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.

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.

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*

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

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.

An Essay on Space

Definition: (in thesaurus) room…breathing space…freedom…liberty…legroom…gap…opening…universe…cosmos…area…

White space: The space on a page to ease your eyes, often used by journalists and print enthusiasts to make you feel like you are not reading as much as you think you are.

Outer space: The world outside of our own that nations everywhere are fighting over, in an age-old dance of dominance, as if man could actually own land and the cosmos are in our control.

Personal space: A concept alien to most Kenyans, especially when standing in queues, that is supposed to provide breathing room, sweating room and fidgeting room. Ideally at least a hand length from the person in front of you. Again. ALIEN to most Kenyans. See also justice, logic, youthful governance.

Airspace: The area above us, often polluted with helicopters that use half of annual taxes.

Space (a) : The expansive distance between several people’s heads that results in close-minded thinking and incredible incomparable astounding stupidity.

Space (b) : Closely related to (a); an indefinable word used to express indecisiveness in relationships, supposedly to allow for better decision-making and take away a feeling of entrapment.

The Mr. T. Chronicles : Chapter 1- The Beginning

It was a dark, stormy night.* Fortunately, I was inside a warm living room*, sipping on a glass of semi-glamorous and entirely sober Alvaro*. Those loose, unnecessary cover-ups that are an excuse to get together and drink. For my other friends, of course.*

It had been a pleasant evening. Ribald jokes, lewd humor and good not-too-stale gossip. I was ready to call it a night.* You know the rule: leave while the party is still kicking, instead of in the wee hours of the morning when the sun is rising and it’s the first light you’ve seen in 24 hours. I don’t pull those moves, bana.*

The door opened. One can never be too late for these things, I thought as I uninterestedly and yet automatically turned to the door to see who it was. It didn’t really matter, of course. It was just subconscious movement, preprogrammed. There was no one there who I didn’t already know, no one I was particularly interested in*, so –

Well, well. For once, my genius was wrong. (This was a rare occasion.) A man walked in. Unobtrusive, but…not at all bad-looking, on the whole. I wonder who invited him? And who he was? And if the person who invited him was female? Not that I cared.*

My questions were soon answered when my friend Marion (owner of the afore-mentioned living room) squealed and said, ‘Everyone, this is Michael. We work together.*’ Wonder if they were taking in any new employees? I watched her hand on his elbow. Not a possessive we’re-dating-and-I’m-watching-all-the-women-in-this-room. More like a be-nice-to-him-he’s-a-newbie. Score.

I’m a very friendly person.* I like to make people feel comfortable, and at home.* Even when it’s not my home.* So in the spirit of true hospitality, I went over to Michael. To welcome him to the fold and all.* And in a normal, lust-free voice*, I said ‘Hi. I’m Abby. Marion and I went to school together. Do you want a drink?’

He looked at me. A friendly gaze, guarded, but still friendly. As if to say I don’t know anyone here, but give me about 5 minutes and I’ll be back on top. Where I’m used to being. Me imagining him saying those words didn’t help my composure. He said, ‘Sure.’ I led him to the minibar.

This wasn’t going to be so hard.*

tSN

* Lie.