What do women want?

So I’m in the middle of a very entertaining conversation with a man, when he suddenly sits up and asks me that one most important question…not that one you deviant bastard, the other one…’What kind of man are you looking for?’  Cue frustration.  You know how men dread the ‘we have to talk’ phrase?  I dread this question just as much, if not more.  How the hell are you supposed to answer such a vague and loaded question?  Its not that I don’t understand where a man is coming from when he asks, half the time I’m busy trying to figure out the same thing, what does he want from me, and more importantly do I have it to give.  I get it, we’re all trying to draw a road map to happily ever after, but asking this question more often than not results in even more confusion, at least on my part. 

I’ve been searching a long time,
For someone exactly like you,
I’ve been travelling all around the world,
Waiting for you to come through…

Any lover of Rom Com’s knows this song only too well, it was used most memorably in ‘Bridget Jones’, the grand finale (i.e. the big kiss at the end), after she ran down the street in the middle of deep winter, in her knickers, to go get her man.  Slight detour, that kiss, to which this song is the soundtrack, transformed Colin Firth from serious man who could possibly be the sperm donor for my unborn children to ubersexy man who can wrap me in his coat any damn day…fog, vague lust, the usual.  Detour over.  The song is ‘Someone Like You’ by Van Morrison, singer, composer, general maker of weird and wonderful music, with a discography stretching from 1967 to the present, and be knowing he’s not a bugger of one album a decade, the man is prolific.  He is on every list of great musicians worth talking about, has won awards galore, has been inducted into every conceivable hall of fame, I think he even has an OBE thingi, but to us hoi polloi, he’s best known for the song, ‘Crazy Love’, yes, that one (she gives me love, love , love, love, crazy love…), ignore the many brilliant covers you’ve heard and dig up the original, its worth the effort.  For reasons I am yet to decipher, however, today’s track doesn’t rank as one his greatest hits, but that just goes to show how much I don’t know about music.  I know, I’m an uncultured idiot, uneducated in the ways of serious music, but dammit this song is just lovely, it has piano, and string thingis, and when he does his ‘aaaaaahhhhI’ve been, all around the world…’ at 2.40, my world goes a little quieter.  Seriously, play the song for yourself, listen to it and tell me he doesn’t move you when he sings.  Actually don’t tell me, I can’t handle the disappointment.   

Someone like you, make it all worth while,
Someone like you, keep me satisfied,
Someone exactly like you…

After writing a dodgy reply to a man who at this point must be staring at the email and wondering, ‘What was the question again?’ (such is the vagueness of my response), I decided to do a bit of research, convinced that, as with all problems man-related, google would have the answers I seek, and it did.  Another slight detour.  You know how they have that suggestion thingi that tries to guess what you want to ask, giving you options as you type in your query?  Apparently the suggestions are based in part on your search history, which is why these days when I type in anything that has ‘man’, the suggestions all have something to do with relationships, or sex, or a song.  That’s right, in my quest to bring you knowledge I have been marked as a thieving pirate, or a lonely woman, or a lonely horny woman.  Damn you google and all your snide little suggestions, damn you!  Detour over.  This is the best of what I found, and to be on the safe side you may want to read them for yourselves, because I have been known to mislead people in an attempt at making a point: What Women WantA Woman’s Worth, What a girl wants and 10 ways to be the man women want. 

According to the geniuses on the internet, and in this instance they really are geniuses (they’re simply saying what should be common sense, but isn’t), this is what women want:
     1. a man they can trust
     2. a man they can respect
     3. a man they can be friends with
     4. a man they can be lovers with
I know, confusing, right?  And this is after I’ve distilled it down to its essence.  Allow me to expound.

