Don’t Get Up...

No, this isn’t just what you tell a shockingly short man when you’ve turned up late for a date that was arranged online. It’s also what you do when, after finally getting to sleep after a busy night’s work, you suddenly fall devastatingly in love with a man you’ve literally met in your dreams. This is because it’s quite useless, if you do get up, to pretend that you will be able to put him out of your mind, just because you’re busy with another project. It’s no good. He’s got to come out, and that means a new Word Doc, a fresh blank page before you, a sudden mix of the inertia of stupidity, and complete panic at the thought that He might not come out after all, in the moment (suffering, as He continues to develop himself in your mind) or if He does, He may come out in the wrong context (frustration, as this is tantamount to tons of rewriting, re-casting and proper cold rethinking, which is horribly difficult, as opposed to instinctive flow.) Worst of all, He may come out wrong, which means mental TORTURE, the deletion of everything, and a fresh, fresh start, even in the midst of now sheer panic.

This is all very terrible, but do you know what’s worse? Battling with said Dreamlover, while juggling work, your hair (which for some reason, this month, has completely refused to submit to your authority) and your time, some of which you are required to spend with family members, close and distant, or they become either Resentful or Suspicious. I can’t deal with either because, while most families revel in drama, whether high (and loud) or low (and passive-aggressive,) mine being no exception, I reserve most of mine for my writing, and, indeed, tend to avoid it altogether in real life.

 Nevertheless, my dramatic instincts are highly challenged when I’m conducting said battle with new Dreamlover, work, hair and time, and ALSO a short story. I am emphatically NOT a short-story writer, but like all good writers, it may take me some time to accept this. It is a skill, and, logically, all skills can be learned. I tend to submit myself to the torture of trying to write a short story at least once a month –which isn’t as dramatic as it sounds, because writers are born self-torturers, but it is certainly one of my more painful enterprises. I should have given up long ago, except that occasionally, I put out a marvel, and then I’m so proud of myself, I try again... and the cycle restarts. I’m not used to not being good at things, even on the first try. This isn’t due to some super natural talent or a streak of lucky recklessness in my character –quite the contrary. I am OCD about reading the instructions, directions, rules and regulations of the thing, until I understand exactly what I’m about. Then it’s (usually!) smooth going. It’s how I first got myself on a horse. It’s also why I didn’t panic (completely) when it began to move (the exercise was to mount it –the horse wasn’t supposed to move, once mounted, but who knew horses don’t get implied directions?) Following the instructions on how to communicate with a horse, I gently pulled (trying with all my might not to clutch) my reins tighter to my chest, and gave a squeeze using my inner thigh muscles –even though I’d only just that morning discovered I had them. Worked like a charm. And horse-riding has since been one of favourite things to do.

Do you know what’s even worse than getting up to battle D, W, H, T, and S.S? BEING INTERRUPTED. Though I never qualified to be called a spitfire, I apparently used to be one remarkable erupting volcano when I was a child. I quite remember being a sulky teenager (which has always been in fashion) but grew up to manage my temper in ways my parents certainly still walk in disbelief that I can, and though my habit of bubbling stewing internally has yet to dealt with (which it must, because like toothpaste, shampoo, microwaves, alcohol and too much bread, it is apparently causes of Cancer) I have learned enough to keep my eruptions at bay –literally by physically distancing myself from any potential Last Drop. Thankfully, I’m not much of a rancorous person, and I forget quickly and easily (mainly, I suspect, because my mind is too busy processing every minute’s overload of information, questioning etc.) and I can usually come back to said Last Drop with some composure. Unfortunately, however, if I am NOT given enough time to put my simmering temper sufficiently far away from the surface, composure is not possible to regain fully, in which case, it has been reported to me by my mother, an aunt and some young cousins that, though my speech and manners may be faultless, I look either like the very depiction of an unbalanced murderess (Mum) or like a cartoon of the evillest witch (cousins.) I believe I once witnessed one of these little devils actually take a picture of me for a school project, with quite detached scientific interest... Don’t know why I didn’t blow. The shock probably acted like iced water over my outrage, delaying it the point where eruption was impossible. My friends are so-called because they have earned this right –which includes instinctively knowing when the volcano is doing its thing, in which case they are experts at distracting it.

