The Lily Review » Crystal Dings

How to lose a guy in 10 days

crystal — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 05:40:35 +0000

I love to read articles about understanding men, mostly from the home page on MSN. Every time I discover some delicious new fact about our Martians, I try it out on my better half. His response is always something like, ‘The trouble with women is that they take all their man-talk from other women.’

I always want to yell, ‘Men don’t talk about their feelings, so we have to discover them through other women … or gay friends!’ And somehow I don’t think man advice from a gay pal counts for much, because their thought process is painfully close to mine.

Unless of course he’s a guy-gay, in which case he probably knows nothing about women.

When the movie first came out in 2003, I swore I wouldn’t watch it. My swearing didn’t have any particular motive. It wasn’t about being macho and resisting chick flicks, even though I had just watched that traumatising movie with Renée Zellwegger. I don’t remember what it’s called, but it had a lot of pink, and one scene had a simulated split screen lap dance dry humping thing … which some people found funny, but I found incredibly sad.

The real reason I avoided 10 days is because from what I could see in the preview, I was definitely a 10 days kind of girl, and nobody needs that kind of affirmation.

The thing is, some girls do strange things. We get clingy and possessive in ways that the average man finds unattractive. We get jealous and start cat fights with no justification. Now, I know guys can fight over a woman and call it noble. Many wars have started this way. But when the fight is between two cats, well, that’s just stupid.

I bumped into the 10 days movie on UTV over the weekend, and I actually liked it. It was sweet. I liked that the girl made the first move, but the guy was convinced it was his idea. She left tickets in his house, yet he was sure he had convinced her to ask him to a ballgame. That was cool. I also like that in the end, the guy comes after the girl, not the other way around.

Best of all though, was that he fell for her despite her acting insane. Of course by the time he came after her, he knew the insanity was fake, which counts for something. Chances are he liked the sexy, sporty girl he watched ball with on their second date – before all the craziness began.

The way I see it, some girls can’t help being crazy. I’m speaking for myself here. I’m just wired that way. I’m clingy and jealous and sometimes insecure, and it’s enough to make a guy hang himself. I’d like to think my man loves the craziness in me, but I think he mostly puts up with it because of other … skills … that I may or may not possess.

Truth is though, that guys don’t know what they love in a woman. They aren’t like us who can analyse every affection and say we love his humour, or his height, or that look he gets in his eyes when you … cook. Guys love you because they love you, period. And once they say those words, assuming they’re not players who say it 20 times a day, then they’re pretty much sold.

A straight male friend told me that people are afraid to get what they want. You love man or woman, you get together with them, then instead of being happy and enjoying the experience, you start to think you’ll lose them and freak out. In his words, you start doing stuff like losing weight or gaining weight or learning a sport to make him love you more, or to make sure his love will never stop. According to him, at some point you just have to accept that this person loves you, period. Stop fighting and just live.

It’s a lot easier to say than it is to do. In my case, I have a man that loves me despite all my insanity, and I try to accept that. It just makes life easier.

Of course, it also helps to avoid doing crazy 10-day things like photo-shopping baby pictures or calling up his mother. Unless she calls you first.

So much for my happy ending…

crystal — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 05:00:19 +0000

I’m not a big believer in internet dating, even though I’ve met a lot of loved ones that way. The whole concept just seems contrived and artificial. Though, for the record, I’m not big on offline dating agencies either.

It’s a bit different when you’re not going online specifically to find a mate. I found the love of my life on a website for writers, and what started out as an exchange of style and prose ended up in a beautiful relationship.

This story – the one I’m about to tell – started with a pretty girl looking for a dance partner. The reason she couldn’t find one offline is that she’s tall. Really, really tall. Naomi Campbell in spiked heels is a dwarf to her kind of tall.

The girl’s name is Keisha, and she’s 6 foot 5.

Keisha wanted to find someone to dance with for … whatever reason. The online stories don’t say. She went on a site for tall people, and a guy named Wilco responded to her question with ‘I’m 7 feet tall, is that enough?’

Years later, the couple are happily married with two beautiful [and extremely tall] multicoloured babies.

What I like about this story is that it reminds me of My Love, who’s 6 foot 3 of pure vanilla. It also shows me that it’s possible to beat the odds if you just take a risk.

Lots of supermodels end up marrying short pudgy men because the tall guys are busy hooking up with tiny girls. [And also because short pudgy men have lots of money. It's all in the Napoleon complex.]

I like the story because Keisha took a chance and put herself out there, and by taking a risk, she nabbed herself one of the few guys outside NBA that’s taller than her.

I’m sure that their fairytale wasn’t without black spots. But the tabloids found nothing to hate on, so the couple must be very discreet, a key thing in any successful marriage.

I’m also sure they had to learn to blend, to get along, to curl into one another’s lives. They couldn’t be the perfect couple just because they’re both tall! They had to put together different backgrounds, lifestyles, families, in-laws, not to mention race issues. But somehow, they made it work.

And their happy ending became even happier when they made into the Guiness book of records. That comes with a cash prize, doesn’t it?

The morals of this story are many:

Take a chance. Put yourself out there. Let potential lovers see you. You don’t have to chase them, but you have a better shot if they don’t have to crawl under rocks to find you. After they’ve spotted you – then you can make them jump hoops and crawl rocks.
There’s someone for everyone who’s looking. Granted the male-female ratio is worrying, and in places like China, it’s the other way around. But the ratio is resolved by nuns, celibate priests, and polygamists. Plus, some hot singles just don’t want to be married. So for those who want one-spouse relationships, the men are out there. If a girl could find a mate at 6 foot 5, sembuse wewe?
It’s possible to find love on the internet. Keisha did, and so did I
Being tall is good for more than just the NBA.
You can find absolutely anything on the internet, and that’s not always a bad thing.

Purple at last!

crystal — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 05:00:34 +0000

I’ve been trying to get my hair coloured for a while, and I finally gave up after four tries and three thousand shillings. I didn’t want to pour more money down the sink. Plus, I was afraid my hair would fall off. Hair colour can do that sometimes.

The saga began with a mix of two colours – ultraviolet black and aubergine. This was followed by some food colour, more aubergine, and some wailing with mirrors.

The first time I dyed it, the hairdresser said it was coloured, but my baby girl said otherwise. I couldn’t see purple either.

The second time, it started out purple, but darkened with the food colouring. And the third time, they let it stay on too long, so the effect was fade to black.

After each session, the hair-people swore that my hair had turned, but I was dissatisfied. They told me to be patient, and that the colour would ’shout’ after a few weeks.

Some days later, my baby finally admitted my hair was a little tinted. I didn’t believe her.

Even when some random dude using roller blades on the road to Kibera made a comment, I wasn’t having it. He said my hair was really pretty, and asked if I’d bathed it in Kiwi.

Well, not in those words exactly, but that was the idea.

Later, I discovered the hair looks purple in certain lights [and on certain mirrors. Specifically, flourescent light and teeny weeny bathroom glass. Also, bank-queue reflections]. There are moments when it screams violet, other times it looks a little off-black, which is a pretty good colour for me.

Yesterday, I was in Eastleigh shopping for a buibui. I walked into several stalls and had all sorts of people staring at my head – including one guy who was selling by translation. He didn’t speak a word of English or Swahili … which made bargaining rather difficult.

Maybe that was the point.

I figured the reason they were staring is that my head was exposed. Women in that neighbourhood are generally covered. I didn’t discover the problem until someone said, ‘Your hair is really purple!’ The comment was promptly followed by, ‘It really works for you.’

I’ve been thinking of growing my hair longer and turning it black, or maybe burgundy. I want to grow it so that I can style it and do things with it, now that I actually want to. I’ll mostly want to coil it up in those spirally curls and then pile it up in dread-ful version of that tousled up crumpled-sheet hairdo.

But I got so many comments on my tiny purple hair that I’m reconsidering. Plus, you can’t have long hair that’s purple … that would just be weird. And I’m not even sure I can still get aubergine at Tuskys. Oh well.

In other news, I’ve been slacking off at the gym. I decided to sleep in for one morning and somehow it stretched to a week! I didn’t think it made much difference, especially since I was sweating much more during workouts, so I figured I was doing something right. But during the post-skiving stretch session, I was screaming like a pregnant cow. Apparently a few days skipped equal a whole lot of pain. *sulk*

I was watching Dr Phil. [Yes, I occasionally watch Dr Phil. I didn't say I was proud of it.] He was talking about weight loss and weight gain, and he said to lose weight, you have to figure out why you eat. Some people use food as a crutch, so no matter how many diets or fads they use, they stay plus-sized.

I eat to make me happy. I’m naturally depressive, so I use food as a pick-me-up. It’s the one thing that consistently makes me smile. So after a long day, or a fight, or a sad movie, or some good news, or even a bout of PMS, I grab a plate. I’ll usually pick cookies or chocolate or ugali, blue-banded rice, sweet potatoes, and thick savoury stew. Yum. And because I’m eating to be happy, the portions increase. It isn’t enough to just taste.

To help my ‘diet’ along, I need to be conscious of when I eat. I should feed when I’m hungry – and only when I’m hungry. Otherwise I’m piling on more calories than I work off, and all the gymming on the planet will do nothing for my kilo-count … or my aspiring hair.

I should drink lots of water, and when I get sad, instead of hunting for Dairy Milk or Maryland cookies, I should write a poem, dance to rock song, or find me some salsa.

Yeah. That’s gonna happen.

Operation lose ten kilos: Month Two

crystal — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 05:00:36 +0000

So … I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks.

I have a perfectly legitimate excuse. The first week, I had workshops, so I had to leave the house earlier. The second week, my cheques hadn’t cleared and the gym subscription had run out.

I bumped into the gym instructor three days into the ‘wallet-fast’ and he told me I could come in anyway. I didn’t take him up on it. It was partly guilty conscience, but mostly oversleeping.

Somewhere amid my hiatus, I had to go to a clinic for a routine tune-up. As usual, they checked my temperature and BP, then asked me to be weighed.

I’d gained 1.5 kilos!

Either those two weeks really did something bad, or the hospital scales were wrong. Because on my home scale, I still weigh exactly the same as I did six months ago. Weird.

Maybe it’s my home scales that are broken.

Anyway, I hit the gym today. It wasn’t as hard as I expected. I actually worked up a sweat on the bike, which I never do. I’m not sure if that’s a sign or progress.

And I felt my body warm up on the treadmaster, literally, which is another new thing.

When doing my arm work, the sweat was dripping down, which was freaky. I mean, who sweats while lifting weights? They’re only like 1.5 kilos a piece. And they’re pink!

I did manage to do 100 reps on the skipping rope, so that made me smile. On day 1, I could only do 30 reps per set, which slowly moved up to 50 per set. So when today In easily made 100, I was pretty pleased with myself.

Now I just have to move up to several sets instead of just one. I barely make it to 500 now.

