New beginnings...

I’m sorry that I haven’t blogged in such a long time, but apparently real life desired my presence at the party. It’s been a long couple of weeks, but I’ve finally managed to set up a little home for myself, and I am really excited. I mean it’s not quite the same thing as moving out of home...did that six years ago. But living on my own? I honestly didn’t see this coming.

My first night was trying, but not in an OMG-I’m-lonely kind of way. You see, maps and I have never really got on. I have considerable difficulty deciding which way is up and where it is that I am standing. Even my phone, with which I endure a complicated and mostly disappointing relationship, can’t help: Google maps and navigation systems will have me walking in circles before figuring out that the little blue arrow needs more than 2 micro-seconds to adjust to a change in direction. And let’s face it; one looks a bit ridiculous standing on a street corner with a map that’s too large to comfortably hold, or with a phone that’s not ringing and is being held in similar fashion to a spirit level. It’s not...cool. I battled with my non-existent sense of direction till I found a shop where I could buy some food. I stocked up on a hearty liquid diet, threw a few other necessities in, and then headed back to properly say hello to the flat. Well, it turns out drinking alone really is as bad as they make out on TV. In fact, it’s worse. Most people that drink alone do so sitting down. This compounds the problem because in order to have something to stare at, you need a constant supply of beverage, but because you’re feet are disengaged you have no freaking idea how drunk you are. Imagine my surprise when I got up to do the dishes and my eyes did a drunken back flip. Unpacking was going to have to wait...

The next night was marginally more respectable as I’d planned to go out for a few drinks with friends. 3 single girls all in towering heels are bound to attract attention and it wasn’t long before we were surrounded by a group of gentlemen. I quickly established my position as the politically incorrect one when I said ‘You look a little sleepy’ to one of the gang, to which he smiled and replied, ‘I’m half Japanese’. Yes, I was going to need a lot more wine to survive that one. The evening proceeded well, till it was time for goodbyes. One of the guys lived close to me, so sharing a taxi made sense. Except, I couldn’t. I live alone, and I’d just met this person. And in that moment, I realised the enormity of my decision (did swap digits though ;-) )

The pros of living by ‘your lonesome’, as Tupac would put it, are numerous. Any level of cleanliness or ungodliness can be chosen, and people suffering from OCD traits (such as myself) can knock themselves out arranging shoes in colour and ‘frequency of use’ order, while throwing out all the psychiatrists’ numbers that their friends have passed on over the years. I am excited about doing yoga in a state of undress, singing horribly (and loudly) in the shower and learning even more wonderful things about myself. But these joys come with the frightening...like being a single female living on my own, needing an alarm, having to actually write a budget (flying by the seat of my pants will no longer cut it), and spending more than one evening alone, with nothing but my thoughts, the internet and a book. The thing that scares me most is not having someone there when you’ve had a bad day. You know, the kind where you want to be mad at the whole world, not speak to anyone, and yet, be comforted by the knowledge that someone is next door in case you need to throw something at the wall. I’ll definitely miss not having that. And I fear that if I learn to be self-sufficient in that regard, it’ll make me even more of an emotional cripple, *sips wine* and possible alcoholic. Here’s to new beginnings.

Mama Hold My Hand

I’ve been in quite a reflective mood...you know the kind that inspires corny status updates and annoying texts. So instead of thinking/reading, I’ve been drowning myself in music. Part of that has come with a few live gigs luckily, one of which was Aloe Blacc. He’s an artist I knew nothing about till recently, but I’ve fallen into deep like with because the brother has so much soul. I’ve been thinking about his track ‘Mama Hold My Hand’. This is in part because while watching the British Open on the BBC, they aired a documentary on Seve Ballesteros (Google is your friend) who was a pretty inspirational golfer; he was always smiling, but died of cancer at the age of 54. He was much younger than my parents. I’ve also had friends and family who have experienced loss recently, and yes, we all go through such things, but once in a while you stop and do the ‘look on the inside’ thing. I am fortunate enough to have a mother that I can say this to (and I did today, though explaining YouTube was absolute torture), but  that's not always the case. Even then, I would definitely love to be this person to someone one day, so here’s to an appreciative week... listen to the song here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P9D_h536mU0

Mama Hold My Hand – Aloe Blacc

Cross this road...

When I was just a little boy, Well I would go out to play

And I would wander so far from home, That I would lose my way

And I’d call on my mama to help me, And she’d come right away

To help me get back home where I wanna be, And here’s what I’d say

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think I can cross this road by myself

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think I can cross this road by myself

And when I was a young man, I would go astray

Didn’t want nobody to hold my hand, Wanted to make my own way

And my mama would come out to help me, But I’d push her away

Cause I just wanted to be on my own, And here’s what I’d say

Mama leave my hand, I been waiting to cross this road by myself

Cross this road by myself

Well now that I’m a grown man, And I’ve moved away,

I got a house, a nine to five and my wife, We got a kid on the way,

Mama told me that life’s gonna get rough, Take it day by day,

But every once in a while I get scared, And I wish I could say,

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think I can cross this road by myself

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think I can cross this road by myself

Now my mama is near the end of her years, and her hair is grey

Sometimes I call to ask her if she would like to spend the day

Mama used to be strong but she ain’t now, And she can’t make her way

That’s why I’m always around when she needs help, and here’s what I say

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think you can cross this road by yourself

Mama hold my hand, I don’t think you can cross this road by yourself.

