounding whirring. Love was destined to blossom in such optimum conditions (as opposed to in the time of cholera).
So anyway. After waiting for like 2 hours, I finally saw the dentist. (And sat in the chair. Don’t ever forget the chair.) He told me what was wrong with my tooth, etc. During this, of course, he had to look inside my mouth. Then something had to be done in my mouth; enter the suctioning thingy. After annihilating any chance of a steamy rendezvous with the dentist (who really was cute, but really, after you see a girl drooling uncontrollably, a date isn’t the first thing that comes to mind), he gave me a mouthwash that was supposed to have a ‘pleasantly flavored aqueous base.’ The long and short of that was: LIE!!!
There was still hope for this relationship when I came back the next time, toothache again. I got in to see the dentist almost immediately (at last! Reunited with my love: the chair). My dentist this time was a lady (yay! Face: Saved!). I don’t think I can ever really get used to the whole let’s-talk-about-mundane-things-while-doing-surgery thing. You see it in the movies, but assume it never happens…oh, it does. I was thinking the whole time, if I move my tongue, it will be sliced off by the lethal-looking instrument she’s waving about, seeing as she’s not even LOOKING at my mouth while laughing about sijui whose outfit.
And then there’s the 3 injections. As if I wasn’t drooling enough already, she numbed the entire right side of my jaw. It’s really disconcerting when your lip won’t listen to you. Especially when you’re telling it to close. On the plus side, if I had gotten into a violent brawl with say, the dentist’s assistant (or the chair), I would’ve totally won, because I couldn’t feel a thing. My pugilist ambitions would be well realized…as long as she kept hitting my right jaw. (Don’t touch the face? HA! You can’t hurt – um, touch, this!) I was tempted to punch myself, but I settled for chewing nervously on my inner lip.
What bothered me was the fact that I had gone in for a simple check-up, only to be told that I had a broken filling, a cavity and a soon-to-be cavity (when I grow up, I want to be…decaying?). As you can imagine, I now no longer drink soda. The price of sugar is too high to pay. During the surgery, I kept thinking when will it be over…and WHY ISN’T SHE LOOKING INTO MY MOUTH, DAMMIT…
I got out of the chair. At last. I went to the counter to pay my bill. The receptionist then tells me, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, your insurance doesn’t cover dental. And your last bill wasn’t paid either.’
??!?!?!?!!!!
tSN
p.s. Can you believe I only just watched Set It Off? Great movie. Who knew Organized Noise wrote Don’t Let Go (En Vogue)? Me neither. Yes, I don’t know what I was doing with myself in 1996 either. Maybe I was at the dentist’s.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Epilogue slash Continuation...
Apparently the quickest way to get over one man is to get under another one. So I hear. The problem with this mantra is that it assumes that there’s a mass of men about just waiting to be flipped into horizontal positions. It also assumes that it is healthy to constantly be in a relationship or chasing one. Which really cannot be healthy, can it. Because most women know that you shouldn’t need a man to validate you, you shouldn’t be pegging all your happiness on just one person, yaddiyaddiyadda. But the truth for most of these women is that men are like chocolate when you’re on a no-sugar diet. It’s probably bad for you in large quantities. You don’t really NEED any. But you definitely do WANT some.
And so here I was, back to the singlehood that I had never really left. It felt familiar; I knew all my neighbours. (It much resembled the gutter.) I spent inordinate amounts of time staring at my phone and wondering why it was so quiet – then remembering that it had no reason to make noise. I hate that stage, when your foot isn’t completely back through the door and you’re trying extremely hard not to let your (semi/pseudo) ex become your rebound, because it is so ridiculously easy to fall back into the pattern that you know oh so well. What clearer path to follow than the path you have already trod.
In a bid to forget my so-called woes (because really, in life, believe it or not, there are much bigger problems than just singlehood), The Girls and I went to get a cuppa at the nearest Java. I listlessly glanced around, expecting the usual crowd – who did not fail to deliver – and of course, JavaGuy.
So JavaGuy is….drumroll….a guy. Who I always see at Java. In my wildest fantasies, he’s a top secret CID agent/international crime lord/fugitive/random guy under a witness protection plan who is now living undercover and trying to mingle with the common rabble as he gets back on track to whatever he’s planning on doing next. Which, because he’s so uberexciting, is very exciting. So he saw me once from a distance and was so enamored by my ephemeral beauty and noticeable wit (as all my friends were conveniently laughing at a joke I just cracked, and saying things like ‘You’re so funny!’ and ‘Wow, you should totally have a stand-up comedy show…’ This is what is supposed to happen in real life.) that he immediately hired his strongmen/other CID buddies/himself to follow me and trace my every move.
