Screw It!

Screw from computers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So... I've met someone. Well, not really. I mean, I've met them online. His name's.... actually, I don't know!!! I'll call him 'Mushy' which is part of his handle. Mushy wrote me a provocative message a week ago, and in an idle moment I replied, and the rest is -well, ongoing history.

I've no idea what Mushy looks like, as his profile's pretty threadbare, but on this particular site that I met him through, there's a space for people thoughts, and his filled that in pretty well. As far as I can tell, it shows that he has an original mind, places a healthy emphasis on his personal happiness that does not seem to overlap with selfishness, and is equally healthily sensitive. As in, he won't cry at a movie, or when he's yelled at, but is aware of people's feelings. Finally, he's funny, which is basically the nail on my 'Love Coffin'; you want me hooked to you? Get me laughing, and I'm done. It's too bad really, I wish I demanded a bit more...

You know the trouble with unexpected good things? They unsettle the HELL out of you. I wasn't ready for starting things up with Mushy, and now that we're in the throes of written conversation, I'm beginning to feel... insecure. In the last few months, you see, I've been working up to the peaks of ripeness. I think I might just be ready for a relationship, with all the crap that this entails. I'm feeling very open to sinking into someone's arms that I don't know that well, and allowing myself to be hugged. I'm feeling quite pleasurably tingly at the idea of kissing (I had planned to hold a memorial for my lips in December, so thank Heavens for this!) I'm even feeling up to someone getting up in my grill, wading into my space, and extracting some intimacy. Not so long ago, I'd have gotten out my pristine Self-sabotage toolbox, and began to render screws loose. But no, I'm feeling increasingly confident that I could date, and actually wait and see where it might go... which means that, unless Mushy turns out to be 3ft tall, has none of his own teeth, and I can smell him coming -he just might be in with  a chance.

Mushy lives in Nairobi, incidentally. Which should be making me feel twitchy, but isn't. Good signs? I'd say so!

Not so much In Pursuit, perhaps, but definitely getting in the flow...

Dirty (and Naked) Harry!

I'm sorry folks... I'm with most of the rest of the world. I have a soft spot for Prince Harry, and if he felt like walking about naked for a year in protest of bad alcohol and promoting the rights of prostitutes... I'd probably be right behind him. Especially with that bod on him.

It's got me thinking though -what IS it about Harry that makes him so loveable? Why does he get away with things, in the media, that would crucify any other celebrity -for Life? It's not just the Public adoring Harry -it's the media too! And that's some achievement indeed, when the vultures are incessantly sniffing around for their next victim, and their prayers resemble this: "Please let Beckham cheat, please let Beckham cheat, please, please, please…"

Funny thing is, Harry's never played up to the media, or anyone else. He's simply lived his life, as himself, and damned the rest. And indeed, any attempt to turn his antics into scandals have subscribed to the saying "Publish and be damned!" They've been published, and been damned, and Harry's walked away, his image untarnished.

Perhaps it is the typical prerogative of a 'second son', the English familial tradition. The first son is meant to be exactly what William is -sober, responsible, well-spoken, soberly and responsibly well-spoken; and if he's really tops, he'll take care to be tall and handsome too.

The second son is Harry to the 'T'. With all of the cares laid upon the shoulders of his older brother, he is free and able to live 'normally' -even happily- enough for both of them. If there are any of the following to be done, he is entitled to pursue them to the full: the drinking, the falling off of horses, the failing at school, the chasing of skirts, the breaking of hearts, the acting in movies, the modelling, the sky-diving and other stunts… all of these and more activities are open to him -so long as he return home safe and sound, which Harry has always done.

I think of Harry as a perfectly healthy young man, and if I wouldn't call him handsome, I do find beauty in his face, an air and flush of Diana, which is somehow deeply touching, and endearing. I'm persuaded that when he's done with all the high jinks, the sowing of seed, the army and the adrenaline, this young prince will make the most loving and devoted husband and father, to one of luckiest girls in the world. I wish him well with all my heart.

The hiccup with Harry's story arrived like a bombshell, the other day, when my sister casually mentioned that he may not be Prince Charles natural son. "What do you mean?" I asked her, thinking I'd misheard. It was her turn to look shocked. "You read everything," she marveled, " did you never read Princess Diana's autobiography?" No, I hadn't. And I haven't. And I may never.

I'm afraid I wasn't a great fan of Princess Diana's, and even less one of Prince Charles'. She was a young frustrated girl, thrust into a world she had no idea would consume her. She wasn't mature enough to take all of the disappointments in stride, and didn't have the cold upper lip of royalty to behave as though she accept them. She resisted them publicly, loudly, petulantly. Like the best people, however, she somehow found in herself the strength and power to give of herself to others, even during her darkest hours. She had little else to give, so she gave her time, her attention, her kindness -and became the Queen of Hearts. She was a loving person, and all she ever wanted to be loved in return. And she was, more than she ever imagined.