I think the best way to stay motivated in workouts is to set small targets. Like, instead of looking for drastic weight loss, focus on little things.

I don’t feel any lighter, but my clothes fit better, and my blouse buttons don’t pop as much. I can skip longer without breaking, crunch mostly without whining, and the stretches and don’t hurt as much.

Even the scissor leg workouts are easier. Except my instructor has noticed it, so he made them more complex by adding depth and variation. Bloody masochist.

My next mini target is for the tummy-thigh stretches to work. I’m usually worked on while lying on my back – no gutter intended. They pull and twist the legs for a while, then they have you sit up and stretch your thigh muscles, before they eventually lay you on your tummy and pull moves uncomfortably similar an inverted submission suplex.

I’m used to all the other sessions, and my gym people are starting to wonder if they’re doing anything at all, because I don’t scream as much as I used to. But when I lie on my tummy and pull my front thigh, I cry like a little girl.

When I can handle a lying quad stretch without whining, then I’ll know I’m well on my way to true fitness. Until then, I’ll try to stay away from the scales until my dress size drops.

Thou shalt not change thy own light bulbs

crystal — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 05:38:12 +0000

A few days ago, I was at a workshop, and we had to set up a DVD player. I was in charge of logistics, so I got the machine then asked for some boy in the know to come hook it up.

My statement offended some ladies in the audience, who felt I was stereotyping. I hadn’t given it much thought, so I revised the statement and asked anyone who could get it working to come do so.

Three girls huddled around the machine, trying to match the red wire to the white wire. Two of us, me included, spent a few seconds asking why it didn’t have a yellow wire.

In the end, one of the guys came and set it up. Oh ouch.

Even the staunchest feminist admits to having a guy to fix her light bulbs. I’ve always been really proud of changing my own, until today.

See, I have had many, many, many adventures with light bulbs, but I always blamed the glass. When I used three bulbs for every change in Dar, I assumed it was because the bulbs cost two bob Kenyan. And the house had faulty wiring. Why else would the first two bulbs I replace blow within seconds – every single time?!

When I broke the bulb fixture thingie – I think it’s called a holder – I played innocent with the landlord while he replaced it, and spent the time trying to get the black plastic out of my eye.

When I snapped the fixture on the balcony at my brother’s house, I discreetly tried masking tape … should have used superglue. Super glue can fix anything!

We left that house years ago, but the balcony still has no light.

When I plugged another bulb loosely and it came crashing down three seconds after I left the room … well … how can that possibly be my fault? I wasn’t even in the room!

So a few weeks ago, my kitchen bulb blew. It was one of those energy-saving types that cost 250, so I got a new one and replaced it. A few days later, I noticed it making this squeaking sound, like a rat was chewing on its wires. The light would brighten and dim too, and fridge was acting funny.

I figured the power had fluctuated and started thinking of getting a fridge guard. But after a while, I asked my brother to come look at it. He said the bulb was probably loose, and I should try unscrewing it and then screwing it back again.

Didn’t work.

Then I had both my brothers look at it – separately – and they told me the metal holder thingie had warped, and that I needed a new one. Fair enough. So I walked around town all day arguing with vendors because what they tried to sell me was the wrong colour, the wrong size, the wrong shape … or the wrong price.

I eventually got the right thing for fifty bob, and my brother tried to fix it for me. Only the broken fixture was too tight and neither pliers nor towels and man-force could pluck it out. We thought about breaking it … but nah.

It was pretty late, so we decided to call it a night and fix the bulb tomorrow. Only … the fridge wouldn’t go on. Good Lord.

My brother asked me to switch the fuse box off and on again. I did. Twice. It didn’t work.

Let me first explain that all the wiring in my house is crossed. When you press the cooker switch, the fridge lights up, and vice versa. And a second explanation is that we were trying to sort our own bulb wiring instead of calling the caretaker. So my mind was already in panic mode about how I was going to explain this to the landlord.

But then little brother walks up to the fuse box, switches it off, switches it on, and voila! It works! The fridge switch still lights up the cooker, but at least they both work.

And I thought that off-and-on thing only fixes computers.

I don’t know what that child has in his blood, but all my machines work when he’s around … and promptly die when he leaves.

Either way, from now on, I think I leave all lighting matters to the men.

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Operation Lose Ten Kilos

crystal — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 05:00:34 +0000

I’ve always had weight issues. In high school, I went as high as 80 kg … and yes … I have heavy bones. But my optimum weight is 60. It looks good, it feels great, and at 5 foot almost-six-inches, its BMI is 22. I think.

Right now, I weigh 70. It’s very distressing, since even while pregnant, I didn’t go over 65. Somewhere between sun, sand, and Morocco burgers, I gained ten kilos. Luckily, the excess weight doesn’t show unless you look very closely. It’s mostly centred around the middle, and corsets do wonders to hide that. But corsets can’t stop heart disease, fit under bathing suits, or solve bedroom shyness. So now, my target is to lose 10 kg.

I’ve been hoping to do it through sheer will-power like The Secret says. After all, wisdom claims that all weight is gained by thinking fat thoughts. I don’t know about that, but considering I’ve had four years of coastal cuisine and no exercise [I lived five minutes from my office], I should be a lot heavier than I am.

Despite thinking thin thoughts, gorging on chocolate, and watching UK’s Biggest Loser for three months, I haven’t lost [or gained] an inch.

Enter my good pal, who talked me into joining the neighbourhood gym. It’s right next door to my flat, they open at 5.30 a.m., and they throw in free stretches after each workout. I’m not talking hands-in-the-air-and-reach-for-the-sky here. I’m talking actual stretches. They grab your limbs and yank them till you squeal. Then they pound on your back and massage it. It’s heavenly! When they’re done, your skin feels like jelly. I work out from 6.00 to 7.00 each morning, sometimes 7.30. Then I get stretched and rubbed, no gutter intended. After that, a protein drink, a nice hot shower, and off to work.

To help me along, I enlisted some GR2, which is a weight-loss health kit. It contains a protein shake [which mostly tastes like chalk], a fibrous appetite reducer, and a metabolic catalyser. There’s also a toning shaper that works while I sleep. In total, I take two drinks and 12 pills a day – all herbal.

The kit is organic, and it’s meant to make me burn more and eat less. I don’t know how it works on other people, but all it does is make me hungry. Plus, I hate pills. Still, I got a two week dose, so let’s see how things look after that.

I start my workout on the treadmill; 20 minutes: walking, not running. Then I either use the bike or skip to 600. This number increases by week. Next comes abdominals and arm work under my instructors, then stretch and massage.

Whoever said crunches are the worst tummy exercise lied. Crunches are easy. But those other things, where you put your legs in the air then swing, bend, cycle, scissor and sway them, those are pure torture. They work the abs like a roller – I’m not kidding! I didn’t feel it the first day, but by day three I could barely walk! It gets easier with time though, especially if you whine a lot and get the gym guy to give you less leg and more crunch.

My gym has five guys who work in three-day shifts, which means I get to work with each one of them. The upside of this is that I get lots of different training styles. There’s the soft-spoken guy whose hands are oh so gentle come massage time. There’s the torturous one who’s all fun and friendly but yells like a drill sergeant. There’s the masochist who stretches me till I scream and looks at me funny. There’s the quiet one who mostly talks in grunts if he has to talk at all. Some guys go easy on me, some push me past toleration and make me want to smack them. But they’re all great with the stretches and the back rub.

In training yesterday, I saw my reflection and got depressed. Surely after two weeks, I should look less chubby! The guys on Biggest Loser shed 10 kilos a week! But this morning I looked considerably better. Lesson learnt: never train in a white t-shirt; black is more slimming.

I don’t know how much weight I’ve lost so far. The scale in the gym claims I’ve gained five, and I almost had a stroke before the gym guy told me it was broken. It’s some kind of motivation tactic to make you work harder. Fail !! Good thing I have my own scales at home.

In one month’s time, I hope to have purple hair and a slightly flatter tummy. It’d be great to have bikini-worthy washboards, but I’m taking it in baby steps, and I’ll be glad just to have smaller love handles.

In the meantime, I’m bonding with my girl, becoming much more lithe, and having a lot of fun for just over two thousand bob. All is well with the world.

The case of my purple head

crystal — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 06:30:56 +0000

For a while now, I’ve wanted to dye my hair purple. I got the idea from a close pal, who also got me enrolled in a gym. I’d always known that if I had caucasian hair, I’d wear it spiky and tinted, but I’d never seriously thought of colouring my dreads.

Once I settled on the idea, I had to find the right shade. Most shops have brown, black, Burgundy, blonde, and – believe it or not – grey. I did manage to find ulraviolet-black, blue-black, and something called aubergine.

At first, I thought I could go ultra-violet with highlights of aubergine. The latter looks like a maroon shade of purple. But the salonist said if you shampoo between colours, the second colour is nullified.

I started out with ultraviolet and planned to add the aubergine two weeks later. But by day 2 I was impatient and decided to try it anyway. The ultra-black was just, well, black! I wanted something more … colourful.

Sunday morning, after almost an hour with purple on my head, we rinsed it off and saw … black. The colour didn’t catch! At least, it didn’t catch the hair. But for the next one week, everything my head touched turned to purple. I had towels, windows and gym mats in that hue. Stress!

After a week of un-purple misery, I tried aubergine again. It caught on great, but my head was too bright, and closer to maroon. On a shop assistant’s advice, I added some food colouring.

Here’s the thing. The food colour comes in a plastic box of powder, and every box carries a slightly different shade, even though they’re all labelled purple. We decided to test them on paper, and one turned out blue. The other was safely violet.

Except once they’d been in the sink, the blue tinted purple, and the purple … well, it just tinted. Creepy. We took a chance and added the blue-looking purple to my now maroon head. The end result? Black.

So today, after three sets of colouring, my hair is still … black. How annoying. next week, I’m retrying aubergine, undiluted. I don’ care if it ends up maroon – it’s better than three doses of black. Wish me luck!

PS: It didn’t work **irritable frown** The hair’s still black … but my scalp has turned the strangest shade of maroon. Go figure. Oh well. I give up for now, but better luck to me next time.

Rest in peace

crystal — Tue, 18 May 2010 06:37:14 +0000

As a freelance writer and editor, I mostly work from home. However, one of my clients requires me to be in their offices for a few hours every day. Their office is situated near a funeral home, which makes it really hard to work on Thursdays.

Some time last week, I was walking by the funeral home when I saw this guy. He was cuddling a little girl who looked 4 or 5 years old. I noticed her because she wore a bright orange jacket and had beads in her hair.

I had my earpones on [X FM Baby!] so I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and she had covered his face, so I couldn’t see if he was crying. They stood a bit far from the proceedings, and I wondered if he was protecting her from the corpse.

But as I watched them, I realized that maybe she was protecting him. As long as he held that baby, as long as he shielded her from pain, he didn’t have to deal with his own. He could stand there all stoic and be a man about everything.