The reason this fantasy exists is because every single time I walk into Java, either he’s already there or shows up within 15 minutes. It’s creepy and exciting all at the same time. Although more exciting than creepy, because he’s not a middle-aged Caucasian male, which is the most common standard profile for serial killers.
So of course he was there. And of course our eyes met, because they always do. And of course there was the usual flicker of recognition, and the appreciative up-and-down glance, because, quite frankly, it’s me – and of course there was me walking away, because I knew him. He was the kinda guy who irritates me so very much – check a girl out, raise her hopes then don’t do anything about it, no, never, can’t do that. Punk.
We sat down and he looked my way. I thought DAMNATION. You already know bloody well what I look like. And you clearly don’t have a pair to your name. So I turned around and continued to chop it up with The Girls. Really loudly, as per usual.
At some point, the waiters begun to put up the chairs, and we thought, perhaps that’s our cue to leave. We had been biding our time until they brought us the bill, but they were taking ages, so we grabbed the excuse to not depart. So we called our waitress over and asked for the bill.
“Your bill has been cleared.” We looked at her, confused. We hadn’t paid our bill. What were these words coming out of her mouth? Maybe she was really tired after a long day. But at the same time, she was looking at us as if we had taken a couple of hard knocks as children, or our mochas had been clearly laced. “The gentleman who cleared it left his card, and asked me to give it to you.” And with that, she placed a card on the table and left.
The Girls and I peered at the card as if it was an alien specimen that was the secret to no wrinkles.
“Nice card,” said MM.
“I guess…”I agreed grudgingly.
“Good quality paper is always a plus,” added PK, who has a knack for summarizing a man’s entire fiscal potential by his shoes and whether he orders a double espresso or a single cappuccino.
“Mm.”
“Will you call him?”
“Well…..we’ll see.” But really? Call him? Classic move of a man who’d rather be chased than do the chasing. Was I really ready for that?
tSN
Ps. Young Kenyans are garnering an obsession with perceived depth through poetry slam sessions and spoken word thingies and the like. But half of the people who perform at these things don’t have friends who tell them they can’t sing/perform/write poetry for sh**. Same thing happened before Caroline Nderitu became ‘famous’. You have been warned.
And so here I was, back to the singlehood that I had never really left. It felt familiar; I knew all my neighbours. (It much resembled the gutter.) I spent inordinate amounts of time staring at my phone and wondering why it was so quiet – then remembering that it had no reason to make noise. I hate that stage, when your foot isn’t completely back through the door and you’re trying extremely hard not to let your (semi/pseudo) ex become your rebound, because it is so ridiculously easy to fall back into the pattern that you know oh so well. What clearer path to follow than the path you have already trod.
In a bid to forget my so-called woes (because really, in life, believe it or not, there are much bigger problems than just singlehood), The Girls and I went to get a cuppa at the nearest Java. I listlessly glanced around, expecting the usual crowd – who did not fail to deliver – and of course, JavaGuy.
So JavaGuy is….drumroll….a guy. Who I always see at Java. In my wildest fantasies, he’s a top secret CID agent/international crime lord/fugitive/random guy under a witness protection plan who is now living undercover and trying to mingle with the common rabble as he gets back on track to whatever he’s planning on doing next. Which, because he’s so uberexciting, is very exciting. So he saw me once from a distance and was so enamored by my ephemeral beauty and noticeable wit (as all my friends were conveniently laughing at a joke I just cracked, and saying things like ‘You’re so funny!’ and ‘Wow, you should totally have a stand-up comedy show…’ This is what is supposed to happen in real life.) that he immediately hired his strongmen/other CID buddies/himself to follow me and trace my every move.
The reason this fantasy exists is because every single time I walk into Java, either he’s already there or shows up within 15 minutes. It’s creepy and exciting all at the same time. Although more exciting than creepy, because he’s not a middle-aged Caucasian male, which is the most common standard profile for serial killers.
So of course he was there. And of course our eyes met, because they always do. And of course there was the usual flicker of recognition, and the appreciative up-and-down glance, because, quite frankly, it’s me – and of course there was me walking away, because I knew him. He was the kinda guy who irritates me so very much – check a girl out, raise her hopes then don’t do anything about it, no, never, can’t do that. Punk.
We sat down and he looked my way. I thought DAMNATION. You already know bloody well what I look like. And you clearly don’t have a pair to your name. So I turned around and continued to chop it up with The Girls. Really loudly, as per usual.
At some point, the waiters begun to put up the chairs, and we thought, perhaps that’s our cue to leave. We had been biding our time until they brought us the bill, but they were taking ages, so we grabbed the excuse to not depart. So we called our waitress over and asked for the bill.