Funny thing is, Harry's never played up to the media, or anyone else. He's simply lived his life, as himself, and damned the rest. And indeed, any attempt to turn his antics into scandals have subscribed to the saying "Publish and be damned!" They've been published, and been damned, and Harry's walked away, his image untarnished.

Perhaps it is the typical prerogative of a 'second son', the English familial tradition. The first son is meant to be exactly what William is -sober, responsible, well-spoken, soberly and responsibly well-spoken; and if he's really tops, he'll take care to be tall and handsome too.

The second son is Harry to the 'T'. With all of the cares laid upon the shoulders of his older brother, he is free and able to live 'normally' -even happily- enough for both of them. If there are any of the following to be done, he is entitled to pursue them to the full: the drinking, the falling off of horses, the failing at school, the chasing of skirts, the breaking of hearts, the acting in movies, the modelling, the sky-diving and other stunts… all of these and more activities are open to him -so long as he return home safe and sound, which Harry has always done.

I think of Harry as a perfectly healthy young man, and if I wouldn't call him handsome, I do find beauty in his face, an air and flush of Diana, which is somehow deeply touching, and endearing. I'm persuaded that when he's done with all the high jinks, the sowing of seed, the army and the adrenaline, this young prince will make the most loving and devoted husband and father, to one of luckiest girls in the world. I wish him well with all my heart.

The hiccup with Harry's story arrived like a bombshell, the other day, when my sister casually mentioned that he may not be Prince Charles natural son. "What do you mean?" I asked her, thinking I'd misheard. It was her turn to look shocked. "You read everything," she marveled, " did you never read Princess Diana's autobiography?" No, I hadn't. And I haven't. And I may never.

Apparently, when Harry was born, Prince Charles was nowhere to be seen. Harry was no son of his, is what his behaviour stated, and in light of those indiscretions Princess Diana had begun becoming guilty of, this might be nothing but the truth. Certainly nothing out of character for the English royal history, which, like many others in Europe, is full of 'bastards' and 'usurpers' to the throne. More certain however, is that Harry looks nothing like William, and nothing at all like Prince Charles, excepting that they are are regally tall men. Like Khloe Kardashian, is a soupçon of illegitimacy gnawing at our Prince's heart? Is it perhaps more serious than anyone might think? For Khloe, adversity has brought inward strength, integrity of character, brute force honesty, and staunch loyalty to herself, to family, and to all of those whom she loves. Is it doing the same for Prince Harry? I believe so, even if this disturbing feeling might drive him to go faster and further, dive deeper, and party harder. When he settles, he will be the strongest of men, with the best of characters, and there really isn't anything more one could wish out of Life's battering journey...

Whatever the case may be, Prince Harry is one I would applaud for living a Life In Pursuit of Happiness, and many times he has found it. I wish for him that he may continue to do so.

Here's to all of us determined Pursuers!

You’ll meet Someone, Older and Wiser…

I have to admit that it’s true what they say: “Wisdom comes with Age.” If not all, then at least some of it –the most important parts of it, perhaps. When I think of the things I fervently believed as a teen, it’s CRINGE-making. Even some of the things I believed just a decade ago are supremely embarrassing to me now, and I feel glad, so glad that I’ve reached the perfect place, in my early 30s, where I can laugh at latter-year absurdities in behaviour, and gained the open-mindedness, tolerance, patience and necessary senses of responsibility and humour that enable me to do better, every day. Because I’ve grown.

Whether this is normal or not, I don’t know, but I can actually feel my growth. Some mysterious short time ago, I began to make better decisions, to see the world a little differently and most importantly, to see my circumstances differently. Suddenly, everything lost that edge, and became fuzzier –and funnier. Perhaps even a little friendlier. They certainly stopped being so cut-and-dried. I’ve always been sensitive, but somehow, other people’s feelings and perceptions are clearer to me. I am less quick to judge –I am even capable of not judging. I used to be Queen Solomona –without the wisdom of ever considering the suggestion of splitting the baby. Somewhere along the way, black and white issues swirled together into grey; yet I know precisely where I stand.

It’s amazing. It’s refreshing, and oh, I can’t TELL you HOW relaxing. Suddenly, the off-cuff advice not to take life “so seriously” isn’t just something losers and drunkards say –it works! I’m still not sure what ‘choosing to be happy’ means, as I’m still pretty sure you can only be as happy as your circumstances allow you to be, and if I were homeless, friendless and cold, I would not consider it some kind of blessing... but I AM sure that ‘doing the right thing’ in every situation possible, though a tougher way to live, is the very best way to live. I know the joy of doing something selflessly, and it’s pretty awesome.

And another saying that’s true? “Aprés la pluie, le beau temps!” After the rain (read pain) the sun’ll come out –even if it isn’t going to happen tomorrow. I’ll even believe that ‘Life begins at 40’... and don’t the more evil ones of you say that I kind of have to!

