I was taking my niece (she of Marriages and Mercedes) out for lunch with the last dregs of my feeble (but infinitely helpful) salary. Seeing as we all know that the best place to get lots of food for little money is Greenview,that's where we headed. I'm generally snobby about my eating,but as she was picking,I decided to let it pass. Plus I don't like to venture out of my comfort zone. Why now? There's a reason it was established as such in the first place. Change and adapting to change? Overrated. In this sense,anyway,lol.
I've been channeling mild anorexia lately. Seriously,though. I talked to my doctor friend and that's what he says it is;simply defined as loss of appetite. I've lost 4kgs in under a month in VERY INCONVENIENT PLACES. *sigh* Anyway,point is,all I wanted was their amazing mango juice. We ordered and waited.
Two sips later,I thought,hm. This mango juice tastes funny. Gave the niece to try,because usually my tongue has low standards (ha!) so if my tongue was noticing,there was a major problem. She noticed it too. We promptly called the waitress,who switched it for me. Bad move #1. I should've just ordered something else,seeing as all the mango juice was probably corrupted.
Second one was bad too. Surprise! Sent it back and ordered an Alvaro. It was taking ages to come. Niece was halfway through her meal. I called the waitress who I had ordered my drink from. She said she's bringing it. 10 minutes later...nothing. I called her again. She said she'd been ordered not to serve me. By now,a passive aggressive tSN was getting peeved. We called another waitress. She said she'd bring...she didn't. When called back,she said she'd been ordered too. I asked to speak to the supervisor. Who came over with a sulky look on her face. I said,why aren't I being served? She said because the second juice was fine,it had just been made. (please note that we made our waitress taste the second one,and she said it was off) I said that's not the point. I'm the customer,and I don't like it,and we both tasted it along with your waitress and agreed it was off,and I want an Alvaro. She said I can't bring you an Alvaro. I looked at her untrained idiotic face and thought,tSN,it's been a while since you were pissed. I mean,you're anorexic and thus probably secretly hungry,it's early in the morning,AND she's an LSB with an attitude. So I got pissed. I said,the customer is always right. When you bring me bad food,am I supposed to just sit here and eat it? Then she said,no the customer is not always right.
There is something seriously wrong with service in Kenya.
So I yelled,demanded the bill,told her that I would never come to Greenview again. She said fine,still smirking. We walked out after paying the bill. Back to my comfort zone. Never again. The customer is not always right? O.....kay.
Any boycotts on fuel prices I should know about? Any ideas? Are we doing nothing?
tSN
ps. Www.allwoman.co.ke.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Whimsy
I feel the world would be much easier if all human beings were made of plastic. We would be easily recycable and possibly live forever. Copulation would be a factory procedure. Dirt would slide off us with a simple wipe. Instead of using roller blades/skates,we could just slide around. Plastic surgery-ha-would be much,much easier. You could change your look on a daily without it having drastic physical implications,become anything you wanted to be. Costs for food and upkeep would be greatly reduced. We would melt slightly in the sun and go to winter countries for the summer.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Something old,something new.
Today,I was informed that there are parties who feel that I am not best maid material. At first,I rolled my eyes so far back I felt like Emily Rose. But then,I thought about it and started getting irritated. Irritated at the way society insists on stereotypes,on norms,on traditions. I'm an atypical best maid because I refuse to wear heels,among other useless reasons.
I won't do it. And if I ever get married - sigh - the only person who will determine what goes on at my wedding is ME. It saddens me that girls are browbeaten into having other people's dream weddings. Backbone. Important. Period. Huh,and they say I'm a rebel without a cause. Impropriety is my cause,bitches.
In other news, the majority of flower farmers who die die from renal failure,because of the insecticide they're exposed to. Everyone. Makes me never want to buy a rose again.
Be thankful. Be strong. Be aware. (corny,right? :o) And boycott useless Ocampo6 nonsense on telly,because we must be (wait for it) the change we want to see.
tSN
I won't do it. And if I ever get married - sigh - the only person who will determine what goes on at my wedding is ME. It saddens me that girls are browbeaten into having other people's dream weddings. Backbone. Important. Period. Huh,and they say I'm a rebel without a cause. Impropriety is my cause,bitches.