“Your bill has been cleared.” We looked at her, confused. We hadn’t paid our bill. What were these words coming out of her mouth? Maybe she was really tired after a long day. But at the same time, she was looking at us as if we had taken a couple of hard knocks as children, or our mochas had been clearly laced. “The gentleman who cleared it left his card, and asked me to give it to you.” And with that, she placed a card on the table and left.
The Girls and I peered at the card as if it was an alien specimen that was the secret to no wrinkles.
“Nice card,” said MM.
“I guess…”I agreed grudgingly.
“Good quality paper is always a plus,” added PK, who has a knack for summarizing a man’s entire fiscal potential by his shoes and whether he orders a double espresso or a single cappuccino.
“Mm.”
“Will you call him?”
“Well…..we’ll see.” But really? Call him? Classic move of a man who’d rather be chased than do the chasing. Was I really ready for that?
tSN
Ps. Young Kenyans are garnering an obsession with perceived depth through poetry slam sessions and spoken word thingies and the like. But half of the people who perform at these things don’t have friends who tell them they can’t sing/perform/write poetry for sh**. Same thing happened before Caroline Nderitu became ‘famous’. You have been warned.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Of phones and freedoms
I’ve had to say goodbye to two phones in the last six months, with Boyz II Men playing in my head, of course. I have maddest detachment issues, especially to inanimate objects. Maybe it’s because I feel like if the things that can’t move about or run away in my life are changing, there remains no hope for the living, breathing organisms that I dare to call humanity. Basically, I do not enjoy that terrible thing called change. I’m less than amateur at handling it – I’m alien. It is an alien concept. Or should be. (I lie here. Change is good. Or do we just say this as a way of dealing with the supposed inevitable? I could choose to pull a Michael Jackson and get into a hyperbaric chamber to reverse the aging process, thus reducing all possibility of change. Then I’ll buy an amusement park to match my ever-unwrinkling Botox enhanced features. But I digress.)
MOAOTL, my trusty Nokia, did not age with grace. Unlike Madam Berries, my flashy Motorola, who had the simple decency to succumb to a quick fall and split in half. MOAOTL dragged out his disease in a long, messy path, reminiscent of divorces and presidential speeches. The way I treated MOAOTL during his last days made me wonder about my distinct lack of patience with – well, everything, really. For instance, talking about him as if he were dead when he sits next to me on my bed, feebly but faithfully blinking out the arrival of a message. (Wow. I talk about my phones like they’re human. Anyway.) Beating him vigorously when he randomly decides to switch off. Formulating theories about how he is possessed by a demon when he begins to arbitrarily vibrate and use the flashlight (in the daytime), or decide he’s a TV set and show black lines across the screen while emitting a high-pitched squeal. (Ah, KBC memories.) Minus the pretty rainbow colors. I.e. not pretty. He does this thing where he’s jealous of my conversations so he just turns off in the middle of someone’s call. Fun times. (I see many of my friends going so THAT’S what happened.)
All in all, I wasn’t very patient during the DOA. (Death Of Appliance). Makes me wonder how patient I’ll be with age and aging around me. Will I be yelling at my dad, ‘WHY AREN’T YOU WORKING???!!!’ It’s a scary thought. And as for me? Will I be reduced to muttering on street corners about how I’m sure that building is just round the corner, I’ll just step into this alley to take the shortcut? *cue danger music* Yeah….very afraid.
I wish I could end everything when I wanted to. I’m too fearful of an irrelevant future filled with diapers and nursing homes, drooling and people who I can’t remember. Especially since I’m not planning to have children. This isn’t looking like the twilight years I wanted. Maybe that’s the solution. Find a vampire to keep me forever young…I want to be…forever young…
I’ve heard friends of mine say they have deals with God to end it at 60. Which, in my books, is not actually old. I have cousins that age. Maybe 85ish, 90. I mean, Mugabe is still running a country with his octogenarian mind. No one says he has to do it WELL. My question is this, though…how do they know God will deliver? Have they been bribing Gabe?
Well…I AM Kenyan. That could be a plan.
tSN
p.s. You know what’s also scary? Fish bones. They could be a definitely veritable weapon of…assassinry. Feed the guy you want to kill some fillet to lull him into a false sense of security…soak those really thin slivers of bone in arsenic…bingo…it’ll get right to The Bad Guy’s gum, and quickly to the bloodstream. And they won’t even find the bone until 3 days later (I never can) and by then the body will be disposed of. Just a thought.