Romantically, those men that made me swoon  at 18 have no sway with me now. I know myself better. I like myself better. And so I know much better what I’m looking for; whom I would suit, and who would suit me.

Yet, quite independently, I can hide the Bible away and lust... erm... I mean, enjoy indulging, visually, in a bit of nugget. Olympian, Hollywoodian or otherwise. A small, hopefully harmless guilty pleasure –like a large glass of perfectly chilled, crisp white wine on a hot summer afternoon... or a rich dessert.

In “The Sound of Music”, young Liesl couldn’t believe it when Maria assured her that she would meet “Someone older and wiser....” I’ve agreed with Liesl most of my life, but not any more. Not for a good long while. I believe instead that, like Maria, some day soon, Someone will be “standing there loving me,” whether or not he should, and I’ll think: “Somewhere in my youth, or childhood, I must have done something good!”

Ever In Hot Pursuit of Happiness!

Bart, Moi, and The MoMD

I got Barthélémy around my 13th birthday, just before going away to boarding school. Though Mum completely disapproved of him from the first, she gave in, I believe, because of guilt –and Guilt, to a child, can be a pretty powerful ally in Getting What You Want. Boarding School was never something Mum ever envisioned for her children, even though she'd never intended to put off her career for us. She would have Both, and why shouldn't she?

Anyways, having gotten Bart so late in my life, it may be surprising how tightly we bonded. I KNEW him the second I saw him in the shop. I KNEW we would love each other, and grow old together. I knew he'd keep my secrets with his life, and adore me despite the doubtful nature of some of them. Indeed, he’s supported me through no end of crushes, break-ups, family and work problems and, lately, singlehood fiascos. In a perfect dream world, I’ve no doubt that I’d be married to Bart, and we’d have six beautiful child cubs. Problem is, he’s a Bear. A soft, mushy-in-all-the-right-places Bear, who should have been given up years ago without a murmur. But he hasn’t. And not that I would bring Bart to any date and introduce him as my BFF –but he is. I’m happy to have him out of the way, somewhere in my room –but he’s always with me. And he’ll always be… until I find it in myself to cede him to my eldest and/or only child.

The problem is... Bart may be the standard against whom I base every other of my relationships. In which case, I really should get rid of him as soon as possible, given my Disdainful Eye and other critical afflictions. Perhaps without Bart’s beautiful hazel eyes to gaze into (and I should mention they’re the extreme of warm and loving) I might be able to lower my standards some, and link my life to a short, weak-chinned dullard who has never left the village I met him in, during a passing visit. Even worse, I might begin to take a shine to creatures such as Roosh (the very name, my friends, should be a RED FLAGGED LIGHTHOUSE.)

Funny thing is, this was quite a week for Romance, in my world. Yesterday alone, I received no less than 6 notifications of interest… one, LITERALLY, from the Man of My Dreams (MoMD).

Now, Girls. Two things about the prospective MoMD:

1)      You should know that he is, as his name implies, a figment of your imagination. It is VERY unlikely that he exists, and thus, in our looking, we should be careful not to look for him exclusively.

2)      When he DOES manifest… tread, very, very carefully. As the saying goes, “When the gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers.” (Karen Blixen in “Out of Africa”)

Seriously though, I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Frank’s profile. In fact, I’m going to give it to you:

 √ 39

√ Master’s Degree

√ Bilingual

√ 6’5

√ Brown Hair

√ Green Eyes

√ Athletic

√ Wants (more) children

√ Describes himself as: “sportingly, generously, romantically, loving”

√ A glorious, BEAUTIFUL set of smiling photoS –DE-VAS-TA-TING. He’s STUNNING.

x 231lb (!!!)

x Divorced (Why? WHY would anyone allow him to get away?)

My Love (Photo credit: Jennuine Captures)

My womb skipped so many beats I had to perform CPR on it (this basically entails banging on your lower stomach until you can feel your legs again.) Then came, in quick succession, twelve visions of our First Kiss, my 6 future children, and an evening together before the fireplace of our newly built home…

When you’re thinking like this, you’re likely to write to the bloke in an off-putting over-eager or over-familiar manner, which translates, in physical dating, to that girl at the club who is so clearly offering her wares to her pick of the night that it makes you cringe for her. In fact, having very properly returned his Interest, I should now exercise my breathing apparatus, and wait for him to write ME a proper message. Problem is… CAN I wait that long? WILL I?

Bart sits there and smiles blithely at me –SO like a male to be completely useless when it COUNTS.

Love Love Love (Photo credit: Gregory Jordan)

I’m off to browse honeymoon locations to soothe my itchy fingers. I’m thinking somewhere outlandish like… Macedonia. Hmmmhhh… Bali or Prague?