In SHORT, I don’t WANT to get up today. It would be a successful attainment of Happiness if I could just stay in bed, and do nothing but read and drink hot cocoa. (Sigh...) Alas, since this won’t be possible, I must ask all of you to send me calming ‘Ommms’ or prayers to keep my simmering going without eruption! 

The Audacity of Singeanthropus Astropithicus

Dear Lovely Followers, Friends, and Random Readers of “In Hot Pursuit...”,

You may have noticed that since business picked up, I’ve begun posting weekly. You may also have noticed that last week’s post is late, which isn’t, incidentally, due to any lack of commitment on my part, but rather to the OCD I suffer from when it comes to writing short stories, which has severely delayed me (not for the first time, and probably not the last.) By this you may indeed infer that I am preparing a short story for you that is hilarious, but as it is turning out to be a rather a long short story, I feel compelled to post it in two parts, in time for next week, and the week after. Since, however, it was however completely out of the question to leave you guys hanging too long, I am this week posting another invaluable short story –which thankfully, is quite short.

My deep thanks to all those sympathetic (though bordering on pitying) Followers who have been kind enough to send me the stories of their own Pursuit of Happiness, either to make me feel better, or simply to inject me with hope. You are beautiful people, thank you!!! I have obtained their permission to share some of their stories with my readers, so here goes for number 1) of a few selected short stories I shall be sharing with you from time to time. Enjoy, and do comment as much as you like!

Oh yeah... the weekly report. Erm... there was ONE message worthy of note, recently. I opened it up because it began so well, and immediately regretted it. It was from some dude in America who can’t spell (or, even worse of a crime, refuses to) and is apparently looking to set up a train of worthy Kenyan females to ‘pop’ on his next visit to Nairobi. My delete button actually beeped resentfully at me that evening, and I don’t blame it. It is already smudged and scarred beyond recognition.

The Audacity of Singeanthropus Astropithicus

Like most well-ranked High School graduates, when Jane entered into college life, she quickly surrounded herself with a posse of five like-minded college girlfriends, with whom she went everywhere and did everything. The Girls, who were from all four corners of Africa, got along spectacularly well, to the point where they are still in touch today. In their day, status was everything, and being a University Student was one of the most prestigious among young people. There were certain things a Proper University Student did not permit themselves to do, particularly if they were female. Having battled their way to further education and thus established a firm path to career and professional success (despite both active and passive male opposition), she most certainly did NOT hang around the Wrong People. The WPs did things that most college students now do as a matter of course, such as: skip class, party all night, not mind whom they were seen about with, dress like a wino, become a wino... you get the drift.

Such girls, because they successfully taught people to treat them with respect (working hard, excelling at sports, participating in debates, attending dances but adhering to early nights, and cold shouldering those who didn’t meet the standard by behaving likewise) were considered the Elite Crew of the university, and there were any number of girls trying to ingratiate themselves into the group, let alone men throwing themselves out of windows to date them. John, however, was the privileged and much envied male who actually earned the honour of dating all of the Girls –at once. (Don’t get excited, I’m about to explain.)

John, who attended the English Literature class with the all the Girls, was a quiet, intelligent fellow, whose lack of straightforward good looks were much redeemed by a good sense of humour, superseded by excellent manners. He had much impressed the Girls, not only by discussing difficult topics intelligently, but also by treating each of them with an almost asexual gentlemanly interest. His first offer to carry their books did not end, as they expected, with a self-invitation to ‘coffee’. To their amazement, John continued to leave them safely and cordially at their dorm room doors with a wave and a prompt about-turn, and it was the Girls who finally had to invite him in to tea. His funniest remarks held no sexual connotation, and in the rare occasions where he threw an arm around one or other of them, it was with the familiar élan of an affectionate brother. In short, John was non-threatening, and this earned him the status of Gentleman Friend to all of them. He became the only man they ever went out with, and it became a semi-serious joke, at dances, that when one of the Girls was asked to dance by another male, she would first lean over and ask for John’s permission or approval, before she could accept. Having learned that he frequently declined it, it even became a matter of social ranking, among the men, to be in John’s good graces. Without them, they could have no access to the Girls, and having any one of them condescend to grant a man the time of day was considered quite a feather in one’s cap.