In other news, the majority of flower farmers who die die from renal failure,because of the insecticide they're exposed to. Everyone. Makes me never want to buy a rose again.
Be thankful. Be strong. Be aware. (corny,right? :o) And boycott useless Ocampo6 nonsense on telly,because we must be (wait for it) the change we want to see.
tSN
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Crises of Faith
...number 1 being,a lot of the time,the hardest bit for me of church is deciding what to wear. Many a Sabbath morning (at least once a week :D) is spent going through my closet in frustration,wishing that I was some other religion that allows trousers to church. Loose ones,honest. I'm a sandals-and-linen cleavage-baring hippie,so dressing/covering up always proves a bit tricky,forget staying awake during the sermon. And I don't like heels,but women in my church? Oh,they definitely like heels. Even Stripper Heels. You know the kind-impossibly high,sometimes too shiny for the daytime and the ones you'd best be driving for,unless you're just masochistic/have a high threshold for pain (and back problems in your old age). Although,I suppose that's more of a Crisis of Wardrobe than a Crisis of Faith. See how I did that? :D
It must be so much pressure to be a Pastor's kid. I was thinking about it today. Actually,religion,generally is a lot of pressure. I went to a Christian school at some point in my childhood,and I used to wonder what life was like for the teachers' kids (who were usually missionaries,etc) at home. Rebellion wasn't just a normal teenage act-it was SIN. Way worse,no? I dunno,I just feel,religion,for those who are not necessarily with the program,can cause undue-or due,depending on which side you're on-stress. Pastors kids moreso,seeing as everyone knows who you are,and people kind of expect you to be a bad seed,cave not to,but because of,the pressures.
The worst for me,though,is those who preach water and drink wine. (oh look! A line from a primary school composition.) I'd rather you not claim to be religious/spiritual,than claim it and then live completely different to what you say you are. At least be honest with yourself. If you're a lying,cheating,conniving bitch,have the decency to be that way. To thine own (bitchy) self be true and all that. Christianity,and indeed,most forms of structured religion,are really no joke. It's a conscious and monumental decision. Because the person you portray may be what leads people to whoever you serve. Religious folk don't really have a good record with that,hard not to notice. Gandhi once said that he would've been Christian if it wasn't for the Christians. I can dig it.
tSN
It must be so much pressure to be a Pastor's kid. I was thinking about it today. Actually,religion,generally is a lot of pressure. I went to a Christian school at some point in my childhood,and I used to wonder what life was like for the teachers' kids (who were usually missionaries,etc) at home. Rebellion wasn't just a normal teenage act-it was SIN. Way worse,no? I dunno,I just feel,religion,for those who are not necessarily with the program,can cause undue-or due,depending on which side you're on-stress. Pastors kids moreso,seeing as everyone knows who you are,and people kind of expect you to be a bad seed,cave not to,but because of,the pressures.
The worst for me,though,is those who preach water and drink wine. (oh look! A line from a primary school composition.) I'd rather you not claim to be religious/spiritual,than claim it and then live completely different to what you say you are. At least be honest with yourself. If you're a lying,cheating,conniving bitch,have the decency to be that way. To thine own (bitchy) self be true and all that. Christianity,and indeed,most forms of structured religion,are really no joke. It's a conscious and monumental decision. Because the person you portray may be what leads people to whoever you serve. Religious folk don't really have a good record with that,hard not to notice. Gandhi once said that he would've been Christian if it wasn't for the Christians. I can dig it.
tSN
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
An evening in Nairobi.
Music is like the ultimate lover. For me,anyway,music takes me to a near orgasmic level,ever-shifting in its ability to make me feel...anything. It teases. It pleads. It loves. It laughs. It draws you in. It transcends emotion,and makes you feel like heaven must be,just,music.
I haven't had earphones for a while. I finally bought some yesterday,and they DIDN'T FIT. So Mr. M. went and got them exchanged for me. The first song I heard after millenia (so it seemed) of silence was
boy,oh boy
I'm not your substitute lover
oh no
Music to my ears. In my ears. Literally.