Men Are Evolving All Wrong

English: English Bulldog with characteristic underbite (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been watching my Disdainful Eye, and thought I might just tell you another thing it’s noticed: UNDERBITES. Aside from a weak chin, a non-existent backside, a backside the size of a back-pack, and thin legs... the worst thing anyone can sport is an underbite. When it’s barely noticeable, one might not see it right away, but when it’s plainly there, it makes smiling look like a sport, and that’s NOT cool. Are men evolving into werewovles?

Tyra Banks at the 2000 Cannes Film Festival. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Panicky fact is, since I noticed The Underbite syndrome a couple of weeks ago, I can’t stop seeing them everywhere I go. I’ve caught myself watching people speak (NOT cool –I imagine that it makes you look like you’re angling for a kiss, and that is not an impression I want to leave with my bank teller, the guy at the supermarket or at the petrol pump... or Anyone, really) and although I’ve found that it affects a surprising amount of women (I mean, Tyra Banks has one?!) it affects even more men, and is seriously disturbing, in my general observation of this species.

According to some professor (no doubt the obsessive, notebook carrying, absent-minded, mumbling-to-oneself type that is sadly en voie de disparition) who must be super zealous, and super-super persuasive, because he got the licence to make an entire town his experiment; according to this dude, human beings are evolving to be shorter and fatter. This is already bad news, and especially depressing when you’ve actually noticed that this is true. When I was growing up, I ‘crushed’ on my tall, hot, willowy uncles, and was never so delighted as to be picked up by them and propelled seemingly thousands of miles above ground. The way things are going now, my kids may have to pick up their uncles, just to see them better. Point IS... when I watched this documentary, the Prof omitted to specify that this new breed of short fat people means that men’s necks will disappear, and that they would each have an underbite, just to solidify their status of Unattractive. SUPER depressing.

Still, in a society of short, fat people, I wouldn’t mind our family being the exception. If I chose correctly, I can have a nice, tall husband with all of his teeth in the right place, which means that our kids will too. Screw ‘normal’. The day a TV couple is portrayed with the beautiful woman leaning lovingly down to kiss her Prince is not one I’m looking forward to.

In equally dour news, I got a message last weekend, from Jorg, in Germany. He’s 56, and full bearded. Have mercy.

Wearily in pursuit...

The Disdainful Eye

According to a new friend, I suffer from the Dangerous Disdainful Eye. It is the Disdainful Eye that is preventing me from seeing the apparently THOUSANDS of suitable men that there are all around me, among whom, she assures me, there is my Baby Daddy. Smiling tightly, I told her that there may be thousands of men in the WORLD, but I wasn’t looking for thousands of men. I want only ONE, and he has to be the Right One. My list of requirements, I went on to assure her a little hotly (though I had promised myself not to get emotional) is NOT that prohibitive. I mean, SERIOUSLY. What’s WRONG with wanting a man whose taller than me? Or one who has BOTH a jawline AND a neck, each in their proper, separate places? What’s wrong with objecting to knock-knees, spaced out teeth or a narrow mind? What’s wrong with having a preference for a bilingual, Masters degree holder who has travelled outside of his country? And WHAT is wrong with my wanting an age-appropriate 35-40 year-old, as opposed to someone my Dad’s age? I ask you!

Well, in fact, I asked her, but she didn’t seem phased. Said that a Disdainful Eye sees nothing but objections –and I have to admit that she’s got me there. If you’re looking for something to object to in anything or anyone, you’ll find plenty. It’s an OCD thing that happens to everyone, once in a while, because they’re indulging a bad mood, or because they’re a witch as were born critical, or because they’re simply nasty. I’m NOT nasty. I don’t even think I’m PICKY. I just don’t want to pass on to my children things that they could do without –SUCH AS a weak jawline that melts and disappears into what could barely called a neck. SUCH AS knock-knees. SUCH AS a need for braces at birth. SUCH AS narrow-minded perceptions of the world and stupid limited opinions… I mean, I’m not being crazy here. I’m being socially and environmentally conscious. It’s a GOOD thing to consciously favour good genes. And if I turn out to be the worst mother of the decade, then at least my children can sit and stare at their reflections and say: “Well at least she tried to give us the very best looks and health that she could manage.” …Right?

Ever in pursuit!

The Sun’ll Come Out…

Nope, no news on the Love front. I only wish I were hard-hearted enough to share the veritable Line-Up with you of my most recent online ‘conquests’. You would weep for me, you really would… except, seriously. Are ‘good’ men not looking? Am I so hard to find?!!

Still, ALL is good, and La Vita È Bella here in Nairobi! ‘Winter’ is practically over, and the sun is finally coming out. By next week, GONE will be the woolen bras, itchy long johns, and the layers and layers of clothes that have made even the most attractive female citizens look like sullen, unhappy pregnant women. Gone will be the cravings for heavy warming food and sinful cake. And in will come the season of light cotton tops, fruit and ice-cream, iced coffee, cold beer and quick, invigoratingly cold showers… Who knows? I may even make to the beach this year, for a good long lounge on the seaside! Bliss.