They were swaying, like they were slow dancing to some song that only they could hear. And when a lady came by and picked up the child, I saw the man’s face change. His barrier was gone, and the weight of the moment seized him. It was painful to watch.

People have different ways of dealing with death. I’ve never been afraid of it, probably because I always had a strong faith, so I knew where I was going. Lately my mind-frame has changed, but I still have a set image on the afterlife, so it doesn’t really scare me.

What does frighten me is thinking of the ones I will leave behind. I wonder who will look after my baby, and whether they will love her as much as I do. I wonder what will happen to my books, and to my yet-to-bt-purchased fish tank. I wonder about the man that I love – whether he’ll be fine without me, or how much I’ll miss him when I’m gone.

I wonder, sometimes, whether crossing into death will hurt.

I don’t enjoy funerals because I never know what to say to the mourners. It doesn’t seem enough to just hug them and let them cry, which is all I know how to do. I hate the viewing because they always seem so strangely detached and unrecognisable, like someone else’s body is sitting in that box.

Plus, dead things freak me out.

It’s strange, I suppose, for me – a depressive – to have such odd feelings about death. It’s why I buy reincarnation. As long as I know that I’ll come back, that I’ll recognize my loved ones, that at some deep internal level they’ll know where I am and I’ll know that they’re okay, the the Grim Reaper doesn’t seem so bad.

But … political correctness aside … dead things still really, really, really freak me out.

The Nokia Incident

crystal — Fri, 07 May 2010 07:40:46 +0000

I have a nasty temper. I usually display this temper by throwing things at people; often, very expensive things. This is why I love Nokia. Whenever I smash it on a wall, rock, floor, or annoying-person’s-head, the phone dismantles into six distinct pieces; and once I hunt them down and ‘remantle’ them, the phone works fine.

For this reason, I always buy Nokia. And given my jinx for all things electr[on]ic, I’m strictly basic. No smartphones for me. So my Nokias are usually mulika mwizi – phones whose most advanced feature is a flashlight-torch. I am currently sporting three 1200s a 1680, and a 1202, though recently, I had to cave in and get an LG. I think it has radio.

The reason I have so many handsets is a story for another day – but I walk with three at any one time. So when my Zain handset started acting up, I was more than a little annoyed. For two days, my phone kept going off despite charging. And on the third day, when I finally got it to stay on, it asked me for a security code.

Security code? I never use security codes!

Since my phone had been on a communal office charger for two days, I thought some prankster had played a practical joke and programmed the secret code, especially when the standard 1234 and 0000 didn’t work. Nobody at work fessed up, so I spent two more days punching in random numbers to get my phone open. I tried 6-digit, 8-digit, 9-digit and even 10-digit combinations with no luck. Eventually, I called a pal who suggested I try 5, as in 12345. It worked!

Then the trouble began.

My phone was on alright, but the keypad was noisy, and the clock was off. I always set these features, so I started to think this wasn’t my phone, especially since I had left it on the desk all weekend. It crossed my mind that some genius had forgotten their security code, and had simply switched my uncoded handset for theirs, but that seemed paranoid, even for me. Plus, no one at the office has a 1200. Yet now here I was with wrong settings and a timeless phone.

I went into settings to check the ringtone, just to be sure. It was blank, and everytime I pressed ’select ringtone’, the phone went off. How weird! I tried to set a calling tone for text messages, but again, when I hit ’select ringtone’ the phone went off. I was quite amused by then. I tried calling the number from another handset, and it wouldn’t vibrate or ring at all, even though the call was going through. What I had was not a cell phone, it was a simcard-holding-text-store.

Once I was done giggling, I showed the handset to my little brother, he of the engineering degree. He idly wondered why a mulika mwizi would have two extra holes and a possible virus. We both thought the Nokia 1200 is too basic to have a data port or handsfree option. Maybe it’s from China.

He flipped the phone over a few times, pressed a few buttons, then gave it back to me in perfect working order.

“What did you do?!”

“Restore factory settings.”

If I had held that phone 5 years I wouldn’t have thought of that. Thank heavens for little brothers with engineering degrees!

P.S: According to Google, the Nokia 1200 apparently has polyphonic ringtones [hence the data port], 4MB of memory, and an in-built handsfree. Also, it should be blue. Who knew?

P.P.S: If you own a Nokia 1680, look past the pretty camera [great resolution!], turn the phone off, turn it on again, and observe. Specifically, note the Nokia ‘handshake’. Did someone change the Nokia logo or is there some [other] reason why this phone is being redeemed for Bonga Points?

Just like mum

crystal — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 08:40:12 +0000

There’s a popular joke that if you want to know how your wife will look in twenty years, just study your mother-in-law. It’s all very well if your wife’s mum is Njoki Ndung’u, less cool if she is, say, someone else.

I don’t know about boys, but girls seem to go through various ‘mummy stages’. Initially, you want to be like mum. You want to dress like her, wear your hair like her. You spend hours flossing her heels, wearing her make-up and begging her for matching outfits.

At some point, for some reason, you rebel. You turn tomboy, shave the hair and burn all your dresses. The girly things get progressively shorter [or for supermodel progeny, progressively longer]. I don’t know if it’s teen angst or a desire to be different, but at that point, sura ka madhako becomes a very deep insult.

Then, years later, with no conscious effort, you become Mum. It could be some latent gene that’s activated by childbirth, or it could be an age thing, but you suddenly notice that you cook, clean, and discipline your children just like your mother did. You style your house in the same way, say the same things, buy the same products, and even pick the same [previously] annoying habits.

You may not notice it at all until a sibling points it out, usually at the worst possible time. Days like that, your husband really wishes his mum-in-law was a mild-mannered Jebii Kilimo rather than … someone else

I suppose my case was a little different. I am an only daughter, and I have bad, bad hair, just like my mum. Hence dreads. I’ve always thought my mum was really pretty and that I was … not. Throughout my teenage, despite endless compliments, I was resentful that my mum’s good looks had gone to the boys. They were all cute to the point of being almost pretty, while I was rather plain.

Relatives often said I looked just like mum, and some of the older ones even break into tears when they see me, claiming they’ve seen her ‘ghost’. Her brothers claim I am a carbon copy, albeit in a darker hue. But in my teens, I didn’t see it. After all, she was gorgeous and I was a dark, shapeless blimp.

With time, I learned to accept me for me, and while I still don’t consider myself a true beauty, I am happy with my looks. So it was quite a compliment when a few days ago, I put up an old picture of my mum. It was taken when she was about my age, and is my second-favourite photo of her. My own daughter looked up at the picture of her grandmother and said ‘Mummy, is that you?’

I laughed and corrected her, but she said ‘Mum, just say the truth. That’s you. I know that’s you.’

I studied the picture for ages afterwards, and even though I still don’t see the resemblance, I can’t doubt my seven-year-old child. So I suppose I am, apparently, just as pretty as my mum.

Talking to mum a few days ago, I confessed how I’ve never thought myself pretty, even though she always said I was. After all, she’s my mother – it’s her duty to call me gorgeous. I told her how I’d always wished I looked more like her.

Then came a surprising admission. My mother, one of the most gorgeous women I know, has esteem issues as well. She admits she looks ‘ok’ but she has never considered herself beautiful!

I guess I’m a lot more like my mum than I realise. And maybe that’s not such a bad things after all.

Old time rebellion

crystal — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 06:50:02 +0000

Dreadlocks used to represent anticonformity. They were initially a religious thing, with rastafarians and Mungiki. Then they became a feminist thing, a uniform for ladies who use Ms. After that, they became a visual banners for stylish types who preferred to go ‘natural’.

In my case, it’s the only do that works on my head. But I still like the idea of rebelling a little, which is why I try to keep them short. Try, because hair growth is very tempting. It’s like diamonds, but with shampoo.

As much as we dislike it, we are judged by how we look, what we wear, how we dress our hair. I think that’s partly why I’ve never replaced my nose ring. I’ve worn one since I was sixteen – partly for rebellion, partly for Tushauriane’s Esther, but mostly to look Nubian. Dark girls were hot back then; they still are. Plus, I was at the Plain Jane stage of growth; I thought the bling made me look pretty.

When I lost my nose ring at the pool some months back, I considered getting another one, but then I realised it wasn’t really necessary. I’m no longer the wild sixteen-year-old. Actually, I was never a wild sixteen-year-old, hence the nose ring; I needed some ruse to look crazy. And it wasn’t actually a ring, more like a microscopic gold stud. It looked more like glitter on my nose.

Anyway, I didn’t replace it because I’m allergic to other metals and gold is really expensive – the stud cost 900 bob in 1996! Plus, I’d gotten over my esteem issues, and I no longer needed to look crazy. Also, the stud had the worst habit of slipping off my nose during showers, beach trips, colds, and really humid days.

I suppose you could say I grew out of it, and the litty bitty hole in my nose still ups my ‘cool-and-crazy’ ante. There’s a funny thing about growing old that helps us grow up. I met this guy once, during blind date week… Let me explain. I spend a lot of time online, and meet a lot of people. One week, I decided to see all my online friends, so for seven days, I had three or four meetings a day with people I’d never physically met. It was quite … interesting.

This one guy stood out, and for a long time, I didn’t know why. I noticed later that it’s because he wasn’t trying. All my other dates had been self conscious, nervous, trying to make an impression. They wanted me to like them, so they showed me what they thought I wanted to see. And that can be exhausting, for both.

But this guy, he was comfy, easy, not tensed in any way. He was himself, or at least, he made a very good pretense of it. Either he didn’t care what I thought of him or…

I pointed this out to him, curious to find what the ‘…or…’ could be. He smiled and said, “It’s because I’m older.” I’m 28. He was 36.

I’ve hung out with guys as old as sixty, and they were just as nervous as any teenager. And I’ve spent time with boys who are twelve but have the wisdom of an octogenarian. So clearly, not all presence comes with age.

But there are some things that get easier when you’re older. You learn to accept yourself, to focus your strengths and weaken your … weaknesses. You learn to approach people with style and to deal with different sorts. You learn that you don’t have to break down a door to get into a locked building.

And in my case, you learn that 20 carrats of bling in your nose just might get you noticed, but it does not make you pretty.

I suppose I still could get that stud for my nose, but I’m glad that I’ve matured enough to know that I don’t have to.

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It’s my head!

crystal — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 06:20:15 +0000

There are two kinds of hairdressers – those who do what you want … and those who don’t.

Hairdressers are artists, and a good beautician is one who makes you happy. You may not like their dress sense, you may not like their attitude, you may not even like their name.

You may not like the way they yank your head back and forth, or the way they talk about clients, or how they patronise you and your salon-mates, or their dismissive tone when they tell your sister ‘Please stop distracting her, I’m trying to work here’ [and swiftly banish said sister to the corner with a two-year-old Cosmo right in the middle of some juicy family gossip].

But when they are finished with your hair, you will be grinning ear to ear.