Chilled with the girls for a bit before going to open-MY FIRST!!-bank account. Then I went and bought ice-cream,because I felt the need to defy the weather. I put on one of my playlists and the first song was a classic favorite of mine:
gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rain down in Africa
gonna take some time to do the things we never had
This song made of start dancing in the street. I was singing,flinging my hands about and stuff. That was right about I&M. Then
concrete jungle where dreams are made of
there's nothing you can't do
these streets will make you feel brand new
these lights will inspire you
checked in on the corner of Kenyatta Avenue and Kimathi Street. I stood,and beheld this dangerous,beautiful city I call home. It looked fantastic with the lights; @truthslinger's blog came to mind,and @ArcherMishale's random twitpic of Kimathi Street at night. It was...transcendent,possibly because music was playing in my ear.
we're gonna huff and puff and blow the house down
tunacome na mastylez hazijaonekana uh uh
chukua dakika kama tano ukitema zima moto juu tumeshika nare
I crossed the road to get to my stage. There was a beggar lady there. Something's happened to her head. She has no hair,possibly because of the fact that her entire scalp is painfully burnt. I walked by her,then because I was feeling a tad guilty about being so happy,I backtracked and dropped a ten bob in the little plastic container next to her. I wonder if the kid is really hers? I wonder if she is surprised at who gives her money-the well-dressed,the oblivious,the young,the old,the equally unfortunate? I wonder if she doesn't care,because all she's thinking about the bigger picture,as opposed to what the girl in shorts and earphones is thinking.
I chime in with a haven't you people ever heard of
closing the * door?
It's much better to face these kinds of things
with a sense of poise and rationality
I wonder if my fart will sound louder than it actually is because I'm wearing earphones. The conductors at my stage are arguing about where the mbao is going to go. I watch them nearly clobber each other,then start making jokes about it. A plane passes overhead,uncomfortably close as always.
everybody come equipped with bangers
throwin up their middle fingers
and you know I don't slip so I gotta keep
ten in the clip and one in the chamber
The condi is looking at me badly because I'm surprised at the 50 bob these falas have started charging. He says 'Si nilikuambia kwa stage?' I say 'Si ati nimekataa kulipa.' I put them back on and watch others complain.
we be moving on up
to the East side
finally got a piece of the pie
As I'm getting off the jav,I notice a phone in the conductor's seat. I ask the guy who got off before me,simu ya nani? He shrugs. The conductor takes it,saying Mwenyewe akipigia,nitaongea na yeye. On second thought,maybe I should have taken it. I freak out as a motorbike whizzes past me.
This is a gift
it comes with a price
blue is the love and
blue is the night
Midas is King,and he holds me so tight
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
I stand in the parking lot,finishing this post,not wanting to go inside before it's done. My phone is acting up. An old jumpoff of mine drives in to pick up a new squeeze. He gets out,hugs me. We say we'll talk later. I get into the house.
we raise it up
this offering
we raise it up
tSN
I haven't had earphones for a while. I finally bought some yesterday,and they DIDN'T FIT. So Mr. M. went and got them exchanged for me. The first song I heard after millenia (so it seemed) of silence was
boy,oh boy
I'm not your substitute lover
oh no
Music to my ears. In my ears. Literally.
Chilled with the girls for a bit before going to open-MY FIRST!!-bank account. Then I went and bought ice-cream,because I felt the need to defy the weather. I put on one of my playlists and the first song was a classic favorite of mine:
gonna take a lot to drag me away from you
there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do
I bless the rain down in Africa
gonna take some time to do the things we never had
This song made of start dancing in the street. I was singing,flinging my hands about and stuff. That was right about I&M. Then
concrete jungle where dreams are made of
there's nothing you can't do
these streets will make you feel brand new
these lights will inspire you
checked in on the corner of Kenyatta Avenue and Kimathi Street. I stood,and beheld this dangerous,beautiful city I call home. It looked fantastic with the lights; @truthslinger's blog came to mind,and @ArcherMishale's random twitpic of Kimathi Street at night. It was...transcendent,possibly because music was playing in my ear.