One morning, while battling the books in the library, Mary, a Tanzanian, and one of the Girls, was interrupted by a greeting from one of the ugliest men she had ever seen. Being an unadulterated giggler, the poor girl, busy suppressing this tendency, was only able to grasp from the ensuing conversation that he was a fellow countryman, and that she had been pointed out to him as such. After the necessary greetings had been exchanged, Mary excused herself as quickly as she could, and ran to the bathroom to cry out her laughter, where she was discovered by Jane, half an hour later, still recovering.

            “What’s wrong with you?” Jane exclaimed, alarmed at finding her roommate supporting herself against a bathroom wall. Mary burst into new peals of laughter, but was eventually able to gasp.

            “I saw Singeathropus...”

At this, Jane joined her in hearty laughter. Singeanthropus Astropithacus, you see, was the name the Girls had very rudely concocted to describe Seriously Ugly Men.

“Where? Where?” Jane cried, wiping her eyes. Mary gave her a watery smile.

“In the library... He came up to me to introduce himself because he’s also from Tanzania.”

Jane cried with laughter, and joined her friend against the wall.

            “You poor, poor girl!” She gasped. Her eyes widened. “Oh, NO. Is he going to be a problem? Come calling on you every day and joining you for lunch and everything?”

Mary’s eyes widened in alarm, then, their eyes connecting, the girls promptly burst into laughter again, so hard indeed, that they ended up on the floor.

Singeanthropus, as it turned out, was a Third Year student, and for at least a month, Mary was able to remain relatively safe from his eager attentions by using the excuse of their rarely convergent class schedules. Being a well-brought up, polite girl, however, she was unable to rebuff him in an obvious manner, hoping against hope, every day, that her cold civility would eventually manage to put him off.

Note to Girls: Cold Civility NEVER, EVER works with Persistent Pests. If someone is barging himself into your life and you don’t want him to –tell him so Straight. Don’t be shy, and don’t mind if you’re rude –they’ll get over it (or begin stalking you, in which case you MUST tell the Authorities.) Just close your eyes and speak the brutal truth, and do NOT, I repeat, do NOT apologise for it. It’s not fair to you to let him make your life uncomfortable, nor is it fair to him, if he genuinely doesn’t realise that you can’t stand him. If you need some adequate phrase to use, please e-mail me.

Cold Civility did not work. Mary frequently found herself dreading to walk down university paths in case she ran into him, and took to lunching in strange corners of the university quad, while the Girls waited for her in the cafeteria and wondered what was going on with her. The only person who knew of her friend’s persecution was Jane, who found it hilarious that Mary couldn’t speak her mind and just tell him to blow off.

One Saturday morning, Jane dragged a tired, depressed Mary to the library, in order for them to research an essay together that would count towards their final year grade. With the help of generous injections of tea, the girls were able to get into the work and had succeeded in planning most of it by lunchtime, at which point Jane stretched luxuriously, and declared that they deserved a good lunch. Mary agreed, and both girls made their way to the deserted main cafeteria, where they might discuss their progress over the good food that materialised only on weekends –probably because this was the only time the chef wasn’t resentfully under pressure.

They had just begun dessert when a shadow fell over their table, and Mary mournfully looked up to find Singe beaming at her, apparently floating in a very clean, very yellow oversized shirt.

            “Mary!” The tall thin reed of a man reproached her, “I haven’t seen you around for AGES –have you been sick?”

As Mary, by concentrating, managed to swallow rather than choke, and began some rueful creation of an explanation, Singe’s eye had fallen on dumbstruck Jane –and remained there.

            “Who is THIS!” He clamoured admiringly and interrupting Mary, his bulging eyes almost completely out of their sockets. Mary looked from him to Jane, then began to smile.

            “Oh! This is JANE, my ROOMMATE.” She said enthusiastically, now grinning wildly at Jane. Jane, whose synapses were threatening to go on strike if compelled to send an accurate message of Singe’s appearance to her well-insulated brain, then back again to her eyes, remained very still.

            “JANE,” cried Mary, trying to call her roommate back to herself, “this is Singe... er... Geoffrey. My country mate I told you about?”

Jane looked at her as though she had just beamed down from Space.

“Jane is my roommate, Geoffrey...”

            “Geoffrey?” Jane finally murmured, her eyes stretched to their limit. Singe, feeling he’d made an impression, but not realizing which, confidently threw himself into the seat next to Jane’s, and extended a worn, ugly hand.