Now, salon-ing, like all other arts, requires talent. Some coiffeurs have it naturally, others learn by aping, others went to Pivot Point, others plaited grass, bought a blow-drier and rented a room.

But the true hair expert is the one that can think. They can look at your head and decide what suits it best. And even better, they can take your ridiculous suggestion, tweak it here and there, and make it work.

For a while now, I’ve wanted to cut my hair. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea; most girls would kill for what grows on my head.

Let me explain. I have seven-year-old dreads.

First, they aren’t quite seven years old, because somewhere around year three, I had to shave them clean for a KQ interview. And second, my hair is very springy, so instead, it looks four years long. Two years actually, since it is four years long. A neighbour started growing hers in my second year, and … well … hers are now twice as long as mine, so yeah.

Also, my hair is coarse and thick, which means it’s useless for anything else. I caused hairdressers grief for years spending four hours with TCB, World of Curls, Dark and Lovely and Revlon on my head … with no visible results. But when I grow my dreads, they matt in three weeks or less.

So anyway, I decided to cut my dreads. I missed the punkish boy look from the days they were starting out.

Three successive salon-ists refused to shave me. The first claimed to be a nazirite and could not touch razors. The second stood at the back of my head and snipped a little, then tucked the hair into a bob to make it look short. The third simply refused to cut such luxurious hair.

But yesterday I tried a new salon on a friend’s recommendation, and even though she was mortified, the lady agreed to cut my hair.

I expected it to be a long, tedious process as she made a layered cut or whatever they call that hairdo.

Instead she looked at my head, viewed the different angles, then grabbed five tufts of hair and snipped it. I was a bit confused … it didn’t seem very … professional. Plus, she placed the bits of hair in front of me saying ‘Imagine, that’s your hair! Yaani I feel pain cutting it.’

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and only opened them when she was done.

Then I smiled.

In just two minutes, she had produced the exact look I wanted! All I had said was ‘I want it as short as possible’. That’s it, no further instructions. And she had made it look so easy! She wasn’t happy about it, but I was ecstatic! I couldn’t stop grinning.

Of course the cut was done before retwisting, and it produced an entirely different look once the hair was done. The salonists seemed a little worried because it looked so … different. They were half afraid would cry, or throw a bitchfit, or worse.

Instead, I let her fold the hair into a Beatles cut. Then I tugged it with my fingers to change the shape and tucked a few behind my ears. I could see their faces light up as the hair took form.

I left that salon a very happy girl, with my hair all tiny, frazzled and tomboyish; and the hairdressers were pleased that I spoke so highly of them. Frankly, I was just glad they’d taken my bad idea and made it look so pretty.

Two lessons I have learnt today. One, I will always, always, always go to Exposé.

And two, I will never, ever, ever cut my hair again.

I think.

First phishing, and now spoofing?

crystal — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 06:50:38 +0000

I know of two definitions for the word spoof. One tastes like soap, and the other is really, really funny. But now there’s a third one, and it induces neither cleanliness nor mirth.

I rarely check my spam folder, but lately I’ve noticed it has mails from ‘me’. I didn’t pay much attention, since lots of people sign their mails with ‘Love, me’, including, well, me!

But I got curious today and clicked on one of the me-mails. In the From box, it had my own address! How weird is that?

I immediately went into panic mode thinking my account had been hacked and that I needed to change my password. A depressing thought in itself because I have fifteen fairly complicated ones an it’s all I can do to keep them straight in my head!

But then good old google came to the rescue. At the top of the mail, there was this red banner that said :

‘This mail probably did not originate from your inbox. For details click here’

I clicked and got this:

If you receive bounce messages for mail that appears to originate from your account, you find messages in Spam from ‘me,’ or you receive a reply to a message you never sent, you may be the victim of a ’spoofing’ attack. Spoofing means faking the return address on outgoing mail to hide the true origin of the message.

When you send a letter through the post, you generally write a return address on the envelope so the recipient can identify the sender, and so the post office can return the mail to the sender in the event of a problem. But nothing prevents you from writing a different return address than your own; in fact, someone else could send a letter and put your return address on the envelope. Email works the same way. When a server sends an email message, it specifies the sender, but this sender field can be forged. If there is a problem with delivery and someone forged your address on the message, then the message will be returned to you, even if you weren’t the actual sender.

If you’ve received a reply to a message that wasn’t sent from your address, there are two possibilities:
1. The message was spoofed, forging your address as the sender.
2. The original sender used your address as a reply-to address so that responses would be sent to you.

Neither of these possibilities indicates that your account was compromised, but if you’re concerned that your account may have been compromised, you can check recent access to your account. Just scroll to the very bottom of your inbox and click the Details link next to ‘Last account activity.’

One common tactic used by spammers is to send a message to a recipient, and fake the ‘From:’ field to contain the same address. Spammers hope that because the mail is sent ‘from’ your address, it will slip past our spam filters. But not so fast! Gmail authenticates all of our mail, so we know when a message wasn’t actually sent by you. We do our best to place these forged messages in your Spam folder.

Because Gmail replaces your email address with ‘me’ when you look at lists of messages, you may see spam mail from ‘me’ in your Spam folder. All this indicates is that someone forged the return address on your messages to be your own email address.

For the technobofs among us, this simply means somebody sends you spam then puts your own address in both the ‘from’ and ‘to’ boxes. They can get your address off any form you filled online, or from forward lists, but may not necessarily have access to you account or passwords.

This did rather set my mind at ease, at least I don’t have to re-change my passwords now. Though it helps to check the ‘last account activity’ to be sure. Good ol’ gmail! Maybe them controlling my world isn’t so bad after all.

I have to admit though, these online words are pretty nifty. I wonder what they’ll come up with next.

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I’m not late – just impatient

crystal — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 06:00:25 +0000

I am not known for having a particularly thick skin, but there are two things that rile me more than anything else: punctuality and spelling. Attack these two and I will likely pout for a week.

Granted, ever since I started writing online, my spelling has gone to the … well … let’s just it stands to improve. Something about working online just seems to multiply the typos. That, and I hardly ever use the spell checkers. But I always scored full marks in my spelling tests at school, so I still get mad if someone corrects work I’ve done.

Time-keeping is another pet peeve. I used to be the kind of girl who carried a book everywhere, you know, just in case I had to wait for anything. I still carry a novel and notebook to most places, but only if it fits in my handbag. And these days, I’m far more likely to spend time on the queue daydreaming than reading.

That said, I have a hard time sitting still. Really. Ask me to wait five minutes to see someone, and I’ll more likely take a lap and come back later. And since I’m very good at finding things to do, the laps generally take longer than expected. Case in point.

I was to meet my uncle at his office at 10. But he got stuck in traffic, so he pushed the meeting to 11. Now, I was already in his neighbourhood, so the logical thing would have been to find a bench, grab my book, and read for an hour or so.

But no. Instead, I decided to drop into town and window-shop. I needed some curios from maasai market anyway. Half an hour later, he got a puncture, which bought me even more time. Yay!

By the time I was done shopping, it was 12.15, and my uncle was fuming at me for messing his schedule. After all, he was two hours late, which had given me plenty of time to be in his office when he arrived.

This happened twice. The second time, I used the half-hour gap to dash to a bookshop a few minutes away. That didn’t work out too well, and now Uncle Dearest thinks I am always late.

Scenario 2, I had meetings at 9, 11, 1, 3, and 5. My 1 and 5 were with the same person though – and he’s family. But the 3 o’clock was with one of my favourite boys, and he’s always late. Still, I had to be perfectly en temps for each one or I’d have a massive ‘cassanova’ moment…

[Remember that song from the 80s that has this guy in jericurls; he has a lunch, tea and drinks date with three different girls at the same venue, and he has them all neatly choreographed. But he loses his notepad at the petrol station and forgets who is on when, so he keeps showing up at the wrong one.]

As expected, my three o’clock pushed to 4 [though he did get brownie points for calling in advance] so I had to find some way to kill the time. So I extended my one o’clock [which was also my 5 o'clock] by having drinks and then pushing the 5 o’clock to 7.

The drinks turned out to be a lot of fun, and by 3.30, my date was unwilling to release me! I ended up arriving at 4.30, much to the annoyance of my second date. In retaliation, he kept me an extra hour, which made me late for my 7 o’clock – the same 7 o’clock that had delayed me in the first place. Le sigh.

A third incident involved a 5 o’clock meeting at Java. I arrived half an hour early, and should simply have sat down and ordered a coffee, but noooooo. I felt a sudden itch to either go shopping for blouses or look for a windchime. I assumed my date would be at least ten minutes late, which gave me plenty of time.

Unfortunately, he keeps time.

I got back to Java at 5.13 to find he had been waiting long enough to twiddle his thumbs, order a mocha, and check out the girl at the next table. Meh.

I hear iron supplements are good for impatience. So next time I have a date, I’m just going to order a big bowl of sukuma with some liver on the side and open a book.

They serve sukuma wiki at java, right?

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Hitching down?

crystal — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 06:00:20 +0000

Fashion is an interesting thing. Being a girl, I know that an item can look perfectly good in my home mirror, then look ridiculous once I’m out on the street. Lots of times I’ve walked past those reflective windows at the bank, snuck a peek at myself, and wondered what possessed me to leave the house looking like that.

And it can’t be entirely blamed on the glass distortion factor.

An issue that bothers girls a lot is the hitching skirt. You leave the house in a pretty little dress that sits nicely on your knees. Then you get into a matatu and realise that when you sit, the skirt rides uncomfortably high. You then look for anything from handbags to scarfs to newspapers to protect the bare … um … legs. The rest of the day is spent in relative discomfort trying to pull your stray skirt down, while ‘people’ laugh and tease your false modesty. After all, they say, you knew how short the skirt was when you wore it.

Except you didn’t. Really.

My trouble yesterday was a little different. See, I’ve always liked the gypsy look. The pretty spanish tops with a billowing a-line skirt and matching boots has always done it for me. So when a few days ago I found the cutest red checked top at Tusky’s, I was somewhere above cloud nine. Yesterday I paired it with my khaki skirt and industrial leather boots and totally rocked the look.

Except for one teeny tiny problem.

You see, the top can be worn on the shoulders or off. I prefer to wear it off. Except that when your shoulders are well oiled and smooth and soft and supple, clothing tends to, well, to slip. But not in the way you’d imagine.

The image that comes to mind is of the blouse slipping seductively down to reveal a little too much cleavage, yes?

No.

You see, my blouse wasn’t slipping down. It was slipping up.

Instead of lying snugly on my chest and revealing a little bit of shoulder, the blouse kept riding back up around my neck.

If you think it’s funny seeing a girl trying to tug her skirt down, picture one trying discreetly to pull her puff sleeves off her shoulders and down her arms and … chest.

It’s a wonder I didn’t get arrested for stripping in public.

All in a day’s walk. Pun fully intended.