we're gonna huff and puff and blow the house down
tunacome na mastylez hazijaonekana uh uh
chukua dakika kama tano ukitema zima moto juu tumeshika nare
I crossed the road to get to my stage. There was a beggar lady there. Something's happened to her head. She has no hair,possibly because of the fact that her entire scalp is painfully burnt. I walked by her,then because I was feeling a tad guilty about being so happy,I backtracked and dropped a ten bob in the little plastic container next to her. I wonder if the kid is really hers? I wonder if she is surprised at who gives her money-the well-dressed,the oblivious,the young,the old,the equally unfortunate? I wonder if she doesn't care,because all she's thinking about the bigger picture,as opposed to what the girl in shorts and earphones is thinking.
I chime in with a haven't you people ever heard of
closing the * door?
It's much better to face these kinds of things
with a sense of poise and rationality
I wonder if my fart will sound louder than it actually is because I'm wearing earphones. The conductors at my stage are arguing about where the mbao is going to go. I watch them nearly clobber each other,then start making jokes about it. A plane passes overhead,uncomfortably close as always.
everybody come equipped with bangers
throwin up their middle fingers
and you know I don't slip so I gotta keep
ten in the clip and one in the chamber
The condi is looking at me badly because I'm surprised at the 50 bob these falas have started charging. He says 'Si nilikuambia kwa stage?' I say 'Si ati nimekataa kulipa.' I put them back on and watch others complain.
we be moving on up
to the East side
finally got a piece of the pie
As I'm getting off the jav,I notice a phone in the conductor's seat. I ask the guy who got off before me,simu ya nani? He shrugs. The conductor takes it,saying Mwenyewe akipigia,nitaongea na yeye. On second thought,maybe I should have taken it. I freak out as a motorbike whizzes past me.
This is a gift
it comes with a price
blue is the love and
blue is the night
Midas is King,and he holds me so tight
and turns me to gold in the sunlight
I stand in the parking lot,finishing this post,not wanting to go inside before it's done. My phone is acting up. An old jumpoff of mine drives in to pick up a new squeeze. He gets out,hugs me. We say we'll talk later. I get into the house.
we raise it up
this offering
we raise it up
tSN
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A moderately offensive post. No offense.
I went shoe shopping today. As a rule,I don't do Bata. All the shoes I get from there tend to pinch my toes,though they claim to be size 8. But today I was feeling gracious/stupid. In I went.
They brought back shoes that I had wanted ages ago! *excitement* Trying to learn from past experiences,I ordered a size 9 black. They said,we don't have size 9. I was crestfallen. Especially after the attendant had ignored me. (Small Ball Syndrome) So I asked the disinterested attendant what shoes they had in size 9. He pointed out some HIDEOUS brown wedges. Wow. Fanfuckingtastic.
I left the shop to go to the next one,which is exactly Bata but a different name. You know,that new franchise that's just opened up? Yeah. Didn't get too far with that. They only stock till size 7. See? Same as Bata.
Why do shoe shops only stock shoes for small people? (spade's a spade) Including second hand vendors. I find it offensive and inconsiderate to assume that ALL Kenyan women have small feet. Do we look like 15th century China? It's bloody frustrating for we of the big-footed,ha,variety.
On that,why do lingerie shops only stock stock for 12 year old titties? I find it offensive and-oh,already said that. Smaller sized breasteses have such an easy time finding bras and such,as the manufacturers assume there is no size after C. Anything bigger looks like a bra for people with 4 babies and a mortgage. The fashion world assumes that everyone is a size 0,or wants to be. How many plus size models do you know? The next big thing in fashion, @thogii, argues on her blog (gettingontherunway.blogspot.com) that if clothes are supposed to be worn by ordinary people,then ordinary people should be represented on the catwalk. Right?