MOAOTL, my trusty Nokia, did not age with grace. Unlike Madam Berries, my flashy Motorola, who had the simple decency to succumb to a quick fall and split in half. MOAOTL dragged out his disease in a long, messy path, reminiscent of divorces and presidential speeches. The way I treated MOAOTL during his last days made me wonder about my distinct lack of patience with – well, everything, really. For instance, talking about him as if he were dead when he sits next to me on my bed, feebly but faithfully blinking out the arrival of a message. (Wow. I talk about my phones like they’re human. Anyway.) Beating him vigorously when he randomly decides to switch off. Formulating theories about how he is possessed by a demon when he begins to arbitrarily vibrate and use the flashlight (in the daytime), or decide he’s a TV set and show black lines across the screen while emitting a high-pitched squeal. (Ah, KBC memories.) Minus the pretty rainbow colors. I.e. not pretty. He does this thing where he’s jealous of my conversations so he just turns off in the middle of someone’s call. Fun times. (I see many of my friends going so THAT’S what happened.)
All in all, I wasn’t very patient during the DOA. (Death Of Appliance). Makes me wonder how patient I’ll be with age and aging around me. Will I be yelling at my dad, ‘WHY AREN’T YOU WORKING???!!!’ It’s a scary thought. And as for me? Will I be reduced to muttering on street corners about how I’m sure that building is just round the corner, I’ll just step into this alley to take the shortcut? *cue danger music* Yeah….very afraid.
I wish I could end everything when I wanted to. I’m too fearful of an irrelevant future filled with diapers and nursing homes, drooling and people who I can’t remember. Especially since I’m not planning to have children. This isn’t looking like the twilight years I wanted. Maybe that’s the solution. Find a vampire to keep me forever young…I want to be…forever young…
I’ve heard friends of mine say they have deals with God to end it at 60. Which, in my books, is not actually old. I have cousins that age. Maybe 85ish, 90. I mean, Mugabe is still running a country with his octogenarian mind. No one says he has to do it WELL. My question is this, though…how do they know God will deliver? Have they been bribing Gabe?
Well…I AM Kenyan. That could be a plan.
tSN
p.s. You know what’s also scary? Fish bones. They could be a definitely veritable weapon of…assassinry. Feed the guy you want to kill some fillet to lull him into a false sense of security…soak those really thin slivers of bone in arsenic…bingo…it’ll get right to The Bad Guy’s gum, and quickly to the bloodstream. And they won’t even find the bone until 3 days later (I never can) and by then the body will be disposed of. Just a thought.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 4 – The End.
Contrary to popular belief, polar bears are indeed left-handed (hehe) and it really is quite easy to get a girlfriend. Yes! I would know because I have dated several. Psyche! I would know because I am a girl. I’ve checked. I’m sure.
To get a girlfriend, speak her language. Yes, it really is that simple. In many Black movies, this can also be translated as ‘treat her right’ (say it with the twang). This is not to be confused with spend oodles of money on her and go to every bridal shower she feels the need to drag you along to. This means find out what she likes and do it for her. It’s not too hard. She likes flowers? Buy her flowers. She likes walks on the beach? Buy a swimsuit (so as to walk on the beach). She likes Chinese food? Oooh, it would be really cute if you could learn how to cook it and make her some at home. Women claim to be complex, but they really aren’t. Just follow the patterns.
Because really, all a woman wants is to feel appreciated. (DISCLAIMER: I bet this is not true for all women. It has become apparent that all some women want is to be abused. Or play games. I know, I don’t get it either.) Be thoughtful. Once in a while. A girl’s earnestest lol desire is to be wooed by Prince Charming. These terribly high expectations, set by Disney, will cost you dearly in the long run before they settle back to reality. But reality can be cool too! Hehe. That Luther song is a sure formula. Buy me a rose, et al. Ok though flowers die. So they’re kinda pointless. But if that’s her kinda thing, hey...
If you like a girl, like her. Text her. Or Facebook her, whatever, if she doesn’t have the Nokia 1100. Communication – in her language. I.e. if she doesn’t like being texted, don’t. :o)
At 3:30 a.m. in the morning, I dragged Mr. T. onto his bed in his state of solid inebriation. He was still coherent – that may be the wrong word to use there – enough to mutter my name as I threw his bulk on his bed and tried to cover him with his Superman duvet. (DISCLAIMER: This is not true. He does not have a Superman duvet. But it’s my blog. I can make him look silly and have bad – sorry, abominable, taste in superheroes if I want to – AT THE SAME TIME. He. He.) As I was about to leave to meet Macha, my trusty cab guy, Mr. T. flung his arm around me and said ‘Please be my girlfriend.’