            “YES! I’m Geoffrey!” He cried happily, following the pronouncement with a painful hearty laugh.

            Jane, not knowing what else to do as she had also been well brought-up, gingerly put her hand in his, and shook it with a plastic smile.

            “Nice to meet you, Geoffrey.”

            “It’s even nicer to meet you!” Geoffrey laughed again, making the hairs stand on both the Girls’ necks. Mary, taking pity on her friend, stood up abruptly.

            “JANE, if we want to make that Volleyball game by three, we really should get going...” Jane sprung up as though stung, and was at the cafeteria door before either of the Tanzanians could react.

            “Well... er... Geoffrey,” Mary mumbled, as a way of taking leave, “we have this essay...”

Geoffrey was around the table and by her side like a shot.

            “I understand, I understand,” He said brightly, taking her hand in both of his. “But please let me call on you one of these fine days. I would very much like to see Jane again.”

            Feeling rotten, Mary gave in to good manners and him their room number, informing him that they were usually back from class by six in the evening.

            “Please, please don’t be angry with me Jane,” Mary begged, as the girls slowly made their way back to the library. “I really, sincerely didn’t know what else to say! I mean he’s a countryman after all, and we sort of have some obligation to look after each other somehow... Jane, please...”

Jane who slow pace had dictated their walk, now stopped. As her glazed eyes slowly lit upon her, Mary suddenly realized that Jane had mentally been far, far away.

            “He’s ugly, Mary,” Jane now said in a musing tone, almost academic tone, linking her arm with Mary’s and resuming their walk. “I mean he’s really, really ugly.” Her tone, Mary realised, might have contained a bit of awe. “He’s so ugly, it’s fascinating.” Jane murmured. Mary felt a swoon coming on.

            “What?!” She voiced, alarmed. She stopped, forcing Jane to stop with her. “What are you saying?” But Jane was back, and shrugged airily, pushing them along the path again.

            “I’m saying it might be interesting to see him again.” She grinned frankly at her friend. “I mean, ugly people are people too!”

            Completely taken aback, Mary went along to the library without another word.

            Singe officially called in to see Jane a couple of days later. When the girls had arrived from class, they found the older man cutting a horrible picture by the door of their dorms. As Mary involuntarily shuddered, Jane couldn’t help grinning at the sight of this presumptuous scarecrow. While they all exchanged pleasantries, Mary, feeling that it was the least she could do, made tea and set out a plate of biscuits on Jane’s partitioned side of the room, then discreetly retired to her own, where she sat rigidly upright, listening hard to the ongoing conversation. For a while, Jane and Singe exchanged standard information on their homes and their families, Singe eagerly, and Jane more reservedly. Those questions exhausted, there was a short silence, then Singe enquired on Jane’s plans for education, career and family.

            “Oh I have no intention of getting married any time soon,” Jane told him frankly, “I must have a profession, and I do take my work seriously.”

            “Yes, of course.” Singe replied, sounding utterly downcast. To her surprise, Mary soon heard the sounds of Singe’s leave-taking, upon which she immediately ran over to Jane.

            “How on EARTH did you make him leave after just one cup of tea and half a biscuit?” She cried admiringly. Jane smiled widely.

            “I wasn’t warm, I guess.” She shook her head in a superior manner. “THAT’s how you get rid of Persistent Pests, Mary. You tell them either with your mouth, or your demeanour, that they’re not welcome in your life.” She filled up her mug of tea, and threw herself happily on her bed with a biscuit. “He shouldn’t bother us again. Now, fill up your mug and come and sit so we can discuss our research.”

            When the girls came back from class the next evening, Singe was waiting for them. As Jane’s heart fell and Mary’s eyes began to water, they both realised that the man was dressed to the nines in a white shirt so immaculately clean, it crackled. What was perhaps more horrifying was the he also held a large bunch of red roses, which he dared to present to Jane in front of everyone that might have been hanging around. Puce with embarrassment, the girls felt compelled to bundle him into their rooms, out of sight, and once there, naturally, they had to offer him a cup of tea. Once again conversation lulled, then Singe suddenly began speaking of his own plans for the future. As an engineer, he would make a lot of money, he declared, focusing his bulging eyes on Jane. Enough to keep his wife extremely happy, and of course neither she nor his children would lack for anything. Horrified, Mary felt the giggles begin to bubble up her throat, and promptly excused herself to go to the restroom. Jane, whose astonishment was only equal to her embarrassment, was rendered completely mute for the next few minutes. This silence, unfortunately, Singe believed was due to her having been duly impressed, and shortly after Mary’s return, he took his leave of the girls with a wide, gap-toothed smile, and a promise to return the morrow. As Mary helplessly burst into laughter, Jane felt genuine tears sting at her eyes.