I still rocked the look though…

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Men are hunters and women are…gatherers

crystal — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 06:00:01 +0000

I heard that quote on Isidingo, and it got me thinking. At the end of the day, despite feminism, liberalism, and all the other -isms, the average man still prefers to catch his own meat. Never mind that once they catch it, they take a bite, get bored, and look for new prey. As one man said on Nini’s show, “It’s like a dog chasing a cat. What does it do with it once it catches it?”

The thrill, apparently, is in the chase. So, logically, if you want to keep enjoying the attention, chocolate, late night calls and general adoration, well girls, don’t get caught. Which goes back to playing hard to get. This is a classic case of FCT – Fox Chasing Tail.

Now mind you, here I refer to the average man. There are a few men out there who don’t mind having girls chase them. And there a lots of above-average women who are actually willing to chase! But until we can consistently get these exceptional people in the same time frame, we have to play by everyone else’s (average) rules. Guys chase, gilrs run, guys catch girls, guys get bored and chase other girls.

Unless of course we 21st century girls can pull a rabbit out of our hats. Theoretically, if we can find a way to chase without chasing, we’re set. What if a girl can get a guy to ask her out without him knowing it’s her idea? Theoretically sound, but how? And I don’t mean the dropping handkerchiefs – licking lips – casual conversation routine. It has to be subtle. He shouldn’t recognize what you’re doing.

There’s a movie with Mandy Moore (I forget the name) where a guy says
“When I ask you out, you’ll think you’re asking me out.”
“You want to go out with me?”
“See, what did I tell you?”

I want to meet the guy who wrote that script. But seriously ladies, if we could just figure out how to pull that on guys, we’re one step closer to the prize. If any of you figures out how, help me!!

The TZ Wedding – The Gents

crystal — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 06:00:48 +0000

The groom and his family has it only slightly easier when it comes to wedding preparations. For one thing, they have to pay dowry. And for another, they have to sponsor the religious ceremony and the reception.

The actual wedding is done at a church, mosque, or government office, followed by a photo session. Wedding ceremonies are usually performed after midday, while the late afternoon is dedicated to photos, leaving the evening free for the wedding reception, which is also hosted by the man’s family, and also comes with the champagne, speeches, and wedding cake. And gifts.

Generally, the budget for a marriage is met by … the guests. When an acquaintance is getting married, they will give you a wedding invitation. If your friend is the groom, you will receive a invite to the wedding and reception, while friends of the bride will receive invites to the Kitchen Party and Send-off.

The card requests that you contribute towards the cost of the wedding, and sometimes [but not always] suggests the minimum amount that you are expected to contribute. This figure is decided during vikao – wedding committee meetings where the budget and other matters are decided. As a general rule, if you do not meet the minimum contribution, you may not attend the festivities.

Contributing to the cost, however, does not exempt you from bringing gifts.

In addition, since there are four ceremonies, the line-up generally needs four separate sets of outfits, transportation, and beautification regimes. The bride and her entourage will therefore need a dress each for the Kitchen Party, Send-off, and Wedding. Usually she will wear the same dress to the reception. Every wedding therefore takes a minimum of three days.

Guests bring separate sets of gifts, one for each ceremony they attend.

In addition, there are dowry ceremonies, though I have not been privvy to these, but I imagine they are quite elaborate and only partially cultural.

Also, no wedding is complete without a brass band.

I have attended one wedding on the groom’s side and another on the bride’s side. Both were elaborate and beautiful.

At the bridal wedding, I was still fresh and green, so I fussed about the ‘payment’, provided no presents, showed up in jeans, arrived without a proof-of-contribution-invitation-card [and was subsequently frozen at the gate]. Also, never-ending trauma re: mduara dance.

The groomal wedding was a good year later, and I knew enough to have a painful facial and got prettified. I skipped the church since I was busy getting dolled up, and I arrived at the reception at 7.00 p.m. [the card said 6.30] even though the ceremony didn’t start till 8 and I was *cough*cough*forced* to find comfort in my book.

Yes, I carried a book to a wedding.

The ceremony was beautiful. The card had a red ribbon on it, which made everyone in attendance wear … you know … red. Which was weird, because all that red in one place was a little freaky. Fortunately, I had ditched my red dress for purple at the last minute. Phew!

The line-up was large: five pre-teen flower girls in red, shoulderless dresses with a white rose; 8 late-teen bridesmaids in the same red dress, but with a white sash; and 8 groomsmen with white shirts and pants and red waistcoats. There were also a couple of little girls in white and red dresses, and a page boy or two.

The groom’s father and uncles wore black suits with red shirts and red ties, while his elder sisters wore white dresses with red sashes. The groom and best man wore white suits and shirts with a red waistcoat and red tie, while the bride and matron [best maid] wore white dresses with red detail. The girls danced in to P-squares ‘No one like you’ while the maids did a funky routine to some song that I can’t quite remember.

Everyone else, and I do mean everyone else, wore varying shades of white and red. Mostly red. The brass band wore white suits with red shirts and trimming, and the only female in the band wore pants and played a tambourine. Hmph.

Marriages here are certainly colourful, and are generally a family affair. Even after the wedding, in-laws have a big say in all matters, and extended families are very close-knit. I’m not sure not if the fanfair is all good or bad, but they certainly give you something to watch.

The TZ Wedding – The Ladies

crystal — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 06:00:19 +0000

I should clarify that I am not married.

And I should explain a little something about Tanzanian weddings. They’re not like the ones at home.

The typical +255 wedding comes in four parts. There are two ceremonies hosted by the bride’s family, and two ceremonies hosted by the groom’s family.

The first ceremony is the Kitchen Party, hosted by the bride and her people. It is an evening party, and is generally a strictly-girls affair, so in areas like Dar that are predominantly Muslim, the ladies have a chance to let down their hair … and other things.

The only male at this ceremony is the DJ and the cameraman. I can only imagine they enjoy the view, because even I was busy drooling at females whom I had only ever seen in amorphous black, and I’m a girl!

During the Kitchen Party, there is usually an MC-slash-shenga who teaches the bride [and her cohorts] how to take care of a man. The advise is sometimes quite benign, but more often, painfully raunchy.

The playlist consists largely of taarab, and at several points, the ladies will get on the dance floor and perform renditions of mduara, usually with the help of pillars and chairs.

The trauma!

It can be enlightening though, to see mild-mannered madames in their fifties putting nubile ‘little girls’ to shame in the humble art of *cough*cough* pole-dancing.

There is good food, and at some point the gift-giving starts. The gifts are kitchen utensils and household items, and by the end of the ceremony, the bride has a fully furnished house. She gets everything from rice-makers to electric cookers and gas cylinders.

The second ceremony is the send-off, also hosted by the bride’s family. It is a wedding-reception style shindig complete with a high table, full video, MC, microphones, embarrassing speeches, champagne and a wedding cake. It is, in principle, the bride’s family saying goodbye to her, and is quite elaborate.

It is held at night as well, on a separate date from the Kitchen Party, and usually at a separate venue. It has all the pomp and colour of a full wedding reception, and yes, again, you are expected to bring gifts.

The bride and her party require separate dresses and beauty treatments for each ceremony, and they cost [at my local salon] 250,000 a piece for the bride, negotiably less for the rest of the bridal party, since they generally do a budget version of what the bride gets. Agony is getting your hair done at a salon while a bridal party is getting prettified.

Hell is three bridal parties at the same salon on your day off.

At the Send-off itself [and also at the groom-hosted reception] there is a pretty ceremony where the bride and groom come to the front of the crowd and dance a salsa while shaking champagne bottles. For some strange reason, said salsa is usually danced to the theme song of whatever latino soap is in vogue at the time.

The bride and groom each have a bottle, and it’s a light-hearted competition where the MC eggs on the couple to pop the cork, teasing whichever one fails to do the deed correctly. The champagne is usually alcohol-free, but many shy guests still refuse to partake.

Once the salsa and the popping is done, the bride and groom [and sometimes the bridal party] fill the glasses of those near the high table and everyone toasts the couple.

On one occasion, the bottle literally flew out of the groom’s hand. I can’t be sure where it landed, but I can bet the resultant innuendo will be a standing joke for years to come.

…to be continued…

The TZ Wedding – The Gents

A guide for the ungirly [Part 3]

crystal — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 06:00:39 +0000

A few days later, I noticed that my face was burnt out again. Groan. I went back to the shop and bought Himalaya Neem wash, because, well, the cream wash was finished, and the Neem wash is for all skin types, so that seemed like a much safer option until I figured out what exactly was what.

I had re-used the for-oily-skin gel wash because it was in a pretty bottle, felt deliciously cool on my skin, smelt fabulous … and because I wasn’t about to throw out a perfectly good tube of facial wash. My reasoning was ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’

I used it one morning, just once. By lunch time, my face was stinging and ’sunburnt’. It took me a week of mild exfoliant and soothing Neem wash to get rid of the burn effect.

Yeah, I’m not ever trying that again.

Then I went a-googling and found out a few things. Apparently, getting burnt by clay masks is more common than you’d think. Yahoo answers claimed it was a sign of allergy, at which point I decided that I have sensitive skin, since I am ‘allergic’ to mud masks and cinammon exfoliant, and since my skin is shiny and patchy, and is both dry and sticky after cleansing.

I found further information suggesting that perhaps I have combination skin, since both times, it was only my T-zone that took a burning. That theory fell flat because combination skin has an oily T-zone and dry sides, not the other way around. My pimply bits are usually on the side, and are, as I know realise, prompted by hormones and stress.

I then started some deduction. I figured perhaps I was allergic to Himalaya, or that being a Malaysian product, it was more formulated for … Malaysian skin. Or that perhaps my skin was once oily but had been dried out by coastal climate, and would return to oily once back in 254.

Eventually, I found a conclusive, straightforward skin-type test. Cleanse your face, rinse and pat dry. Check for tightness immediately after cleansing – does your face feel like the skin is too small for the face? Wait an hour, then get some Kleenex or soft tissue. Pat the tissue or lightly wipe various parts of your face – chin, cheeks, nose, forehead.

If the tissue has some oil on it, you have oily skin. If the t-zone [forehead, cheeks and chin] tissues are oily but the other tissues are not, you have combination skin. If the tissue has little flakes on it, your skin is dry.

Now, for ungirly me, the ‘flakes’ are about as confusing as the pores. But I suppose the teeny black dots on the white tissue, when combined with the skin-too-small-for-face component suggest my skin is dry.

Crud. That means I’m going to wrinkle.

Of course once I accepted that my skin was dry, then I started to notice the whiteheads. Usually, I would feel like my skin is rough to the touch when I oil it, but I couldn’t really tell why. Whiteheads, allegedly, are often invisible to the naked eye.

I also suddenly noticed that my skin does look dull sometimes, and tired and patchy. I don’t know if it’s always been that way, or if it is only because I read that in descriptions of dry skin. I also read in more than one place that dry skin is usually pimple free throughout teenage. No info on how it behaves after teenage.