Real life?! Meh.

A lot of my friends say that I suffer from a severe lack of seriousness. This is mostly true however, I will try and disprove them in this post (i.e. I will try be serious for a few paragraphs).

So, break-ups are really hard. They are especially so if the reason for the break-up is not because you’ve wound up in ‘dislike’, but rather because KPLC told you that the light at the end of the tunnel would be suspended forthwith.

[Sidebar: KPLC are the main electricity providers in Kenya, and have a reputation of reliably supplying darkness, stolen transformers, and malfunctioning appliances].

I have been attempting this only-like-one-person thing for a few months now, and it was going brilliantly. The gentleman in question had a whole dictionary (and then some) of two word retorts that made it possible to deal with all the varieties of crazy I could conjure. As a result, I started to behave in a somewhat sane manner. A happy medium that is, until two months ago when I found out information that upset the fine balance achieved. Everyone has a past, and the point at which you delve into these stories tends to be a defining moment for a fledgling relationship. It is when you decide that this relationship isn’t the thing for me, or in fact, our collective skeletons have a beautiful poetry that will add to the story of our lives together, and blah blah. IN or OUT.

Obviously, determining the significance of any skeleton requires good knowledge of what one is capable of dealing with. Here I was, faced with information of a past life that, to be honest, I could not rival. I had no story in my little repertoire that would top this one, and I could feel the playing field become decidedly uneven. My immediate reaction was ‘that’s ok, because at least he cares and...’, and things continued as normal. This was followed by an extended period of self-reflection where I walked around talking to myself, playing Eric Roberson over and over again, and reading poetry and James Bond books, and discovered that the relationship was over. 

Now I’m faced with an even bigger problem. See, my initial reaction to the revealed skeleton was >> INSERT EXTRAORDINARILY LONG BLANK STARE HERE<<. I have missed the window by so many months that anything on my part is disingenuous. And anyway, what response is acceptable? Is it fair to begrudge someone a life that they lived before they met you?! If that was the case, I’d probably lose out every single time. How do you tell someone that ‘I found out about this, and while I’m OK with it (for you), we can’t work...?’ That entire argument seems flawed, and yet, that is exactly how I feel.

So of course I’ve reverted to the norm and done the crazy thing. I’ve ended a relationship with someone in my head, and I’m trying to find a way to have the conversation out loud. We're both aware that something has died and been buried (> like a twitter joke), but it really is quite strange not saying it out loud. I suppose we (read me) are waiting for the right time...as if such a thing exists. I’m just grateful that kind mister knows I’m crazy enough to allow me the luxury. Meh. Real life sucks. Back to unseriousness 

(I've just poured tap water out my window to scare away a pigeon, and got the tourist sitting on the front step. Now hiding...)

Sugar, Spice...Maybe, Baby?

I realised my tolerance for pet names is very limited. I received a text yesterday that only said ‘baby’. Obviously, a few things troubled me about this message.

First of all, I am not on ‘baby’ terms with this person. I am not sure what his defunct assumption was, but he had made a gross miscalculation. Anyone on pet name terms with me will know that as the youngest and only female child of my parents, my ENTIRE FAMILY still calls me ‘baby’. As a result, I have never found this term endearing in other settings. Never. Also, when you’ve previously called me ‘sweetheart, hun, angel, babe, wardrobe, shoe’ and I have not responded in kind, it means I feel nothing. Apparently, he had mistaken this passive aggression in the past as ‘shy but receptive of his advances’. Yes, he suffers from that all too familiar ailment of ‘seeing what you want to see’.

Secondly, how the hell was I supposed to respond to that? Shake my rattle, or come out with ‘ga ga ga goo goo’ (or some other lady gaga song?!)? I responded with ‘you’re more than two decades late’, and even more depressing, was the person’s lack of wit. He replied with ‘huh?! So you’re well, babe?’ I began to pull out my hair, rent my clothes and apply ash at this point. How was a brother to be helped? To be honest, a lot of people appreciate being called baby. But if you are going to use that or any other term of endearment, you should expect an unlikely response. This is called preparedness. I once called someone ‘cookie’. This was a good friend, someone I was on familiar terms with. His response was ‘what? You’re going to eat me? Why didn’t you call me pineapple?’ I now choose wisely.

Thirdly, this gentleman is actually full of bullshit. You see, I am not completely against pet names, especially when I know people mean them. For example, if I call you diabz (Origin: madiaba- a Congolese dance style that involved vigorous booty shaking...VIGOROUS), I mean it. You have a nice arse. Or if I say sweetie, it’s probably in a condescending but desperately affectionate manner. My friends and loved ones employ the same rule with their pet names for me. Unfortunately this dude, who I’d only known a few weeks, decided to call me ‘baby’. This conjured images of a composting toilet regurgitating excrement. In fact, I am inclined to think that he had sent the same message out to many females in his address book, and unfortunately B was high up on that list otherwise known as the alphabet.

I’m all for courtship, but I think after the age of 16, there are far better ways to veil crap than in pet names. Rihanna (and the angels descend trumpeting as I make an unlikely pop reference) was on to something when she said ‘make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world’. Choose your lies wisely.