Say what you like, but there is something about a good dose of Vitamin D that fills one with spunk and spontaneity, and even a certain je ne sais quoi, a sort of glow of health that makes Shreks seem as attractive as James Bond. Perhaps this is why the popularity of tanning has been going out of control since the mid-80s! Vitamin D. I could DRINK it.

In Pursuit of Happiness –but spunkily now!

The Golden Oldies

I am certainly one of those persons who believes that ‘Old is Gold’, and until recently, I found no harm in it. I love old music. In fact, the range of my favourite tunes begins between the time of the first church hymnals and whenever ‘O Danny Boy’ was first invented, passes enthusiastically through classical music (Mozart, Handel, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky in particular) skips carefully over the mire onto selected faves of the 40s, 50s, 60s and 60s and seventies (Chuck Berry, Sinatra, Crosby, BB King, Charley Pride, Diana Ross, Aretha, the Beatles, Queen, Phil Collins, George Michael, Elton John, old Latino...), leaps wildly to avoid most of the 80s (with notable exceptions that include Madonna –and more Latino) and halts, bereft, somewhere in the mid 90s. I have since rarely added to my personal jukebox, and never apologised for it.

I adore old movies –I mean, does anyone remember when movies were movies? They stopped making them in 2000. In fact, I often say that I have rarely liked a movie made after 2000, and rarely liked a series made before then. I never go to the cinema any more –seriously. The last time I did was to watch the third Harry Potter movie, nor am I ashamed of saying this. I can’t remember when that was, but I can tell you that the time I went to the cinema before that? It was to watch the second Harry Potter movie. I’m not ashamed to say that either. I am one of those who subscribes to TCM (Turner Classic Movie channel) where I never cease to be blown away by everything from the plots, the sets and the high fashion, but also by the acting, carried out so beautifully in classic and classy succinct accents.

Here may I indulge in lusting after the original bad boys such as Steve McQueen, the hot, naughty, James Garner, the butter-wouldn’t-melt David Niven (also an author, by the by!), the suave Clarke Gable and delectable Cary Grant. I sigh after the classical beauty, style and manner of the original ‘Independent Woman’ reincarnated again and again in Katharine Hepburn and Ava Gardner, the wonderfully and remorselessly evil Bette Davis, the cold Joan Crawford, and the sweet, dear Doris Day. I even delight in more than a few of the unavoidable musicals, and can do a shockingly good rendition of ‘How Are Things in Gloca Morra?’ (Finian’s Rainbow)! Naturally, I’m wordperfect in Sound of Music and My fair Lady. It’s Peter Sellers, unique in his Pink Panther movies. Later, it’s the Rockys, the Godfathers, the Frankie & Johnnie, and A Bronx Tale that enthral me. It’s Grease, Footloose , and Dirty Dancing. It’s Diner, the Big Chill, and Out of Africa and Amadeus. It doesn’t get better. 

I am the one the librarian raises an eyebrow at, when I present myself at the check-out desk with books that were last borrowed in 1957 –I’m not kidding. This week, I spent a couple of hours chortling blissfully over “How To Be An Alien” by George Mikes (pronounced “me-cash”, as it says on the fly leaf) on British society, which gave me that ‘perfect reading’ feeling that everyone should read it at least twice.

I love my jeans (indeed, I live in them), but frankly? I wouldn’t mind squeezing into a crinoline, at least once. Still, my favourite and best clothes are vintage, proudly purloined from my mother’s old trunks –which, by the way, is where I regularly go shopping. I stole my father’s old canon (which was stolen, for which I remain unforgiven) and though I don’t wear a watch, I have several, one of my favourites being one I was given at birth, by my Swiss godmother. Quality used to mean something... And going back to jeans, briefly –you’ve never had a pair unless you’ve had a pair of real ones. Not the ones that stretch, that come in black and white and red in a boot cut, or any such rubbish –the real jean material, sturdy, strong and unchanging. If you ever had one of those, you should still have it –I do!