I was locked in a death grip with a madman. Fortunately for me, he then proceeded to pass out.
Surely, surely, I was worth more than a random drunk proposal? Surely I was above cartoon duvets and wayward, haphazard propositions? Surely I had not sunk this low?
I walked out. It’s never that serious.
To get a girlfriend, speak her language. Yes, it really is that simple. In many Black movies, this can also be translated as ‘treat her right’ (say it with the twang). This is not to be confused with spend oodles of money on her and go to every bridal shower she feels the need to drag you along to. This means find out what she likes and do it for her. It’s not too hard. She likes flowers? Buy her flowers. She likes walks on the beach? Buy a swimsuit (so as to walk on the beach). She likes Chinese food? Oooh, it would be really cute if you could learn how to cook it and make her some at home. Women claim to be complex, but they really aren’t. Just follow the patterns.
Because really, all a woman wants is to feel appreciated. (DISCLAIMER: I bet this is not true for all women. It has become apparent that all some women want is to be abused. Or play games. I know, I don’t get it either.) Be thoughtful. Once in a while. A girl’s earnestest lol desire is to be wooed by Prince Charming. These terribly high expectations, set by Disney, will cost you dearly in the long run before they settle back to reality. But reality can be cool too! Hehe. That Luther song is a sure formula. Buy me a rose, et al. Ok though flowers die. So they’re kinda pointless. But if that’s her kinda thing, hey...
If you like a girl, like her. Text her. Or Facebook her, whatever, if she doesn’t have the Nokia 1100. Communication – in her language. I.e. if she doesn’t like being texted, don’t. :o)
At 3:30 a.m. in the morning, I dragged Mr. T. onto his bed in his state of solid inebriation. He was still coherent – that may be the wrong word to use there – enough to mutter my name as I threw his bulk on his bed and tried to cover him with his Superman duvet. (DISCLAIMER: This is not true. He does not have a Superman duvet. But it’s my blog. I can make him look silly and have bad – sorry, abominable, taste in superheroes if I want to – AT THE SAME TIME. He. He.) As I was about to leave to meet Macha, my trusty cab guy, Mr. T. flung his arm around me and said ‘Please be my girlfriend.’
I was locked in a death grip with a madman. Fortunately for me, he then proceeded to pass out.
Surely, surely, I was worth more than a random drunk proposal? Surely I was above cartoon duvets and wayward, haphazard propositions? Surely I had not sunk this low?
I walked out. It’s never that serious.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Mr. T. Chronicles, Chapter 3: Halfway to The End
And so, my dignity firmly over the (apparently nearby) horizon, I caved like a badly-made soufflé midweek and used my phone for what it was meant to be used for.
The following events take place between Saturday, 9am and Sunday, 3am.
tSN: Hi.:) (first sign of incredible weakness – a SMILEY)
MrT: Hey how are you? Why so quiet? (PUNKASS!!)
tSN: Busy busy busy…you know me. (enter aggravation at having texted in the first place. Damn my weak/non-existent will!!)
MrT: I’ve missed you. (Cue giggles, and a stampede away from logic. Goodbye aggravation, hello my inner High School Girl.) (NOTE. Instead of, PUNKASS!! Then why haven’t you texted? It’s OVER! et al, et al)
tSN: :)
MrT: Can I see you tonight?
tSN: (making ZERO effort to be busy, and giving NO thought to saying – what’s that word? – no) What’re you doing tonight?
MrT: We’re doing Flamingo. (hip yet chilled joint for up-and-coming yuppies with an intense desire to prove how urban and successful they are. But good cocktails. Which is a great exchange for my shame.)
tSN: I’ll let you know then. (trying to save a dismally hopeless…whatever)
MrT: Pick you up at 9?
tSN: Determined, aren’t we… (Arrogant, sexy jerk! I won’t give in! I won’t! Ok, we can be resolute tomorrow. What to wear?...)
MrT: Decisive would be the word.
tSN: Ok then. See you at 9.:) (RAWWRRR!!! ALL SYSTEMS GO!)
Flamingo. 2:45 a.m. Great music. Great non-boyfriend talking to other guys and gals (what if he’s bi??!) exhibiting classic Mr. T. symptoms.
tSN: He’s a burr drunk. I don’t think he can drive, babe.
MM: So how’re you going to get home?
tSN: I’ll call a cab. But can’t exactly leave him here, can I. Oh gosh as he trips on a bar stool. I’m terrible at babysitting.
MM: Really? Lol. A man after my own heart. Y’all clearly need to call it a night, though.
tSN: Yeah…think I’ll take him home.