*

“It’s NOT that he’s interested in me,” she fumed to the rest of the Girls that evening, over a rare glass of wine, “it’s that he actually thinks he has a chance!” The Girls, barely recovered from a two hour laughing session over Singe, burst into giggles once more. Jane stood up, outraged, and began to pace. “I’m TOP of my class, I’m the STAR of the Varsity Volleyball team, I’m on the Dean’s list! Who’s he?”

“He’s old, and out of it... and did I mention, UGLY?” Mary quavered. The Girls writhed with laughter where they sat or lay.

“Oh my Lord, we have to meet him!” Gladys cried, getting up to refill glasses, and giving Jane a sympathetic hug. “I’m sure he’s not that awful.” Jane and Mary looked at each other and promptly burst into tears of laughter.

“No, no...” Jane gasped, leaning against the window for support, “that’s an excellent idea. After class tomorrow...”

“...you should all come over for tea!” Mary concluded instantly. This idea spouted a gaggle of voices raised in anticipation of high drama, and it was quite late when the group separated, each girl going to bed satisfied at the thought of tomorrow.

The Girls could barely concentrate on their classes the next morning, and, as it always happens when you’re looking forward to something, time spent an inordinate amount of time passing. By four, excitement was at fever pitch; the Girls had confided in John, and promptly invited him to come along to tea and see Singe. John, while voicing his uncertainty at the political correctedness of classifying anyone as a Singeanthropus Astropithicus, had been quickly infected with the Girls’ excitement, and, at six, happily laden with all of their books, led the way down the path to their dorms. The guffaws began as soon as Mary winked and jerked her head in the direction of the curious scarecrow-like figure standing before their dorms, in a billowing blood-red shirt that had been starched until it cried out. Politely, nevertheless, John and the rest of the Girls introduced themselves to Geoffrey, and Jane thanked him for the expensive tin of biscuits that he presented to her. After a suitable period of small talk, the company politely retired to Mary’s side of the room, where they promptly began wiping off tears of silent laughter, pinching each other, and trying to listen in on Singe at the same time.

“How is your essay going?” Singe asked politely. Jane smiled tightly and pointed at a pile of papers on her desk.

“Slow but steady, thank you. How are your studies?”

“Fine, fine,” Singe replied absently. There followed a short silence. “So, how long will your studies take?”

“Three years, four at the most,” Jane replied flatly, gazing longingly out of the window for a moment. She tried smiling at him again and added. “Then of course I’ll do my Masters, and then possibly my PhD directly.”

Singe gazed at her in horror.

“But when will you be free to marry?”

Jane shrugged dismissively.

“These things always work out somehow... Biscuit?”

But Singe was now overwhelmed with a need to Speak.

“I have 35 shirts and 12 trousers.” He stated impressively. There was a pause, then a collective howling began from behind the partition. Jane, carefully setting down the tin of biscuits, felt her tears begin to streak down her face.

“Excuse me,” she murmured. She ran over to Mary’s side of the room, and collapsed onto her bed screaming with laughter.

Apparently, this was all that was needed, because Singe was never seen at the Girls’ dorm again. Today, they still laugh at the very mention of his name.

Of Colds, Sweat and Surgeons

One of my favourite authors, Agatha Christie, made me smile, when she advised in her autobiography, that girls who want to know whether they feel truly committed to a man or not should try to imagine them, not as they stand before them, smartly dressed, polite, savvy and saying all the right things... but rather ill, with a coad in their dose. If, with that imagine in mind, the girl can still feel wildly interested and affectionate towards this man, then it’s ‘Go’ for them. It’s so very true that there is almost nothing more unattractive than a man with a severe cold, sweaty, smelly, and rendered wild-eyed by a series of up-coming sneezes... but while I hug the walls when there’s a cold about, I know how to deal with it, whereas I abhor sweat. So, while I’m happy to follow Ms Christie’s advice, I have to try and imagine loving any man I’m interested in despite his coming home in a complete sweat, from a run. Or breaking into a cold sweat because he’s got bad news for us about the house we’ve just bought. Or  keep a strong hold on my appetite at the table with him, if (God forbid) he’s the type who sweats while he eats (does ANYONE have a good, solid medical reason for this and can it TREATED? SUCH a turn-off!) I think this forbearance on my part may be the most definitive sign I look for!