I have thus concluded,life isn't easy for a big girl. In fact,it's quite disheartening. But even worse,is watching how easy life is for the small one. Especially the small,light one. KK and I have a special term for them: LSB. Light Skinny Bitches. Again,no offense...ahem. This is not to say that all small light slight girls are annoying,bitchy and possess all the personality of a dead fish. Au contraire. I know several wonderful LSBs,such as @noniboo, @b_wtb, @kawiria...whose numbers I would totally get,and totally have. :o) I'm saying that more often than not,LSBs have
1. Developed absolutely no personality because the of the light thing. Oh come on. You know the direct correlation between Africans and lighter skinted folk and ignorant unabashed fawning. So many funny looking people are excused for their sleep-inducing conversation and misplaced features simply because they're light.
2. Because of the unfortunately automatic privileges accorded to they-who-shall-not-be-named,ha,they look down on everyone else. Like the dark ones. Or the fat ones. Hence resulting in the bitch factor,more often than not.
It's a conspiracy,I tell you! Fashion is for LSBs. In Kenya,anyway. Someone needs to open a store like Torrid in the States which caters to the voluptuous without making us look 50.
The point is,I don't like Bata.
tSN
ps. www.allwoman.co.ke
They brought back shoes that I had wanted ages ago! *excitement* Trying to learn from past experiences,I ordered a size 9 black. They said,we don't have size 9. I was crestfallen. Especially after the attendant had ignored me. (Small Ball Syndrome) So I asked the disinterested attendant what shoes they had in size 9. He pointed out some HIDEOUS brown wedges. Wow. Fanfuckingtastic.
I left the shop to go to the next one,which is exactly Bata but a different name. You know,that new franchise that's just opened up? Yeah. Didn't get too far with that. They only stock till size 7. See? Same as Bata.
Why do shoe shops only stock shoes for small people? (spade's a spade) Including second hand vendors. I find it offensive and inconsiderate to assume that ALL Kenyan women have small feet. Do we look like 15th century China? It's bloody frustrating for we of the big-footed,ha,variety.
On that,why do lingerie shops only stock stock for 12 year old titties? I find it offensive and-oh,already said that. Smaller sized breasteses have such an easy time finding bras and such,as the manufacturers assume there is no size after C. Anything bigger looks like a bra for people with 4 babies and a mortgage. The fashion world assumes that everyone is a size 0,or wants to be. How many plus size models do you know? The next big thing in fashion, @thogii, argues on her blog (gettingontherunway.blogspot.com) that if clothes are supposed to be worn by ordinary people,then ordinary people should be represented on the catwalk. Right?
I have thus concluded,life isn't easy for a big girl. In fact,it's quite disheartening. But even worse,is watching how easy life is for the small one. Especially the small,light one. KK and I have a special term for them: LSB. Light Skinny Bitches. Again,no offense...ahem. This is not to say that all small light slight girls are annoying,bitchy and possess all the personality of a dead fish. Au contraire. I know several wonderful LSBs,such as @noniboo, @b_wtb, @kawiria...whose numbers I would totally get,and totally have. :o) I'm saying that more often than not,LSBs have
1. Developed absolutely no personality because the of the light thing. Oh come on. You know the direct correlation between Africans and lighter skinted folk and ignorant unabashed fawning. So many funny looking people are excused for their sleep-inducing conversation and misplaced features simply because they're light.
2. Because of the unfortunately automatic privileges accorded to they-who-shall-not-be-named,ha,they look down on everyone else. Like the dark ones. Or the fat ones. Hence resulting in the bitch factor,more often than not.
It's a conspiracy,I tell you! Fashion is for LSBs. In Kenya,anyway. Someone needs to open a store like Torrid in the States which caters to the voluptuous without making us look 50.
The point is,I don't like Bata.
tSN
ps. www.allwoman.co.ke
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Why people get castrated.
Two things:
1, I'm pretty passive aggressive,and
2, I hate weddings.
So I've been roped in to another wedding. This makes me assume that I must be masochistic,because HOW DO I KEEP LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO ME?? *breathe* However,I guess this one isn't going to be so bad (read apocalyptically awful and mind-numbingly exhausting) because it's for two people who I actually love.
Best maid duty involves taking bride-soon-to-be-bridezilla :D on wedding...shopping...for...wedding...stuff. The first appointment was with the photographer. He wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. Why is it that punctuality and Kenyans are irreconcilable concepts? I constantly bemoan the unfortunate state of those poor,useless watches that are clearly,just decorations.