MM: In his car?
tSN: Yeah, then take a cab. Why is he drunk? Aren’t I supposed to be the one drowning my sorrows? Ok here he comes I’ll text you lat
And that is how I found myself at Mr. T.’s house at 3:15 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning.
*beep*
*beep*
*beep*
*beep*
The following events take place between Saturday, 9am and Sunday, 3am.
tSN: Hi.:) (first sign of incredible weakness – a SMILEY)
MrT: Hey how are you? Why so quiet? (PUNKASS!!)
tSN: Busy busy busy…you know me. (enter aggravation at having texted in the first place. Damn my weak/non-existent will!!)
MrT: I’ve missed you. (Cue giggles, and a stampede away from logic. Goodbye aggravation, hello my inner High School Girl.) (NOTE. Instead of, PUNKASS!! Then why haven’t you texted? It’s OVER! et al, et al)
tSN: :)
MrT: Can I see you tonight?
tSN: (making ZERO effort to be busy, and giving NO thought to saying – what’s that word? – no) What’re you doing tonight?
MrT: We’re doing Flamingo. (hip yet chilled joint for up-and-coming yuppies with an intense desire to prove how urban and successful they are. But good cocktails. Which is a great exchange for my shame.)
tSN: I’ll let you know then. (trying to save a dismally hopeless…whatever)
MrT: Pick you up at 9?
tSN: Determined, aren’t we… (Arrogant, sexy jerk! I won’t give in! I won’t! Ok, we can be resolute tomorrow. What to wear?...)
MrT: Decisive would be the word.
tSN: Ok then. See you at 9.:) (RAWWRRR!!! ALL SYSTEMS GO!)
Flamingo. 2:45 a.m. Great music. Great non-boyfriend talking to other guys and gals (what if he’s bi??!) exhibiting classic Mr. T. symptoms.
tSN: He’s a burr drunk. I don’t think he can drive, babe.
MM: So how’re you going to get home?
tSN: I’ll call a cab. But can’t exactly leave him here, can I. Oh gosh as he trips on a bar stool. I’m terrible at babysitting.
MM: Really? Lol. A man after my own heart. Y’all clearly need to call it a night, though.
tSN: Yeah…think I’ll take him home.
MM: In his car?
tSN: Yeah, then take a cab. Why is he drunk? Aren’t I supposed to be the one drowning my sorrows? Ok here he comes I’ll text you lat
And that is how I found myself at Mr. T.’s house at 3:15 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning.
*beep*
*beep*
*beep*
*beep*
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
An Essay on Love
So here’s my question. If everyone is so obsessed with finding love, making movies about love, writing songs about love, talking about love, analyzing love, sometimes even stalking love…- if everyone wants to fall in love so much, why is it so hard to then? I mean, logic dictates that if there’re a bunch of people looking for the same thing in other people – I think it’s safe to say that at least half of the world’s population are in search of The One – then should this not increase (drastically so) the odds of therefore falling in love?
I liken it to sex. (I briefly digress here. Has anyone ever read the menus at Books First? The quotes are hilarious. One says, Pizza is a lot like sex. When it’s good, it’s really good, and when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. He. He. He. Back to not digressing.) If you look at the statistics, it is incredibly easier to get laid than to fall in love. That’s because everyone wants that, too. Especially if you’re a nympho. (Which is why prostitutes have more business than priests.) Sex is easy to find. But according to existing literature and film, all whores (I use this word loosely. Haha, pun intended!) are actually looking for meaningful sex, just want love because they’ve been scarred and all one night stands are merely an expression of some deep inner need to be committed to – you got it – The One.
Hmmm. Ok. So what’s going wrong with the Great Love Search? I’ve heard a couple of theories. One is that people look for love in the wrong places. Well then, shouldn’t some benevolent one who has reached the final destination (Happily Ever After) publish a list of conducive places where love can be found? (Aha! Could this be the theory behind the Lonely Hearts Column? And if there’s anywhere that love should be found, should it not be here? Hehe.) And really. Why is there a ‘right’ place to find love? Again, I refer to existing literature and film that generally supports the principle that love can and should be found anywhere. So now. So now what if you’re not there when Aphrodite’s going a-hunting? What if you miss the crucial moment when your destiny was being altered and you are now doomed to loneliness forever? (Who watches Valentine?)