In Grey’s Anatomy (an American medical television series I’m obsessed with) I feel like my romantic character is divided between that of Meredith Grey’s and Cristina Yang’s (respectively and beautifully played by Ellen Pompeo and Sarah Oh). Cristina, like me, never thought of marriage as a huge deal. When proposed to by Dr Burke (played by the stunning Isiah Washington, whom I still miss...) she accepts, after some thought –but not so much because she is in love with him, as because she realises clearly that this is a make or break time in their relationship, as many that have come before this point. Dr Burke, in his own words, ‘leads’ in the progress of the relationship, and Cristina ‘follows’. In actual fact, he is a super-controlling, insecure bully, though a well-meaning, kind man, and Cristina is fully aware of this too. She knows that if she agrees to marry him, she is in for a life of ultimatums and an obligation to ‘follow’ Dr Burke, in whatever he may choose is good for himself, for her, and for both of them as a couple. Yet this independently-minded, singly-mindedly determined, self-sufficient surgeon agrees to marry Dr Burke. Because the choice is ultimately simple: Say ‘Yes’, and keep him, at least for the moment, for there is always the option of divorce; vs  Say ‘No’, and lose him completely –as a teacher, mentor, lover and other half of a usually ‘good thing’ that she belongs to. For her, it comes down to a simple mathematical equation, and she (as I might, under those circumstances) choses to go for it, and hope for the best. She would not have been happy in that marriage, just as she hasn’t truly been happy in the relationship –and neither would Dr Burke have been. His ultimatums limit her, and she is, as described by Dr Teddy Altman, ‘a racehorse’ that needs to be ‘pushed’ –both professionally and personally. Her security makes him even more insecure, and the truth is, part of man’s feeling of security within any relationship is knowing that he is needed, even more than appreciated (and where he is both, he will stay and probably never stray.) But for the present, she will marry him, for it is the better of two evils. I sincerely hope that I am never reduced to this. I almost was, once, but chose correctly. Still, I was much younger...

Meredith, on the other hand, is a faithful romantic. She cannot venture romantically into territory where she cannot be sure that True Love lives. She needs a man she can trust enough to sink her entire being into. Even when she is absolutely certain in herself that she is in love with Dr Derek Shepherd, she is able to refrain from committing to him entirely (at least outwardly) until she is certain that this is ‘for life’. She will not be a ‘dirty mistress’ no matter how much she misses him. When he is finally free, she doesn’t throw herself at his feet. She loves him, sure, but she would prefer to suffer now, than suffer later. She must be SURE of him, and of his love for her. That he IS her other half: her friend, her lover, her teacher, her rock –the one person she would willingly give her life (AND her unborn baby’s?!!) for, because his love makes it possible for her to live in him. His joys are her own, his sadness likewise, and her sense of independence, unlike Cristina’s is able to mould itself around his wants and needs... As Cristina-like as I love to think of myself, I’m afraid that this is the kind of love I inherently believe in. I believe that this is the only kind of love that would dampen the Cristina within me enough to allow me to accept the state of marriage, and my role within it as my husband’s side-kick and accomplice, staunch supporter, (moral and physical) compass, and ‘soft place to fall’. It’s that kind of love that sees a man through a bad cold, and thoughtlessly wipes off his sweat, before offering him a cold drink, I think.

Still In pursuit of Happiness!

No News is Good News

Of note:

Henry, 42, who’s profile unwisely tells the world that he is “always available”, unless, as I highly suspect, he is a male escort.

Arthur, 38, who’s profile simply says “Wow”, I’ve no idea what about. It certainly can’t be about his own picture, in which he looks like a friar, perfect round, shiny head, plump cheeks and all. No thanks.

Steve is 59, and “likes to travel”, which is great, though I don’t know how he could possibly manage it since he doesn’t know how to read. His age is closer to 60 than it is to my ceiling of 40. Sweet smile, though. He looks like a lovely, warm person.