Then,flower shopping. Then,shoe shopping. Then,dress shopping. I should've added a number 3: I hate shopping. *sigh* But it was cool. Taking it in stride. Trying not to twitch. Best-maidal obligations and all.
We walk into Enka Rasha,to the bridal section. 3 women are sitting there. We ask to see their gowns. One lady gets up heavily,slowly,and throws us 3 files. We open and leaf through them. She stares at us,uninterested,chewing a piece of gum like it's life support. We ask questions. She replies in monosyllables. The other attendant is ignoring us,the other is writing something in...something. We ask if this is possible,if this is possible. They say no,it's a package. No,it's a package. We ask the price of the package. She tells us with all the excitement of a jaded whore. We walk out of there. The first sign should have been the name of their bridal section,emblazoned shamelessly in a horrid typeface ACROSS each picture and file cover: GAL BRIDAL.
At Capri7,there's a waitress called Mildred. She makes me an entertainer,because I have to beg her for service by jumping around,waving my hands frantically,sijui dancing...sometimes I feel like I should do that thing that teenage boys do when they make their armpits *fwump* with their hands. I've stopped buying stuff at Capri7. They're overly priced,which would be fine if their service wasn't a pile of noxious shit.
I can't stand bad service. And seeing as I'm passive-aggressive,I never bitch. But what these suckers don't know is that I'm those ones who will chill,and then track you down ten years later and castrate you with a blunt razor. *breathe*
My point is,I'm going to stop accepting bad service. I'm paying,literally,for bad service. NO MORE! FREE YOURSELF FROM THE CHAINS OF OPPRESSION! EMANCIPATE YOURSELVES FROM MENTAL...or,go find the manager.
tSN
1, I'm pretty passive aggressive,and
2, I hate weddings.
So I've been roped in to another wedding. This makes me assume that I must be masochistic,because HOW DO I KEEP LETTING THIS HAPPEN TO ME?? *breathe* However,I guess this one isn't going to be so bad (read apocalyptically awful and mind-numbingly exhausting) because it's for two people who I actually love.
Best maid duty involves taking bride-soon-to-be-bridezilla :D on wedding...shopping...for...wedding...stuff. The first appointment was with the photographer. He wasn't there. Of course he wasn't. Why is it that punctuality and Kenyans are irreconcilable concepts? I constantly bemoan the unfortunate state of those poor,useless watches that are clearly,just decorations.
Then,flower shopping. Then,shoe shopping. Then,dress shopping. I should've added a number 3: I hate shopping. *sigh* But it was cool. Taking it in stride. Trying not to twitch. Best-maidal obligations and all.
We walk into Enka Rasha,to the bridal section. 3 women are sitting there. We ask to see their gowns. One lady gets up heavily,slowly,and throws us 3 files. We open and leaf through them. She stares at us,uninterested,chewing a piece of gum like it's life support. We ask questions. She replies in monosyllables. The other attendant is ignoring us,the other is writing something in...something. We ask if this is possible,if this is possible. They say no,it's a package. No,it's a package. We ask the price of the package. She tells us with all the excitement of a jaded whore. We walk out of there. The first sign should have been the name of their bridal section,emblazoned shamelessly in a horrid typeface ACROSS each picture and file cover: GAL BRIDAL.
At Capri7,there's a waitress called Mildred. She makes me an entertainer,because I have to beg her for service by jumping around,waving my hands frantically,sijui dancing...sometimes I feel like I should do that thing that teenage boys do when they make their armpits *fwump* with their hands. I've stopped buying stuff at Capri7. They're overly priced,which would be fine if their service wasn't a pile of noxious shit.
I can't stand bad service. And seeing as I'm passive-aggressive,I never bitch. But what these suckers don't know is that I'm those ones who will chill,and then track you down ten years later and castrate you with a blunt razor. *breathe*
My point is,I'm going to stop accepting bad service. I'm paying,literally,for bad service. NO MORE! FREE YOURSELF FROM THE CHAINS OF OPPRESSION! EMANCIPATE YOURSELVES FROM MENTAL...or,go find the manager.
tSN
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