But would I like to go back to those days? I’m afraid, here, that the answer is a hotly delivered and definite ‘no.’ You see... this culture? It isn’t mine. While Mozart struggled to get the music out of his head and onto music sheets, ‘Amazing Grace’ haunted the cotton fields, Hollywood was setting up ridiculously difficult, brilliant sets in the desert for some epic, and women were fighting for their rights in England (marching the streets in patent high heels, full skirts and feathered hats)? MY ancestors were enjoying the peace of a hot afternoon, topless beneath a palm tree. Their biggest concerns were Maasai warriors charging into the village to make away with their daughters, or lions prowling too close for comfort. It was how to settle upon an appropriate dowry for their girls, and whether her brothers, sent to investigate, would bring back a good report of the potential groom (without which all bets were off, and she could stay on the shelf a while longer). It was whether their sons would come back from the hunt, or the occasional skirmish with another village. No disrespect to them, but taking myself off down the river to fetch water to help Mum cook doesn’t sound appealing. Especially while struggling to balance the calabash on my head with the weight of my pendulous breasts. I’d much rather have been an Italian artist struggling in a workshop in Florence, learning from Leonardo. Or an acquaintance of Mozart’s. Or a script-writer in a writer’s sweat shop in Hollywood. But basically, a White Man. There has never been a better time to be a Black Woman than today, and for this, I am certainly grateful, as I don’t have to struggle a quarter so much from racism as even my mother witnessed, anywhere in the world. I can learn to read. I can go to school, and take it as far as I want to. There are ways for me to prevent myself getting pregnant, thus preserving my choice of career as well as my sanity, should I happen to be a lustful teen. In fact, I can have whatever career I chose to have, and don’t have to be a nurse or a secretary. I can vote. I can divorce a husband. In short, I have rein over all my rights. For absolutely nothing would I be a Muslim woman, for example, in a country run by Sheria law, who still has such a tough journey ahead, in pursuit of basic rights, let alone Happiness.

I think of all of this today, and count my blessings. Still in Hot Pursuit!

Olympic Crumpet

I might have experienced Disappointment of Olympian Proportions at the overall theme of the opening ceremony of the London Olympics; but I also experienced the great Joy that overcomes one only at international events such as the Olympics and the World Cup, that comes from that ‘World United’ feeling. Kenneth Branagh and Rowan Atkinson in particular impressed me, God Bless them. In the face of thousands of screaming people and dignitaries, not to mention the gazillions around the world who were tuned in, they played their parts calmly and expertly, as though ministering to a crowd of four 3-year olds, leaving me with the conviction that they have truly earned their stripes as top world actors. And roping in the conductor too! Unbelievable. The musicians were super professional, as were the main ground history enactors and the children! The parade of many nations, half of whom seem to have come into being since I was last in school (I mean, SERIOUSLY –doesn’t “St Vincent and the Grenadines” sound more like a Pop/Rock Band than a PLACE?) was as unerringly heart-warming as ever, all of leading up to a finale that I can honestly say is without compare. The petal motif of the Olympic flame-lighting ceremony is AWARD-WINNING. Period. It’s been a while since I was so moved and impressed, and I thoroughly enjoyed the feeling!

More selfishly, however... can I just say how HAPPY I was to see the MEN! So happy was I, in fact, that I freely admit to battling to quietly contain a series of multiple-orgasms (Mum was with me), as Beautiful Smiling Man after Beautiful Smiling Man FLAUNTED themselves before the camera. As of last night, the section in my Bucket List pertaining to ‘Places I Must Visit’ has doubled.  I was happy to note that Greek gods still exist. There was an Italian hunk or two, some Island men I will be personally stalking online (or in person –Tonga, here I come.) And while it should be clear to all, sundry, and his friends, that I do not typically go in for blonds, there was the oddity of a blond Algerian in the mix, who made me feel like I may go there for a looong visit –you know. To see the sights. Via Morocco.

But, surprise surprise, it was the Middle and Eastern European men that really had my womb skipping beats. Long-and strong-legged, tall, clear-eyed, and dark-haired, with plainly visible jawline –plus a distinct separation between head and shoulders, due to the presence of (increasingly vanishing) graceful necks... HOT. Add a genuinely happy, beautiful smile, and I was a goner. I mean, who could ask for more? Some of them I would be happy to gaze at for years... if they promised not to open their mouths and spoil it for me, as I’m under no illusion that I’m likely to be discussing the merits of Henry James with a sportsman. Happily, I’m resigned to the fact that one can’t have everything, and having a husband I can gaze at endlessly for 60 years, (in between pregnancies) might actually make me happy! I mean, could use everyone else for any needs of lofty conversation that I may have. After all, nobody ever died wanting to have one more intellectual debate; but plenty have, very peacefully, gazing at their loved ones.

SO! The Olympics have begun, and onward to many weeks of shameless man-gazing... err... I mean, record-breaking! Over tea and literal crumpets, naturally. Now THAT’s Happiness!

Webcam Delights

I am sorry to report yet another fruitless week, in the area of ‘Lurve’... but did I ever tell you of my American sailor? I corresponded for a while, last year, with an American oil boat captain, stationed in Eastern Africa, who, at first seemed like an exciting prospect. We chatted, and conversation flowed lively between us, funny, sensitive, well-mannered –charming guy, really, as they all seem at first. He persuaded me onto the webcam, which, to my delight, did NOT kill the buzz, because he wasn’t actually a short fat old woman. He was tall and handsome and fit, promptly sending my womb a-singing with his genes. My own appearance apparently had the same effect on him. I say this, not just because he told me so, but he then took off his shirt, whereupon my singing womb went into full opera-mode... until he told me to take off mine.

