Etiquette

Pebbles and I were having lunch at Ankara,you know,the place behind City Hall. That place was recommended to me by @Reumac (he of the fabulous photo shoot),and I fell in love with the prices. The thing is,don't do the thing where you overprice your food but the quality is shit. I need the quality,quantity and price to correlate,you know? There needs to be a method to the madness. (Greenview. Damn b*s.) So the prices at Ankara are pocket-friendly,and the food matches. It's not gourmet,but it's not crap,either. (ok,I need to not cuss so much. Too much Real Housewives of Atlanta.)

We walk into Ankara and get into the cute lil booth in the corner. First surprise was oh look. They've changed the prices. I roll my eyes,and I was like,typical. But the food is still gonna be the same,innit. I bet it is. I bet it is! Pebbles and I ordered. I had what I always have,the chicken pizza and a coke. (The menu is really boring. As is expected,though,not everywhere can have an attractive menu like Books First. But that place has yuck food,so.) Pebbles wants the AllMix and a Fanta Orange. We wait,and talk. She keeps looking at her phone,and I'm like woman. Who are you texting? She's like my looooooveeeeeer lol. She's into some guy. Like,really into. They're texting all the time and shii. I'm waiting to see where it's going.

Meanwhile,the chicken pizza comes. It's tamu,but the other one isn't here. We start on the first one. We finish. Still nothing. She's still texting and smiling. I'm getting pissed because the other pizza STILL hasn't come. I'm like screw this,let's pay for one pizza and bounce. 2 different waiters come and apologize,but STILL. NO. PIZZA.

So clearly,the prices went up and the service went down. How do you bring HALF an order? DaMAGE. Don't mess with my food,heifer. Don't do it. It AIN'T RIGHT. Pebbles is beginning to look pissed too. I'm like what? She's like he's not replying my texts. I say well what did you say? She shows me. It reads something like I wanna -blankblankblank- with your -blank- and then we should -blanketyblank. I was shocked like HE'S NOT REPLYING THAT? Heck,*I* would reply that even if it wasn't to me! We laugh,pay the bill and leave. So today's rules: don't mess with my food. I'm probs not going back to Ankara again. B,don't not reply a chex text,coz there may not be a next text...

tSN

The first picture EVER. As I welcome the stalkers. Hehe.

Today's post was inspired by the one and only CAKE BETCH. (see? You inspire me. Hehe.) When nominating me for this award, she claimed narcissist's should probably have lots of pictures of themselves on their websites. She has a point, but dude...I'm shy...so now? Lol. Either way, I stepped up to the plate. Teren teren. This is a pic from one of my favorite photographers. Find the rest of this shoot here, and his AWWWWEZUM blog here.



tSN

SUPERBRA!!!

Today, I was on my way to Cake Hut in Nairobi West. I passed by Mr Price when I was heading to Afya Centre,and decided to kill a little time browsing through their overpriced aisles.

Now,I hate shopping. I hate going through everything,getting them,standing the in the sun if need be,never finding shoes that fit (I'm a size 8,and Bata is a lie.)...the whole process drains me. So me window shopping was a definite sign that maybe the world didn't end,but an alien ship abducted JUST me and replaced me with one of the women from Real Housewives of Atlanta. Consider this a Wanted ad for a Personal Shopper in about 3 years.

So after walking through the aisles that sell a plain-colored tee for a k and whose version of a discount is a k2,I have thus affirmed that a,I'm definitely a cheapskate ie Kenyan,and b,I will probably never shop at Mr Price. Why? Because Mr Price should be named Mr Pricey. The irony is that,it's supposedly a cheap store in SA. Well,Dorothy,this isn't Kansas OR SA. Dude! Unless there's a sale,that place is NOT a plan for my wallet and I.

Even deeper than the deep contempt I felt for the saleslady who didn't know whether they had these really cute heels in size 9 is the sense of disturbance I feel everytime I go shopping. Why is there nothing that an average person can afford? Nothing firsthand,anyway. I mean,either you go secondhand or you go bankrupt,if you're the typical Kenyan female. The firsthand stuff is too expensive or too shiny (think exhibitions). My friend bought a custom-made jacket from a Kenyan designer. It was fabulous,but it was 3k5. I am not spending 3k5 on a jacket. I'ma go buy 2 shawls for 300 next to Fire Station and get warm with that. Damn. I wish someone would open up a store that sells good stuff cheap,because I know for a fact you can have both. When I'm rich,I'm gonna open a store that does that,even if I make a loss,because people should be able to buy good quality clothes. That,and a place to eat in town with the quality and ambience of Java,the customer service of Sierra and the prices of Kenchic, because people should have a healthier alternative to fries every damn day. Come on,now. It's food. A basic need. In fact,there's a couple of things that should just be free. Like toilet paper. I have a friend who doesn't buy toilet paper. Every time she goes to a restaurant,she just takes a roll. This is not me. (disclaimer. Lol.) I actually know this girl. Is this aiding and abetting?

So yeah,sure,I'll go to Secrets and buy a bra for 5k,but it better be gold-plated and be able to drive. Shiiiii.

tSN

Yesterday's musings

My niece Dee happens to think I'm the bee's knees. This,of course is not true; I am but a mere mortal with a gift I wield skilfully,crafted by the gods themselves. :D The other day,we were having dinner,and I was reiterating my complete lack of desire for a tSN Jr. As a woman who craves little tykes clutching at her fingers,her obvious reaction was to gasp in shock and shake her head at my obvious wisdom deficiency. Then we talked about what we've been up to. "*insert my name here*," she said, "Your life is so full. You live it with a big spoon." I laughed,then went home and thought about it.