Juan Ramon, 69. SERIOUSLY? His picture is taken at what looks like an unending family function at a rustic restaurant. He has a full head of hair (lovely) except he also has one attached to his chin. And it pure, snow white. I mean...?

And then there’s James, 37, an American from Virginia. Excellent, except the picture of himself that he has chosen to put up makes him look like a convict at a Kenyan prison.

I will also just mention that there’s been a persistent “Separated” fellow, who’s temporarily in Nairobi, and looking to have a dalliance with me –WHAT is he thinking? I sent him a short note to the effect that he had lost me at ‘Separated’ which was a mistake, because my ‘DELETE’ button hasn;t been this busy in a good while.

There HAVE been a couple of interesting messages from another American fellow  who’s profile made me die of laughter. You may like to watch this space.

The weather is steadily turning rainy and cold, and I’m tempted to change my profile title to “Someone to snuggle with!”... except the consequences I imagine would be disastrous.

Still in hot pursuit!

Dating In the Future

So, now that it’s standard for girls to open up their bodies to complete strangers, either during one night stands, the proverbial ‘Third Date’, to ‘Friends with Benefits’ and any other way that they want to justify it, I have lately begun to think about what dating might look like in the future.

I began brooding over this as I cleaned out my Spam boxes yesterday, clearing it out of a proliferation of ‘Denise wants you to view her webcam’, ‘Stacy thinks you’re Sexy’, ‘College Fuck Book’, ‘Threesome Communities’ and invitations to enthusiastic sexual partners apparently active on Facebook, Tagged, and websites filled with Lonely Singles. SO. RUDE.

Am I to understand that instead of the acceptable classified listing people with ‘GSOH’ (Good Sense of Humour’, there will be ads blatantly stating things such as ‘Stud needs Threesome tonight. Apply if Hot and Horny, and willing to explore every orifice. Severally. BY3HSC (Bring your 3-month HIV Status Certificate’? Or ‘Cheating wife lonely for stud who is willing to be controlled. Bring your own whips, chains and clips. Vibrators will be provided. BY3HSC’? Or worse yet: ‘Couple looking for young stripper to do her business right in front of them. We love bodily fluids, so must be willing to get drunk and vomit. Diarrhoea suffers encouraged. BYHSC not required.’? Jesus come back quick.

Am I to look forward to dates where, after ‘Hi, how are you?’ the next conventional question is to be ‘So how do you like it?’ or ‘Do you believe in FDF? (First Date Fucking) Perhaps we shall go through a phase where it’s polite to give your numbers outright, over the first drink.

Guy: “I’m on 59. You?”

Girl: “110,” modest laugh. He grins, impressed.

“Popular girl!”

“Yes, yes.” The modest laugh again, almost shy. “I’m not doing badly.” Then she looks concerned. “Are you quite reserved?”

“No, just a little picky.” He says a little defensively. She nods flirtatiously.

“I like that in a guy.”

“Thanks,” He replies, confidence restored. “So, do you believe in FDF?”

“TOTALLY. It’s so 60s and hip.” She bats an eyelash. “And fun.”

“Wanna get out of here?” He zings back. She laughs, nodding frantically.

“What was your name again?”

“Frank.”

“Hank –great. Let’s go.”

God, Help.

In other news... well, there IS no news. Still single, available... and increasingly disliking it. But busy! So busy, it seems I’ve lost weight, recently, through no conscious effort. I believe in the Cravings Diet (out soon, I promise) which is totally Bridget Jones in its approach, so nothing gives. Still In Pursuit of Happiness!

Prospect! ...And The March Hare Contest

I had a hit in the last week. His name is James, and he actually lists the enjoyment of classical music as one of his own. He is age appropriate, lives in Kenya, writes proper English messages (with whole words and punctuation and everything) and the only thing I can’t figure out just yet is what he DOES for a living... which is a super important indicator of what type of a man he is, if he lives in Kenya. He has two children out of wedlock (but not out of his life) which is a little alarming as, considering his age they must be quite small... so I’m hoping against hope that they are with the same woman.

In other news, I’m pursuing Happiness in the form of entering myself for the Mad As A Hare contest on Scribophile. Working on my entry is not only keeping me additionally busy, but incessantly amused!

More news on James and the contest as soon as I have any!