Oh, and dry skin also, allegedly, stings when you use a toner. Hmph.

And all this for a wedding.

In conclusion, I am now sticking with the Neem-for-all-skin-types gel wash, and Bio oil or Himalaya day and night creams – also suitable for all skin types. I have a beauty tub full of mud and fruit packs, and I’m using the fruit pack. Partly because it says ‘for dry skin’ and is less messy, but mostly because it stings less.

Also, since local December weather is loaded with heat rash, it may be a while before I exfoliate.

I suppose I should tell you about the wedding now…

A guide for the ungirly [Part 2]

crystal — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 05:50:27 +0000

So, a few months ago, when I bought my first ever facial products, I went with Himalaya oily skin products. And that worked just fine for a few days, until my face broke out in what looked like sunburn. A week later, when I tried my first home facial, my skin burnt so intensely that I was tempted to smother myself with a pillow, just to stop the stinging.

I decided, based on the burning, that perhaps my skin is dry. After all, I had had a facial once, for an interview at KQ, and the lady insisted my skin was dry. I ignored her of course, on account of being so shiny.

However, I am a bit of a DIY fanatic, so I laid off the toner and bought some Himalaya dry skin products. That seems to work fine. The cream wash is gentler on my skin, even though it smells annoyingly flowery and tastes like pins.

The for-dry-skin fruit mask stung, but it stung considerably less than the mud mask. So I stuck to milk masks and exfoliated the burned areas every two days, and that seemed to help. For about a month, my skin looked and felt great.

I had read on the net that oily skin feels sticky, though it sometimes feels itchy and dry. It is prone to pimples, and, of course, it wrinkles less, so a part of me was still uneasy. Oily skin is shiny in the mornings, but that’s a bit hard to tell when you live in an oven. Shiny sweat and oil can be a bit confusing. It also appears that oily skin gets blackheads and has large pores.

Now here is where the problem begins.

I’m not quite sure what sticky is, since I live at the coast, and so my skin is always sticky. And pores … allegedly, can be seen in a magnifying mirror. But what exactly am I supposed to see, holes on my face? Coz I can see these little dimplish dots around my nose, that are either pin-sized craters or clear-coloured freckles. And the black spots on my face which only I seem to see, are those not blackheads?

Dry skin allegedly feels dry after cleansing. The moment I read that, my face felt tight every time I washed it. I can’t tell whether it was always the case, or whether I ‘noticed’ it after reading it. This happens often when you read about a disease, so perhaps it applies for skin care too.

I also did some reading on acne, and realised that my ‘blackheads’ were really whiteheads, and that they only left black scars when I scratched them. They are whiteheads, because they start out very small, almost unseen, and sometimes get larger during my time of month. And because their appearance is, well, white. At least before I burst them and initiate the scarring.

Armed with my complete and utter confusion, I went to a local salon where I was convinced to have a facial at the cost of 25,000 local monies [that's about 1,500 Kenyan].

Fair enough.

First, the lady suggested my face was bumpy due to stress. True, I have been rather tense lately.

Then she suggested I use a cinammon and honey exfoliant, which was disturbing, because I had read that you shouldn’t exfoliate during a breakout, since you will only spread the bacteria and increase the pimples. Also, it hurts. A lot.

But she’s a professional, so I let her do her job and tried not to squeal when my face started to burn. After all, she had just given me a ginger palm and foot scrub, and that stung as well, so maybe it’s just me.

When she concluded, as I had, that my skin-type is oily [due to my pimples] I didn’t comment. But when she put the Himalaya clay mask on my face and it burnt like a paper-thin iron box, I started to wonder what was up. Finally, she steamed my face and … gasp … popped my pimples! Are they allowed to do that?

Her own skin looks fabulous though, so she must know what she’s doing. And the clay mask burned far more intensely than it did at home, even though the stinging duration was shorter than it had been at home.

The immediate effect of the facial was negligible. My face – the part of it that wasn’t bumpy – looked delicate and fresh. But for days after that, every time I rinsed my face or felt some sweat, my skin would make like a blow torch. Agony, thy name is cinammon-honey-and -himalaya-mud-mask-facial.

…to be continued…

A guide for the ungirly [Part 1]

crystal — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 05:37:08 +0000

I admire tomboys. They can throw like a boy, hang out in a bar, drink beer from a bottle, probably fix their own cars, and generally make people of all genders drool.

I admire girly girls too, the ones that can sprint in high heels, carry the world in a purse, make men itch and sweat, and wield the world like a poodle on a leash.

More than that I enjoy ‘both’, the fictional types that can straddle all sides. You know, like Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry or Megan Fox. Of course their straddling is generally scripted, but still.

Of these three types, it is probably coolest to be a tomboy. Because once they tire of chilling with the boys, all they need is some fake hair and a make-over and they instantly become beauty queen. Just look at Aaliyah and Brandy. Or closer home, have you seen Nazizi’s pink album cover?

It takes a much larger miracle to teach a diva to throw a decent punch.

For those among us that are a little … ungirly, it can be taxing when we try to cross over.

Case in point, me.

I have recently acquired a rather … unhealthy … and also vaguely irritating interest in … femininity. As a result, I have bought two dresses [one of them is red!!], got my first pedicure, spent a day in high heels, and am spending approximately thirty minutes a day on … well, on my face.

The reason for all this fuss was a wedding. Two weddings actually, but more on that later. First, the face.

At some point in my teen life, I stopped using lotion above the neck. I noticed – or was told – that my face is really shiny, so there’s no point adding oil. I then decided that my skin was oily.

A while later, or maybe earlier, I did the tissue-test in a homescience class, and failed. But I ignored the result, since I was shiny, and therefore, oily, period. Besides, people with oily skin don’t wrinkle, and I quite liked the idea of not getting old.

My parents had access to facial products, so I used everything from baycuten to Clean and Clear to Nivea Visage without really knowing what I was doing. All I remember is that the cream wash felt silky, the foam wash was fun [soap bubbles!] and that toner can really sting.

Yes, for some strange unfathomable reason, I used all three at once.

I also seem to remember that my face was usually quite smooth and clear, so I don’t really remember why I was using all that stuff. In Class 6, everyone’s face was a chocolate volcano, but mine was still baby-bottom smooth. By high school, I think my face was still smooth, but then, I don’t remember any of the other girls having acne either, so maybe there was something in the water. We did have a school-wide weight problem though. Must be all the Britannias.

Other than that I have never paid much attention to my face. But about once a month, someone points out that my face looks a little … rough. That’s the only time I ever noticed the pimples, so I assume that my face is fine the rest of the time. It took me a few years to relate the roughness with my calendar…

…to be continued…

To do or not to do…

crystal — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 06:00:12 +0000

A certain group in Kampala once convinced teens that abstinence is cool. Suddenly, it was the ‘in thing’ to be pure. That’s a miracle! And it’s a good thing for obvious reasons: HIV / AIDS; unplanned pregnancies. We tried the same angle with ‘true love waits’ and ‘mimi nimechill’, but I don’t know how well that worked.

The key argument against abstinence is that practice makes perfect. That argument makes sense – on the surface.

Initially dating – or rather courting – was about identifying a life partner. It is only now that people date ‘for fun’. So then the average person ends up with a lot of gym partners. The trouble is gym partners are swopped for various reasons – incompatibility, boredom, better training, lack of skill, bad table manners!

I heard a rather rude line in Emily of New Moon. It translates to “the people we want to date are not necessarily the people we want to marry.” That’s why many men demand their girlfriends to revise their wardrobes after marriage.

So assuming the average – um – gymnast – trains, practices, plays the games, gets to the olympics, wins the gold. Then when they want to settle down, the chosen bride / groom is a bronze medalist. The marriage will be frustrating to both, and neither will be faithful for very long.

God created Adam and put him in the garden. Adam got lots to keep him occupied, but he still felt something was missing, so God created Eve.

Adam had no internet, no porn, no loud-talking roommates. He had a beautiful woman, a tropical paradise and absolute privacy for his honeymoon. No nosy neighbours, no know-it-all in-laws, no ‘how-to’ manuals. Probably a few instructive dreams. And Eve had no tutors. She learnt all she needed with her man. And I think they managed just fine, seeing as we don’t hear about adultery in the Bible until MUCH later.

Note that I say WITH her man, not FROM her man. So the idea of men ‘practising’ then looking for green spouses is equally ridiculous. Despite the ratio of 1:3, men can only farm for so long before they run out of untouched pasture.

Experience is the best teacher, but it has its downside. Experience in bedroom matters leads to comparison, and that usually leads to broken hearts and broken homes. The whole point of the honeymoon is to get together, bond, learn together, test each other’s yes and no spots. The fun is diluted if one or both of you keeps thinking “But X or Y was so much better.”

Granted, lack of gymnastic skills can be disappointing. But if you have nothing to compare it to, you don’t know what you’re missing – so you can’t be disappointed! The wedding night is one place where what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

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Do not disturb

crystal — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 06:31:41 +0000

We can learn a lot of life lessons from the garden of Eden – some good, some bad. For example – the best way to get someone to do something is to tell them not to. If you look at anything long enough, it will start to look attractive. A good way to avoid temptation is to stay away from it – hence we pray “Lead me not into temptation” as opposed to “help me overcome temptation.” If you’re told not to go somewhere, it’s probably a bad idea to stand staring at the “do not enter” sign.

Some people say the best way to overcome temptation is to give in to it. True, that will make the temptation stop. But then again, that’s why so many people are dying of AIDS.

I can’t talk about Eden, or why Eve ate that fruit, or why Adam listened to his wife, or whether or not all females should be victimized for that, or why God put the tree there in the first place [or even if it really was a tree!]. Those are questions I’ll save for heaven. My point here is the lessons learnt.

Marriage is hard, relationships are hard. But one thing makes them harder – outsiders. Lots of good relationships have been ruined by well-meaning interference.

By the time a couple get together, they have faced tons of hurdles. Breaking the language barrier between Mars and Venus; overcoming myths from friends are relatives; learning to accept differences; getting over the ‘happily ever after’ theories. But they’re not out of the woods yet. Couples have to learn how to maintain their union, how to keep it tennis, and I’m not talking gymnastics this time.

Most creation myths start with a couple – two people. No other humans in the world. No friends, no in-laws, no siblings, no shengas. There’s probably a good reason for that. Usually, the problem doesn’t start until other people come into it.

Couples are made up of TWO PEOPLE. So no matter how helpful your best friends, or mother or girls club, or boys group, or nosy aunts are – it should only be about the two of you. Couples would save themselves a lot of grief if they learnt to live by this. We’d all love to help out couples with our ‘experience’, but the best wedding gift is a big sign that reads “do not disturb”.

Take advice, listen to others, but when it comes to actual living as a couple, whether dating or beyond, keep it tennis.

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The seven year itch?

crystal — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 06:10:48 +0000

The point in your marriage where you feel enough is enough. You suddenly have ‘irreconcilable differences’.