Another is the ‘Ýou haven’t met The One’ philosophy. Okay, really. Am I supposed to believe that there is ONE person handpicked for me in the entire world, the only person I can be truly happy with? That sounds like male cow fertilizer to me. Again, what if you never meet this person because they’re in Bermuda, and you live in…not Bermuda, and you never visit because of the tales of horror surrounding that general geographical location. I’m just saying. And how do you know The One? Do they wear a sign? In a parallel universe, perhaps. And what if you get married and then meet The One, or who you think is The One, split up, meet another The One…are you then pre-conditioned to a remake of Elizabeth Taylor’s life? I think anyone can be The One. You’re the one who picks The One. They’re YOUR One. I’m still in the process of tearing this theory down, though. Give me time.
And then there’s the ‘Don’t look for love and it’ll find you.’ HA! EVERYONE’S LOOKING FOR LOVE. So screw that. I laugh in the face of that untruth. (Refer to 2nd line of paragraph. 1st word.)
I think that if there’s anything Sex and The City taught me, it’s that don’t bother looking for love before the age of 30. Anyone who is in love before then is the exception to the rule, i.e. not you. Good men are a dying breed – because they’re getting closer and closer to 70, haha, and are thus harder to find at 21.
I have no conclusive end to this essay. It was just a rant inspired by watching romcoms at 3 in the morning. Can I just say that Hugh Grant is such a beautiful, beautiful man, in spite of his DUI episode, and I could be quite happily convinced to have his babies. Or at least, try making them. See? Demand and Supply. I’m just saying.
tSN
I liken it to sex. (I briefly digress here. Has anyone ever read the menus at Books First? The quotes are hilarious. One says, Pizza is a lot like sex. When it’s good, it’s really good, and when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. He. He. He. Back to not digressing.) If you look at the statistics, it is incredibly easier to get laid than to fall in love. That’s because everyone wants that, too. Especially if you’re a nympho. (Which is why prostitutes have more business than priests.) Sex is easy to find. But according to existing literature and film, all whores (I use this word loosely. Haha, pun intended!) are actually looking for meaningful sex, just want love because they’ve been scarred and all one night stands are merely an expression of some deep inner need to be committed to – you got it – The One.
Hmmm. Ok. So what’s going wrong with the Great Love Search? I’ve heard a couple of theories. One is that people look for love in the wrong places. Well then, shouldn’t some benevolent one who has reached the final destination (Happily Ever After) publish a list of conducive places where love can be found? (Aha! Could this be the theory behind the Lonely Hearts Column? And if there’s anywhere that love should be found, should it not be here? Hehe.) And really. Why is there a ‘right’ place to find love? Again, I refer to existing literature and film that generally supports the principle that love can and should be found anywhere. So now. So now what if you’re not there when Aphrodite’s going a-hunting? What if you miss the crucial moment when your destiny was being altered and you are now doomed to loneliness forever? (Who watches Valentine?)
Another is the ‘Ýou haven’t met The One’ philosophy. Okay, really. Am I supposed to believe that there is ONE person handpicked for me in the entire world, the only person I can be truly happy with? That sounds like male cow fertilizer to me. Again, what if you never meet this person because they’re in Bermuda, and you live in…not Bermuda, and you never visit because of the tales of horror surrounding that general geographical location. I’m just saying. And how do you know The One? Do they wear a sign? In a parallel universe, perhaps. And what if you get married and then meet The One, or who you think is The One, split up, meet another The One…are you then pre-conditioned to a remake of Elizabeth Taylor’s life? I think anyone can be The One. You’re the one who picks The One. They’re YOUR One. I’m still in the process of tearing this theory down, though. Give me time.
And then there’s the ‘Don’t look for love and it’ll find you.’ HA! EVERYONE’S LOOKING FOR LOVE. So screw that. I laugh in the face of that untruth. (Refer to 2nd line of paragraph. 1st word.)
I think that if there’s anything Sex and The City taught me, it’s that don’t bother looking for love before the age of 30. Anyone who is in love before then is the exception to the rule, i.e. not you. Good men are a dying breed – because they’re getting closer and closer to 70, haha, and are thus harder to find at 21.
I have no conclusive end to this essay. It was just a rant inspired by watching romcoms at 3 in the morning. Can I just say that Hugh Grant is such a beautiful, beautiful man, in spite of his DUI episode, and I could be quite happily convinced to have his babies. Or at least, try making them. See? Demand and Supply. I’m just saying.
tSN
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 2: The Middle
Phones can be so incompliant. No matter how long you stare at them, they refuse to ring. Or buzz. Or go shove the shoulder of the person you want to holla and MAKE THEM TALK TO YOU. Sigh.