The Virulous Hag

My apologies for taking entire weeks off without notice –very bad form. They have been work-filled, loveless weeks –or else you’d know about it.

No, I can’t. Seriously. Seriously? SERIOUSLY you want The Count? Fine. I’ll give you a sample from one of the websites I most recently joined:

limorasta: Hi there? What's your name? I like your profile.

stanmlula: try me

GuddyBoy: woww, nice profile, tempting

sigss82: hi, hw is u?

benkim4u: hi.

sallamhd: hallo gal. you sound lile my kind of woman.

lamacks: Hey.. ;)

Ngwasuma: Hi,you look good,lets b friends ama?

Enough said. Except, to top off a loveless, hopeless month, I received, last week, a private Facebook message from a Virulous Hag.

The Virulous Hag is a woman who’s only life ambition has been to get married, and, having tried to accomplish this through a party phase, a pious phase, and through work, has finally been taken off the shelf by Some Dude.

As SOON as she gets engaged, the Virulous Hag, whose immediate circle of friends and family are all married, will immediately click through something useful like a Facebook list of ‘friends’ in order to identify the two that are still single, and indulge in a mighty crowing session about her newly changed status –c omplete with an informal wedding invitation, to which is appended the inevitable hint of encouragement bathed in pity, such as:

“...I’m sure Marshall knows tons of eligible bachelors to invite, so there’s a good chance you’ll end meeting someone special at last!”

To such messages, the Poor Spinsters (such as I) are expected to respond  to the Virulous Hag with Joyful Heartfelt Congratulations, as well as an Eager Plea for a formal wedding invitation; which, naturally, none of us can afford to let slide, because of the promise of eligible bachelors previously mentioned.

Though it is good for us to reply through FB, we are also expected to follow up our original reply with occasional emails to the personal email address that she included in her message ‘in case you don’t have it’, which of course, we’ve never cared to ask for, since we don’t really care for her. These follow-up emails should be positively awash with compliments and questions and comments designed to stir up even more excitement about the Virulous Hag’s upcoming wedding, to show her that we’re sincerely happy and excited for her. They MUST include comments on The Dress, the flowers, a possible theme, a probable venue, etc. , as well as discreet inquiries on the prospective groom, and the story of how they met, because this will indulger her need for some indication of envy on our part. They must also include offers of ‘anything I can do to help’ because this, more than anything, will show her how eager we ourselves are to be involved in her wedding.

I have an aunt I highly suspect was once a Virulous Hag. Three months into her marriage, she was so traumatized by whom she’d married, she all but lost her tongue. For the next 355 years (or however long he lived) she dutifully fetched and carried and bore children for her Lord and Master. He thanked her for her services for the first and last time on his deathbed, and, after a suitable mourning period, she (and her tongue) were reborn. I have every intention of inflicting her upon my teenagers, when they come whining to me about some fatal hitch in their lives, such as being too embarrassed to go to school in last year’s shoes. She’ll happily remind them (as she has done me) that there is no clause in any historical document that states that Happiness is anyone’s due, and stridently add that Fairy Tale Endings are an American, Hollywood invention.

                “And everyone knows Americans are crazy. You had better keep your feet firmly planted in the ground, my girl.” She advises. And right she is.

I had to rewrite my reply to the Virulous Hag five times, because the first three made me sound like a Bitter Hag (the absolute worst type of spinster) which I’m emphatically not. The next one made me sound defensive (I think I included something like: “I’m happily single, and intend to stay so unless and until I have found the Right Man for me.”) Comments such as these make the Virulous Hag gloat all the more, because she’ll deduce that I’m in denial, since, according to the rules of her world, being single is not only so embarrassing that it makes you a social pariah, but it is also the greatest evil on the planet... In the end, I sent her something gushy and meek and mild, because, I figure, if she wants to gloat and enjoy a moment of feeling superior, who am I to take the pleasure away from her? Life is tough enough.

I have, however, absolutely no intention of going to her wedding. And it’s not because it’s hers. It’s because I never go to weddings. Or funerals. Or , really, any gathering of too many people. I myself don’t want a wedding. I want a maximum twenty-minute marriage ceremony, during a week day, that should consist mostly of signing the relevant legal documents. Then I can get on with my day, and my new husband and I can invite a few select friends to a small celebration that evening, or on a weekend night. Finito.

And now... on with more work. Thank God I’m a busy gal these days!