Now, I’m not tooooo prudish, but I’m certainly not a free-for-all, we-were-born-naked, what’s-the-big-deal, would-change-in-front-of-a-stranger, enthusiastic nudist type. And I’m certainly NOT that way with someone I haven’t known for very long. So I demurred, using my very best manners, and we went on talking for a bit, and then he had to go. We chatted the next night, as though nothing had happened, and the night after that... then, some time that week, he asked me if I had noticed that he tended to log off promptly at 9 p.m. I hadn’t. Then, the bomb. At 9, this Beautiful American Man (BAM) typed, he usually had a chat appointment with another Kenyan girl. 1) I’m not the jealous type, 2) I’d just met this person –we weren’t dating or in a relationship, so I had no right to be jealous even if leaned that way and 3) What was his point? Well, I soon found out. Kenyan Girl II spent her time with BAM... stripping. Stripping for him over the webcam, in a manner that I can’t help but think must have been expert enough, to have him coming back every night. I was completely put off. Seriously. It was like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me. Yet, irrationally, one of my first thoughts was... what kind of stripper strips for free?

The whole Men, Prostitutes & Porn relationship is something I’ve thankfully never had to deal with, but frankly, with the type of man I’m after, I never expected it to be an issue. And that wasn’t the issue. BAM was happy, he told me, to give up his stripper, if it made me uncomfortable (yeah, right) because he could see us going somewhere, whereas, with the stripper, it was only a flirtation thing. ‘Hmmh’ no. 1 –as in, I wasn’t convinced. Still, he stayed over his 9 p.m deadline that night, and the following nights –perhaps because he’d rescheduled Stripper. Then, ‘Hmmh’ no. 2. He proposed that I might like to do ‘something’ in the vein of stripping for him. Now... I want a man, I really do? But NOT that bad. Really not. I told him I didn’t know him nearly well enough to reveal my bra colour, and he once again retreated. I highly suspected at this time that BAM? He's the one the call "Wham Bam", who thanks you sarcastically after you've given in to him.

I don’t know why I continued chatting to him after this, I really don’t (well... yes I do –he was Hot. And my womb was blaring opera. But let’s pretend I don’t, because it’s more comfortable.) So anyway, I DID continue chatting with him, and during the next few weeks, the chips just fell into place beautifully: He had been married but was divorced, he had a child, who lived back in America, for whom he wanted a mother, he wanted to come to Kenya and be shown ‘a good time’. He loved me and wanted me, and couldn’t wait for us to get intimate... I could go on, but he had me somewhere at the ‘divorced’ part, wherein he elaborated that he and his ex were on ‘excellent terms’, and that he had her over there, but wanted someone over here and that, whatever the outcome of our relationship, I should expect her to ‘be in our lives’. I logged off for the last time with not a tinge of regret. What a crock. What shitty, confused, silly boys men are. How they love to have their cake and eat it, then ask for seconds, or eat their neighbours’ cake. And how DARE they be Hot and Dumb!!!

Ever In Pursuit...

Cougar Syndrome?

Not yet, thank you. I received a perfectly lovely offer this week via Match Affinity, from a 25-year old who seems to match most of my demands. But no. 25 is too young. Still, I was flattered, considering a set of massages from unexpectedly raunchy 60+ year olds from Germany and France –plus a severe-looking 32-year old Turk, whose faith I could never abide by.

I’m currently re-reading Portrait of Woman (by Henry James), which has always made me feel good and confident. This should be good, as I’m also personally re-testing home-made skin products that are to be included in ‘The Cravings Diet’ (my latest book venture) and have developed a prominent zit, smack in the middle of my forehead. It’s fine when I’m out, because I can black it over and make it look like some kind of penchant for things Indian (a great trick), but it needs to go away soon, because I am becoming cross-eyed from anxiously examining it. Not to mention the re-retesting process... Crap.

On the extreme PLUS side of Life, the Olympics begin this week!!! Looking forward to a (hopefully) breath-taking Opening Ceremony, but most of all; a daily ration of Lots and LOTS of hunky men to watch, admire, and fall in love with!!! Aside from athletics, I have serious hankering for gymnasts, and have every intention of indulging. God Bless the Greeks.

Please don’t judge me –it’s all, after all In Hot Pursuit of Happiness!!!

Musing on a world without Woman

I think men have forgotten (or never learned) what a Privilege it actually is, to have a woman in their lives. Without one, most men would be wandering around in the metal sheets of the buildings they’ve invented and built, looking like rapid unshaven apes –and smelling worse. They would conduct their meetings in bare boardrooms with toothpicks in their mouths, spending the three first hours sharing stories of last night’s ‘conquest’, throwing back beers and scratching their balls for emphasis.