I was once again, willing WITH ALL MY MIGHT Mr. T. to text me. The ultimate female pastime. I had managed to get myself into a rather sticky situation. It had started out quite promising; a no-strings-attached (and really awesome) physical liaison. I unfortunately had not counted on my treacherous heart falling for the elusive Mr. T. Which left me in this state: supposedly in a BootyBuddy relationship, but liking the guy I’m not supposed to be emotionally attached to. The inner turmoil was amusing (because I got myself into it with no firearms or mind-altering drugs involved) and yet agonizing, because he wasn’t supposed to know (no matter how bad an actor I was. If I hadn’t admitted to anything, I was sticking to the script. But how long could I keep it up…). So I couldn’t call him or text him or anything (refer to The Mr. T. Chronicles: Prequel) because those weren’t the dynamics of our understanding…and I couldn’t see him either because again, dynamics. Casual lunch dates were a figment of my wistful imagination…usually we’d just skip to dessert. Marion had already caught me sneaking about her office and given me suspicious looks…the cat was clawing its way out of the bag, really. So that left me here…about to put a hurt on my phone because the screen hadn’t changed since the last time I looked at it 20 seconds ago.
In my defense…or in my delusion, I had begun to feel like there was something more on his side too. But being female, you can never really trust your gut where…um…dessert…is involved. Dessert tends to cloud your judgment. But still. Like when he-
BZZ!! There IS a God. Oh wait….He may be sleeping. It wasn’t Mr. T. Of course it wasn’t. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it. I silently and inwardly shook my fist at the cold, cruel world.
Well well well. It was Mr. M. Those guys who are on the ‘Maybe’ list, but only because there was someone very prominenTly feaTured on The ‘CurrenT’ lisT. If you caTch my drifT. I texted hiM back, and conTinued To waiT-
BZZ!! O….k. Mr. M. again. Saying a couple of interesting things. Hmmm. He wasn’t usually this proactive. And there was another text within two minutes of the next one… Damnation. Drinks? Really? I mean, Mr. M. was tempting enough, make no mistake, he fit right into my weakness for fine men, but…he wasn’t Mr. T. So now. But then again, I wasn’t in a relationship with Mr. T., so why the feeling of disloyalty to something that didn’t exist?
Ok, so I needed a sign. Any sign. Aaaaaaaaaany day now. Some supernatural arrow to point me in the right direction. I was desperate here. Caught between two really, really soft places. I needed something to tell me-
BZZ!!
Damnation.
I was once again, willing WITH ALL MY MIGHT Mr. T. to text me. The ultimate female pastime. I had managed to get myself into a rather sticky situation. It had started out quite promising; a no-strings-attached (and really awesome) physical liaison. I unfortunately had not counted on my treacherous heart falling for the elusive Mr. T. Which left me in this state: supposedly in a BootyBuddy relationship, but liking the guy I’m not supposed to be emotionally attached to. The inner turmoil was amusing (because I got myself into it with no firearms or mind-altering drugs involved) and yet agonizing, because he wasn’t supposed to know (no matter how bad an actor I was. If I hadn’t admitted to anything, I was sticking to the script. But how long could I keep it up…). So I couldn’t call him or text him or anything (refer to The Mr. T. Chronicles: Prequel) because those weren’t the dynamics of our understanding…and I couldn’t see him either because again, dynamics. Casual lunch dates were a figment of my wistful imagination…usually we’d just skip to dessert. Marion had already caught me sneaking about her office and given me suspicious looks…the cat was clawing its way out of the bag, really. So that left me here…about to put a hurt on my phone because the screen hadn’t changed since the last time I looked at it 20 seconds ago.
In my defense…or in my delusion, I had begun to feel like there was something more on his side too. But being female, you can never really trust your gut where…um…dessert…is involved. Dessert tends to cloud your judgment. But still. Like when he-
BZZ!! There IS a God. Oh wait….He may be sleeping. It wasn’t Mr. T. Of course it wasn’t. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it. I silently and inwardly shook my fist at the cold, cruel world.
Well well well. It was Mr. M. Those guys who are on the ‘Maybe’ list, but only because there was someone very prominenTly feaTured on The ‘CurrenT’ lisT. If you caTch my drifT. I texted hiM back, and conTinued To waiT-
BZZ!! O….k. Mr. M. again. Saying a couple of interesting things. Hmmm. He wasn’t usually this proactive. And there was another text within two minutes of the next one… Damnation. Drinks? Really? I mean, Mr. M. was tempting enough, make no mistake, he fit right into my weakness for fine men, but…he wasn’t Mr. T. So now. But then again, I wasn’t in a relationship with Mr. T., so why the feeling of disloyalty to something that didn’t exist?
Ok, so I needed a sign. Any sign. Aaaaaaaaaany day now. Some supernatural arrow to point me in the right direction. I was desperate here. Caught between two really, really soft places. I needed something to tell me-
BZZ!!
Damnation.
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