The idea of living life with a big spoon appeals to me. (regardless of the fact that I think that that phrase should read eating life with a big spoon,because if you're living life with one,so what? You go around looking stupid with a gigantic spoon in your hand. Um.) I do like my life now. I enjoy it. If the world does end tomorrow...I'd be good. But. It would be brilliant to be living life with what the Luo call an agwata. I don't know what that word is in English. Calabash? Gourd? (does that not knowing the English conversion make me more of an African? How about the fact that I don't actually know what calabashes and gourds look like? Do you hear the Lion King soundtrack in the background,or Madagascar? But I mean really,what makes one an African. Some Ethiopians have decided that they're not,because they were never colonized. So they call everyone else slaves. Even the beggars.)

Dee says I can have babies and then she'll take care of them all through their formative (read annoying) years. That appeals to me on a strange level. I could totally do that. I'm seriously consid-no I'm not. I was though. Could it be? Is there a chink in my supposedly impenetrable armour? Must. Fight. Temptation.

So yeah. Life is good. But watching Glee has made me remember a childhood dream I had..if I wasn't a writer,I'd love to be (other than a sexologist) a singer. Lead. For a cover band. Music is so transcendent. Very little moves me like music; not even words or poetry can make me cry. There was a point that my lifelong ambition to be John Legend's backup vocalist. Or be on Broadway, in the black version of My Fair Lady. *sighs*

Pebbles

My friend Pebbles is a wild thing. In the old school rock and roll Harley Davidson-riding kinda way,not in the weak-willed silly teen movie type. She's a lot like me,but the difference between us is that while I'd probably go to a strip club to watch,she'd be working the poles. She's more brash,in your face,louder and abrasively honest. In other words,the waitress straight out of a novel about a small town with a bar everyone goes to because of her lip,rack and unsolicited over-the-counter opinion.

Pebbles doesn't understand the meaning of boundaries. She says and does exactly what she wants to do,a lot of the time regardless of whether or not that makes you uncomfortable. So you can imagine the conversations we have about sex. I don't know why people keep trying to make *black* virgins blush. A,an impossibility because I'm black,and B,an impossibility because really,nothing shocks me anymore. Anyway.

Pebbles is cute. She's not exceptionally pretty,but she works a little oomph into it and men - and women - flock to her like cars to a petrol station during a shortage. Watching her in action,you'd think it was a holy ritual. There's a certain flair Pebbles has. It's not just flirtation. She takes her talent very seriously.

I saw her today. She was looking really good; in fact,better than usual. (sic) I asked her what the occasion was,she said she was going to get her some. I smiled. She said she was even wearing underwear (Pebbles rarely wears underwear),so I was like this must be special...and she nodded and said 'Matching. French cut.' Rawrr. So I waited with her for a while...dude finally called and said he wasn't going to be able to come. (sic) Pebbles could've dealt with this minor disappointment,but I think what got her was the sexy lingerie she had taken the trouble to don. Apparently,it really sucks when you go through preparation and anticipation then you have to settle for vibration.

:D

tSN

Tales of Childhood, 2.

When I was young, I never needed anyone.

HA! NOT the Celine Dion song (which Pia sang, who was eliminated from American Idol this season. *sorrow*). This is the tSN post. Back to business.

In the 4th grade (around the same time as the catfight), my homeroom teacher was a fiery spinster called Ms. Smith. (Yeah. I've actually met someone whose name is Smith. Do you ever feel sorry for people with generic names? Like Anne. Yes, Anne Moraa, you. Lol.) She was from Wyoming, and had a full head of white hair. She was, I think, the perfect balance between strict disciplinarian and excellent, relatable teacher, and always walked briskly. Always. It was kinda weird lol. She was preeeeetty darn awesome. Through her, I was introduced to the worlds of Bridge to Terabithia and Huckleberry Finn. I was also introduced to this poem, which remains one of my absolute favorites to this day. It's long. You've been warned.


Robert Service (1874-1958)

The Cremation of Sam McGee

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead — it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you, to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows — Oh God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared — such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear, you'll let in the cold and storm —
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

tSN

C.

I met a man today. A real man,ladies,not these fops who perpetuate and pontificate of a manliness they do not understand behind thin facades of idiocy; no. A MAN.

This man...had a look in his eye that told me he knew exactly what he wanted to do to me,when,and how. He had it timed to the very last innuendo-filled phrase. His handshake was polite,perfunctory. His manner,cordial,engaging. But his tongue; it moved like a machine of liquid mercury searing through my rapidly penetrated defenses.

I observed him coolly, trying, for once, to obey societal norms, keeping the overrated mystery alive. I told him I liked his tie. He blushed,suddenly,surprisingly. I made him blush? The Chocolate Factory was thus further endeared to Willy Wonka by this innocent expression of modesty. It was like Adonis - nay,Eros - being bashful. Cute.

And his name! I had a vision of a Mandingo manly man in a loincloth,claiming his territory (think Djimon Honsou in that Calvin Klein ad. Mmmm.). Hopefully,that territory would be me.

I asked him where he came from. He told me he came from a little village where men were men and women liked them that way. (That explained much of his manner...) He told me of his heritage,and I wanted to carry his children. (ok,maybe at least talk about it)

He flirted shamelessly,tastefully. He made me laugh,then made me shiver. My niece,who introduced us,mentioned that I had participated in Vagina Monologues. He said, Why have an event to talk about it? Why not just give it up? We can have a dialogue. Nothing I hadn't heard before,but of course,different because it was him.

I stared deeply into his eyes and saw seduction from the quintessential rake. Promises of steamy,poetry-filled nights. Chivalry. Heat. Charm. Colours. Darkness. Depth. Then I stared at the middle finger on his left hand and saw a ring.

tSN