Disputes on topics as insignificant as the size of one’s penis, the genetic connection between girth and brain-size, the largesse of one’s collection of guns, the excellence of one’s cellar, the superiority of one’s football team or golf swing, and the exact amount of praise begotten in the press (undoubtedly for inventions as useful as the ‘Give-it-me-NOW’ house robot, and the ‘Pleasure-me-NOW’ robotesse [TV announcer: “Fold her up and you can ‘have her’ anywhere!”]) would be fought in the boardroom with actual, lethal Darth Vader swords, and internationally via the angry, repeated pressing of large red knobs set-up at the tip of one’s armchair, designed to detonate nuclear bombs, accompanied by the short range of male oaths and grunts that hold the exact same meaning in any language.

Homophobia would be dead, because of the basic need for strip joints and porn; whereas slavery would be alive, well, and a thriving international business, basically consisting in the traffic, use and abuse of any male that wasn’t at least a strong Beta male. Actual work would never be properly recorded or filed, nor would it be performed in any special order, but rather carried out as impulsive acts dictated all day long, from an armchair, to a crew of harried lesser beta and theta male slaves, via superphones permanently attached to their ears. While dictating such things as “Send an email to Sam and say yes to the new nightclub,” then “Call Big Mike and tell him I can’t make the hunting party this weekend in Texas,” men would be online, playing virtual reality games to boost their fragile egos, in which their names were ‘King Cock’ or ‘Lord of All’. Without any sense of organisation, whichever slave was next in line would have to feed, clothe, transport, shop, as well as fetch and carry for their bosses. Any displeasure derived from their services would necessitate public hangings, also brought back, and carried out as Live Weekend Entertainment.

There would be no dustbins, so that men could chuck garbage out from the windows of their ‘Superrari’ cars at 300 miles an hour, and no signs, because they would want to be able to race, even just down to the grocery store, smoke, spit and pee anywhere in between, indoors, and especially in hospitals, banks, supermarkets and any other public place where waiting might be required. The same set of bars, strip clubs, motels, gyms, roman baths, ATMs, fast-food restaurants, shops, travel agencies, gadget stores and car, airplane and boat lots would pop up all over the globe, because, since they never ask for directions, men would frequently be getting lost, yet, no matter where they were, they would need access to these basic necessities.

Finally, the life expectancy for these unwashed, doctor-shunning, cigar-loving, violent, alcoholic control freaks (with overgrown toe nails) would be about 40 years, at best, since they would have lived at the pace of a tantrum-riven demon two-year old, every day of those years... And that death would be final, since there would be cloning, but no means of reproduction. Now does that sound good, anyone?

Do me a favour. Pick up the phone, Right Now, call a woman in your life, and thank her for being alive!

Writing and –will 2012 be an Annum “Painus Anus”?

For the prolific reader that I am, I must say it is quite embarrassing to admit that I just this week sampled my first James Patterson novel, 10^th Anniversary. As this title implies, I am at least 10 years late in discovering this author, and upon opening the book’s frontispieces, I was completely shocked to find out just how many novels this man has written (over 50 were listed.) I was even more taken aback by the fact that no less than THREE novels were scheduled for publication in 2011 (one in April, one in June, and the last in August.) I mean –just how prolific is that?

Impressed as I was, however, I must say that I didn’t enjoy 10^thAnniversary. Though this doesn’t mean that I am ready to write off this author completely (I always give authors at least two chances to get me hooked) I will need a recommendation on which of his titles to try next, because, if I don’t like that one, I am not likely to ever pick up a James Patterson again. SO! Any suggestions, anyone? I’d be grateful.

Divorce Cakes a_005 (Photo credit: DrJohnBullas)

So… as the birthday gifts continue rolling in (including two new followers –Welcome!) I get an email from my ex-fiancé, asking for a meet. WHAT, I ‘m thinking furiously, does this mean?

I’m not a superstitious person, generally, but I do believe that things happen for a reason, and every time I’ve ignored a ‘sign’ or ignored my ‘gut’, terrible decisions have been made and tragic things have happened. In the face of my options however, (1) Ignore the mail; 2) Respond with a polite ‘thanks, but no, thanks’ or 3) Respond with a ‘Sure, let’s grab a coffee sometime) I suddenly find myself stumped because, for once, my gut isn’t saying ANYTHING. And in such times, surely, the best thing to do –is to do nothing. Right? Of ALL the things I could need or wish for, painus exus drama is NOT on the list. In fact, right now, while I’m suddenly managing to focus less on counting my eggs and more on enjoying every other thing, perhaps the last thing I need is a man coming into my life, making my womb skip a beat, getting me thinking about him, and feeling things, and BAKING, and generally confusing me as only that species can. I need a break. Can’t I just enjoy one? In Peace?

So, I guess I’ve decided to do nothing. And y’all agree with me… Right? I mean, it’s the only thing to do. Bleeping Life. Just when you think you’re in a good place…

Still in pursuit!