The term became famous after this TCM movie starring Marilyn Monroe. I haven’t watched it yet, but perhaps I should. Something about a faithful man suddenly being tempted to stray. I think it was the dress.

There’s an itch at four years too. In Hollywood it comes at 11 months mostly, or at 24 hours in Vegas, when the booze wears off.

Oyunga Pala once said “How can you claim to love one person for life, when you could love millions of other people if you met them?” He was arguing against the soul-mate theory. I hate to agree with him, but I see his point.

Nobody really understands what love is. We try to define it, to prove it, but we don’t really know it. We all know when we’re in love, but let’s face it, it’s way too easy to fall in love, and it feels great. Some people are addicted to it. And you can fall in love with anyone if you just look at them long enough. Pay enough attention to their good points and anyone becomes attractive. Just ask Shrek!

There are millions of potential lovers out there, people who will wind you the right way, people you have everything in common with, people you click with. And you can meet them in the strangest places – and when you least expect it, or need it. Love has the strangest timing.

But it’s just as easy to fall out of love. That’s why falling in a love and staying in love are two different things. Falling in love is infatuation – heart pounding, palms sweating, body parts dancing, when you smile each time you hear their name.

Staying in love is the solid, mature, boring bit of it. The one that holds your hand when you’re sick and cleans up after you at 80 without being paid.

The falling bit is pure chemistry, just hormones and chemicals. That’s why it’s called ‘falling’. You have no control over it. A clever biologist could isolate the hormones, mix them in a test-tube and fake love. So yes, love potions do work – if you believe witchdoctors are really bio-chemists.

But the chemicals fade, and the love dies. You have to choose to stay with a person you no longer ‘love’. You have to consciously find other non-chemical reasons to maintain your attachment, and your affection.

The love for your children or siblings isn’t chemical. It comes from bonding, a sense of belonging. And it’s usually eternal. So why should your spouse be any different? You learn to love your family for life, you can decide and learn to love your partner for life too.

You can fall in love with lots of people. Everyone you meet (and a lot of people you don’t meet) is a potential love-connection. You don’t choose to fall in love, but you decide what to do about it. You can be tempted to cheat, to be incestuous – but you don’t have to do it. That’s a choice, a conscious decision. No excuses.

Fidelity is a choice, not a feeling, and marriage is for life. Even God only gives one parachute – adultery. So the next time you think “I don’t love you anymore,” call your mum, your brother, your sister, your granddad, your favourite cousin and focus on that smile they give you. Think hard before you break somebody’s heart.

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Of animals, colours and psychology [Part 2]

crystal — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 06:05:09 +0000

The next bit of head-shrinking involves pencils. Or bic pens. Or anything you can draw with really.

Find a piece of paper and draw a house. On the other side of the paper, draw a person.

Remember, this isn’t the kind of test that you can pass or fail. It’s all about perspective and the thoughts inside your head. It’s like the inkblot test, or the cloud test. What looks like a butterfly to one person may well be a hamburger to another.

There’s something about your favourite colour, but that’s not really rocket science. Well actually, it could be, since people have different reactions to colour. While green to some people represents a love of nature, to others it is associated with envy, and yet to others, it’s the colour of cheese, moss or mouldy bread.

I think to use colour in psychology, you have to ask the person why they like a particular colour. For example, if somebody likes blue because they think it’s peaceful, they are probably the non-confrontational type. But if they like it because it reminds them of water, it’s far more likely they enjoy swimming or sailing.

Someone who likes yellow is not necessarily a coward. It’s just as likely they are an attention junkie who loves to be looked at. Or that they are irrepressibly cheerful, or that they like sunflowers. I liked to say that my favourite colours were black and blue, because it made certain people think I had masochistic tendencies.

Liking red could mean you have a daredevil spirit, or that you enjoy stawberries, or that you are totally into love. It could also mean you’re, you know, not averse to bulls of all shapes and size, those with wings and those with … horns.

So, your house. Well, you need an expert to really analyse it, but the size of windows [or lack of them] could have something to do with your world view. The larger the windows are, the more open minded and liberal you are. Or maybe you just grew up in a house with big windows. Or you enjoy light. Or you are afraid of the dark.

Curtains in the windows suggest privacy issues, so closed curtains suggest a secretive person, while no windows at all suggests a hermit or misanthropist. There was something about chimneys which suggested your’e a family person, especially if there is smoke coming out of your chimney. That suggets cooking or a fireplace, which means you love the feel of home and home-like activities.

The size of the door suggests how much you [dis]like guests. An open door means you love to entertain. A doorknob shows you like people to knock first, not just walking in, since it implies permission. A door with a lock is a big ’stay away’ sign, since you feel the need to keep people out.

The other things are pretty basic. A mansion means you’re a simple person at heart, while an elaborate mansion suggests you think big. Of course it could also mean you’re an architect.

Now, the human drawing. Oh this has soooo many possibilities. I started to draw the head and shoulders of a man, then got bored, crossed it out, and drew a stick figure instead. The professor said that means I enjoy shortcuts.

So, since I took a shortcut, I can’t really say what the human drawing shows. I imagine it has something to do with how you see yourself, if you draw your own gender. Or the features you find attractive in the opposite sex, if you draw the opposite sex. I’ve no idea.

But you have to admit, it was more fun drawing the house than the person, yes?

Of animals, colours and psychology [Part 1]

Of animals, colours and psychology [Part 1]

crystal — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 06:52:39 +0000

We did this test in psychology class once where the professor asked us what our favourite animal was, then shrunk our heads based on it. She also had us draw a house and a human, but more on that later.

There’s a second test, but you can only do it if you don’t cheat. First, list your three favourite animals, in order of preference. If you don’t have a favourite animal, then shut your eyes for a few minutes and think about three animals that make you happy. Preferrably not on a plate.

Done? Now give a few reasons why you like them. Remember, no peeking, and be honest.

Now, the results. The first animal represents what you think you are. It’s how you imagine people view you. For example, my favourite animal is a dog. I like them coz they’re cuddly and loyal, but sometimes their devotion can be annoying, especially when I want me-time. I’m big on personal space.

And yes, I do think people find me, huggable, devoted but somewhat clingy, and not in the wet t-shirt or Victoria secrets kind of way.

The second animal, is what you think of yourself. I like black cats, because they are dark, graceful and elegant, and because everybody is a little bit scared of them, what with talk of witches and genies and whatwhat. And also because people would think me utterly weird for having one. I even have a name for my eventual black cat – Ebby.

Ehe, well, when I think of myself, I think dark skinned, weird, and scary. My brother describes me as Goth, and while I deny it vehemently, I do secretly feel that everybody is afraid of me. It’s not that I’m a frightening person, I’m just like any other brown, grey or siamese cat, but my appearance, facial expression, hairdo and connotation makes people think I’m scary. I think. Plus I’m vaguely fascinated with the occult…

The third choice, well, apparently people can easily identify the first two animals, but have trouble pointing out the third. When I was asked, I rattled out all three instantly. I said ‘Dogs, black cats and fish.’

The reason I chose fish is that I’d been staring at an aquarium that morning, and I thought the fish were just fascinating! They were so pretty all swimming around in their little world, caged in this glass tank that holds them in, protected, yet somehow trapped, ornamental, decorational. I think they don’t really realise how closed in they are, because the glass lets them see the world, so they don’t feel like they’re missing anything.

They can’t go outside the glass without dying, so they are safe. Yet they could have so much more if they were somehow free to go outside the tank. There’s a whole world out there just waiting to be experienced, a whole pond, river, sea or ocean that they’ve never even seen. Yet they will never know because they will never leave that tank … unless they’re dead.

That’s almost sad, isn’t it. They live purely for the benefit of others, never for themselves, and the worst part is, they aren’t even smart enough to know it.

The third animal, my fish, represents who you really are.

Dolphins are fish, right? They’re cute, intelligent, fun-loving and fun-loved. I mean nobody hates dolphins, except killer whales. And sharks. They’re amazing to watch, awesome to play with, and they make everybody happy. One of my fantasies is to swim with dolphins in the open ocean.

Aw crud. I should have gone with dolphins for that third choice…

Your turn. And no cheating!

Of animals, colours and psychology [Part 2]

The lure of the taken man [Part 2]

crystal — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 06:00:54 +0000

Available guys have all the qualities that we find attractive, it’s just that we view things differently with minglers and takens.

Another key factor is that we don’t live with these guys. We see them for a few hours at a time, so we only see their good side. We don’t know that they are cranky in the morning, or that their feet smell, or that they grunt in their sleep, or that they whine constantly, or that they have a fetish for … whatever-embarrassing-thing-they-have-a-fetish-for. We only see the shine.

They, on the other hand, have been with their women long enough for the novelty to wear off. So while their women may not necessarily be unappreciative, they are not as wowed by his tendency to buy teddy bears as you are.

Another thing we forget is that the taken man is what he is because of his woman. It is her girlfriendship – wifehood – fathermaking that has turned him into who he is. His love for this woman has mellowed his bad side, brought out his instinct, made him soft and loveable. The features were there all along, but she has worked long and hard to find them, drag them out and polish them to a shine. So she deserves to enjoy them undisturbed by your roving eyes.

Keep in mind that if you do choose to go after him, he may not necessarily stop you. See, all these things he says about his woman, the ones that make you sigh about how sensitive he is? He doesn’t generally say them to his woman. He feels them, but he doesn’t say them. They’ve been together so long that he assumes she knows how he feels about her. And she doesn’t voice her compliments either.

But you, on the other hand, are so awed by this sweetheart of a man that you will give him compliments in a way his woman doesn’t. And with memory being what it is, he will not remember that she said the same thing many years ago. Or worse, she was so busy playing hard-to-get that she never said them at all.

So here is this amazing guy feeling neglected and taken-for-granted, and here is you, idiot woman, drooling over something that you should not even be looking at. Recipe for disaster.

Some men will take advantage and play you like ludo. Perhaps it will be mutual. Perhaps you will be his gashungwa and his girl-number-one will stay in the dark, or choose to look the other way. But who really wants to be with a cheat? Not me.

The truly good men will be flattered, yes, and they will even admit it, but they will not act on it. And a good woman will acknowledge and respect that. Granted, good women have less ‘fun’ in life, but me, I’m a firm believer in kharma, so I know I’ll get mine in the end.

Good men are there, in plenty. Some are born, but most are made. So if you want a good man, go find your own. Seriously!

About gay guys … well, I won’t get into that except to say one thing. He is sweet and kind and gentle and cuddly, and he knows a lot of stuff about shoes and hair and womens’ magazines, and that makes him hot. But … would he know all that if he wasn’t, you know, gay?

The lure of the taken man [Part 1]

The lure of the taken man [Part 1]

crystal — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 16:22:53 +0000

Women are always complaining that all the good men are taken … or gay. And men are always complaining that girls always go for the bad boys. Apparently, guys are far less attractive when they are young and single and ready to mingle.

The lure of the bad boy, as I have said over and over and over, is basic. We want to tame him. To turn him into a good guy. To put him on a leash. To be the one girl powerful enough to crush this Samson and use his hair to make a purse strap. It’s a power thing, plain and simple.

The attraction of the spoken-for man is a little more complicated than that. And no, I don’t believe for one second that it’s ‘the lure of the unattainable’. That myth has about as much credence as the man on the moon. Humans do NOT want something just because they can’t have it. If that was the case, we’d all be wearing artificial tails.

First, and let’s get this right from the onset, there are two kinds of going-for-the-unavailable-man girls. One is the Power Princess. She gets her kicks from well, power. This is the character in that stupid Carmen movie with Beyonce in the red dress.

This is the girl who takes a man simply because she can. She may not particularly want him, or even like him. She just wants to prove she can do it. The girl walks into a club, bar or office, sees a man with another girl, and makes sure she catches his eye. She may not do any more than that, many of them are content just to know they can get the man’s attention. “After all, this man is happy with his girl, yet he’s still looking at me. That makes me hot.”

The second kind of girl usually has no bad intentions, she just can’t help falling for other people’s men! Now first, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with liking another girl’s guy. The nasty is taking another girl’s man. Or worse, trying to share him. Rule of thumb: a man who leaves another girl for you is equally likely to leave you for another girl. Call it kharma, call it new dogs and old tricks, call it whatever you want, but I call it asking for trouble.

So. What makes the unavailable man so attractive? Simple. He says and does stuff that minglers don’t do. Why? Because he isn’t a mingler! Duh!

Think about it. At what point did you start to find him attractive? Was it when he – sincerely – asked your advice about a gift for his wife, child or girlfriend? Was it when you saw his face glowing as he received a phone call from the woman in his life? Was it when you noticed how sweet and awkward he looked as he nervously figured out how to approach the girl? Or how his excitement peaked as he reminisced about it?

When a guy has a girl, some of his traits are exposed to the other women in his life. We see his protective instinct as he watches some playboy staring at his wife or daughter. We see his nurturing side as he studies a Bratz doll in the supermarket, and asks you, cluelessly, if his teenage daughter would like one. We see his responsible side as he leaves the after-party early coz he needs to go check on the kids homework. And best of all, you see the teddy-bear in him as he plays with his kids.

All these are things we don’t see in available guys. Not because these things aren’t there, but because they’re not programmed to show them. They’re busy trying to get with you; they can’t show you what you’ll have once they get you.

Plus, these things look totally different on a mingler. A father looking at a teddy bear is sensitive; a mingler looking at a teddy bear is gay. A married guy leaving a party early is responsible; a mingler leaving a party early is a bore. A married guy that cooks is considerate. A mingler that cooks desperately needs to get some. A married guy saying his wife gives him pleasured goosebumps is adorable. A mingler admitting any woman makes him speechless is a wuss. See?

…to be continued…

The lure of the taken man [Part 2]

How to beat a player?

crystal — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 06:31:36 +0000

I heard a very interesting concept from a very unlikely source. Three weeks later, I’m still in awe. The source said that when a man is ready to get married, he does. When a woman isn’t ready to get married, she doesn’t. But when a man isn’t ready to get married, a woman can convince him. Therefore then [did I just give my school away?] the key to a happy marriage is to be with a man who is ready.

Makes sense in theory. If it’s his decision, he’ll do what it takes to make the marriage work. Whereas if you force him, he will eventually get bored, cut, and run. So don’t waste time, effort and misery playing ‘here comes the bride’, dragging him to infinite weddings, wishing on Secrets DVDs and saying ‘I do’ in your ’sleep’. If you’re ready and he isn’t, leave him and find someone who is, coz you could be waiting a looooooong time.

I suppose the same principle applies to dating and chasing. The reason lots of relationships fail is that the girl tricked the boy into dating her. Probably she was too forward, or he was too slow, or both. Either way, she got her man. But then, surprise surprise, he soon felt skirted and bored, so chose to cheat and run.

I’m one of those girls that chase. Usually because I’m too impatient to wait for a pretty boy to find his voice, so I jump in and find it for him. But a pseudo-player I’m related to had a few sage words to say about this. [Pseudo because he knows the rules but doesn't use them.]

I will dispense this advice, now.

One, a kiss is not a kiss unless he says it’s a kiss. To some people, a kiss [and even a shag] is simply a full-body handshake, it doesn’t mean anything. So unless the kisser subsequently initiates ‘the talk’, just assume it’s a handshake on the lips and proceed as normal. The kiss does not necessarily mean you have slipped out of TFZ … The Friend Zone.

Two, the average boy prefers to chase, so don’t do it for him. Not if you’re looking for something serious.

Three, if you want a fling, chase to your heart’s content. The resultant ego boost will ensure optimum [though shortlived] performance from your prey. GAG (girl-ask-guy) arrangements do not generally promote longevity.

Four, if you want to ask a guy out (and have him say yes), play it right. Be patient. Double standards are not imaginary. While a guy can spot a pretty girl and ask her out on sight, the reverse applies for a girl. Ask a boy out on sight and he will run. You need to sorora/weigh-weigh/do the eye-flirt first, get talking, see him three or four times in a mass setting before you try to get him alone for coffee/tea/drinks/any-appropriate-substitutional-beverage.

But remember that much as he may enjoy your company, you’re not future-able if you asked him out first.

And five, there is an exception to every rule, including this one. Above-average boys do exist. I’m just saying.

Still, generally speaking, it’s probably better to wait for a seriously devoted guy who will actually make the effort to get you, than force on one who’s scared or undecided, down for whatever, has a ‘nothing to lose’ view of you, or is only in it for the ride.

Of course there are guys who only ask you out for the challenge you pose. And I suppose a good way to sift those ones from genuine longterm interest is the period of time before he tries for a shag. A guy who sees longterm prospects with a girl usually takes long[er than average] before he aims horizontal. Conquests, on the other hand, are sunk in six seconds or less.

Just my twenty cents.

So, how do you beat a player? Well, you don’t. If they were beatable, they wouldn’t be players.

But as I was told, even players fall in love, and when they do, two things can happen. A, they will pursue you and convince you they’ve changed. Whether they have or not only time will tell, and all I can wish the girl is good luck. Should you choose to be with a guy like this, you have to forget the past, start on a blank, and learn tae-kwon-do for all the exes who will inevitably show up, since you can only play the ‘there is no spoon nagging-ex-preying-upon-my-insecurities’ game for so long.

Option two is that they will realise this is the girl that can get them whipped and string them up, so they will run for the hills. So if a known player runs from you – before he scores that is – you should take it as a good sign. Chances are he’s seen something he likes, he’s just not ready for it yet. Don’t wait around though, coz the ‘getting ready’ could take a while, and you could be miserable for a long time playing the waiting game.

You’re better off finding a nice ready guy who won’t keep you pending. And how can you tell? Easy, he’ll ask you out. He’ll treat you nice. He’ll try to be the perfect gentleman because he wants you to like him. And he won’t allude to sex on the first date. Probably not even on the second or third.

But then again, he could also be gay…

Manipulation 101

crystal — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 06:08:56 +0000

You’ve all heard the cliche – true diplomats send you to hell with a first class ticket and pretty flight attendants. I don’t know if it’s something in the blood or if it’s something you can acquire, but I have had a rather interesting few days, and if I’ve learnt anything, it’s how the mind of a manipulator works.

Let’s not call it manipulation – that sounds too … female. let’s call it … PR. Yes. Some people are so good at PR that they can sell you a rope, teach you to make a noose, and then sell you a casket for the funeral. And when they’re done, your ghost will come back to say thank you.

Now I am not manipulative. I do get people to do things, but usually I do it minus tact. My approach is “I want XYZ, will you do it or not?” This approach may be nice and honest, and it may leave me with a warm fuzzy feeling inside, but it gets very little done.

See, nobody likes to feel used. So the most effective way to use someone is to make sure they don’t know it, and even if they do, make sure they can’t help it. Speaking as someone who’s been recently and consistently copulated with my garments on, here are a few tips.

Always catch the manipulee offguard. The thing with alpha types is you can spot them from hukooooo aka a land far away. After a while, all your friends know you can wheedle them into things. That’s when they start to avoid you. So you have to catch them when they least expect it. Like at the shoe store. Nobody expects to get screwed at the shoe shop.

Which brings me to the second law of manipulation. To catch someone offguard, you need a blue herring. Forget red herrings. They are handy but ultimately fake, so they will eventually fail. A blue herring is an actual detractor, not just an empty distraction.

For an example, let’s go back to the shoe store analogy. If you want to corner someone at the shoe store, the perfect red herring would be to walk in and window shop. Once there, you can nab your target, and they won’t realise what you did until you leave the shop without new shoes.

A blue herring, on the other hand, would be to stand at the corner, safely out of sight, smash your heel to bits, then walk the 100 metres to the shop with a lopsided shoe, so that when you walk into the shop, the frustrated limp will be genuine. That way, if the manipulee sees through your trick a few hours later, they will remember your bruised foot and painful limp, and will actually feel guilty for doubting you.

Blue herrings don’t have to be quite that drastic. They are everywhere, you just have to keep your ears open. A manipulator’s best weapon is her power of observation. A blue herring could be when you ‘overhear’ that she is planning to make an overseas call, then conveniently sambaza her some credit. That way she owes you.

Once the blue herring gets you in the door, apply rule four. Do not let on that you need a favour. Make the manipulee feel like they are the ones doing you a favour. Playing damsel helps a lot here. Back to the shoe store, talk about how you loved those shoes, how they were the perfect fit, how they have this fabulous cinderella effect. Make sure the conversation is genuine, and let it last a minimum of thirty minutes. The longer it is, the more genuine it sounds.

Then tell them how you have a meeting/date/wedding reception and need to find the perfect shoes. Don’t ask, just bait the into advising you on what to buy. Pull the distracted look and puzzled frown and say someting like “I like red, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate … and after this morning I’m not sure about heels…” Play it well and they will even buy the shoes for you, to make your awful day better.

This is where rule five comes in – swoop for the kill. While you still have the sympathy and good will, you can stretch it into a ride for your errands. After all, you still have to get the ultimate date dress/wedding gift/atache case.

And while you’re at it, could she pass by the grocery next door to the gift shop? Oh and are those flowers? Now you have to dash to the meeting/date/reception, could she maybe drop off the stuff at your house? It would be soooo awesome and you would owe her forever!! Would she please let you fuel the car? It’s the least you can do, after all she’s been such a good friend. Chances are she won’t let you.

It will take her a while to realise that what you wanted all along was a ride around town to run your errands, and if she does, she’ll declare herself paranoid. After all, your shoe broke.

Pretty easy, isn’t it?

Now, to figure out how to outwit the manipulator and quit my job as resident manipulee…

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