I’ve been travelling a hard road,
Looking for someone exactly like you,
I’ve been carrying my heavy load,
Waiting for the light to come shining through…

A man they can trust refers to sincerity and honesty, two qualities that were at the top of all but one list.  Simply put, (grown ass) women want a man who will be straight with her, whether or not she likes the truth he tells her.  And this is not just about what he says, but who he is as well, which means no pretending to be something, or someone, you’re not.  I know you think that women are shallow, fickle creatures who are easily distracted by shiny objects and what not, but I assure you, she will see through your ruse, sooner rather than later.  What you need to remember at all times is this, when a woman is interested in a man, she will go to great lengths to sniff out each and every flaw the man possesses.  She’s like a bloodhound and you, sir, in all your pretence, are nothing but a decomposing corpse, in a shallow grave, lying hidden in the swamp about to be discovered.  Now that I think about it, this is probably why women take deceit so seriously, and why lying to the woman is considered unforgivable.  Trust is the first hurdle you must jump, the last thing she needs is to find out that not only did you not jump the damn thing, you burnt it in a bonfire out back in the dark of night.  Lie to a woman at the beginning and you will never recover, not unless you have great skills of persuasion, or you are now a reformed man.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  

A man they can respect is, however, a bit harder to define, because it’s specific to the woman you’re dealing with and her idea of the ideal man (read fairy tale and daddy issues).  Generally, women want men who are suitably masculine, which to our minds means strong, confident, ambitious, with a dash of chivalry and a smidgen of raw macho maleness …think Idris Elba in Luther meets Idris Elba in Daddy’s Girls.  I know, using Idris as an example skews the field somewhat, but he’s one of the few men both men and women agree is bloody sexy, and absolutely brilliant.  There is one more attribute hidden in the ‘real man’ description, hidden because of the negative connotations it creates.  Women want a man who can take care of them, and by this she means a man who is capable of meeting all her needs, emotional, physical, and possibly financial.  I know, the money aspect tends to get many people, or possibly just me, foaming at the mouth, but it’s the inescapable reality, she needs to know that you can ‘provide’ for all her needs.  On the up side, these needs are as diverse as the women themselves.  It’s not just about money, is what I’m saying, but I’ve said it before at length (Aint nothing going on but the rent?), and I refuse to rehash.

I’ve been doing some soul searching,
To find out where you are at,
I’ve been up and down the highway,
In all kinds of foreign lands…

That a woman wants to her man to be her friend seems pretty obvious, doesn’t it?  Apparently not.  Gentlemen, this is where all the smart, funny and adventurous stuff comes in, because apparently women not only want to talk to their men, they want to enjoy hanging out with them too, they want to be your pal.  Who knew?  Yes, I’m mocking you buggers.  For some reason men, at least the men I’ve tried to date recently, don’t seem to understand this bit.  Where men place sex before friendship, women tend to do the reverse, at least when it comes to serious relationships, not flings.  The reason women like funny men is simply because they make us happy, and we like to be happy.  Again, who knew?  We love smart men because smart men are interesting to talk to, and occasionally they teach us something new, and we like that, a lot.  We crave men who will drag us out of our little cocoons and help us do all the interesting crap we’ve been dreaming of, or maybe join us on the exciting journeys we’re already on.  That’s what the shared interests are about, dammit, we just wanna hang with you.  These are the men who make us feel good about who we are, the way (real) friends do.  Are you willing to be that man?  If not, you might want to leave the poor woman to get on with her search, go focus on your funga instead.  Just a thought.

And the last one about wanting to be lovers?  Now this is the fun bit, its where the attractiveness of the man comes into play.  As a man, the thing you need to realise is that it doesn’t matter what the rest of the world thinks, all that matters is if she thinks you’re hot, and/or sexy, and by association if you make her feel hot, and/or sexy.  Really.  I’m sure you know a chick that’s dating a man who closely resembles the back of a bus, the same man she describes as a sexy, sexy man, and you’re sitting there wondering, eh?  Well I hate to break it to you, but contrary to what the glossy magazines and silly advertisements like to tell us, attractiveness and beauty are not synonymous, so stop walking around thinking that because you don’t look like Idris, she’ll never be interested in you.  I guarantee you, there is a woman out here looking at your ugly/too hairy/stunted/broke/cross-eyed/possibly stupid/(insert whatever flaw you imagine you have) ass and lusting after it with seriousness.  No really, she is.  Its all relative my lovely, they don’t say love is blind for nothing. 

Now I know that you men place a lot of emphasis on this ‘let’s be lovers’ part, because sex is almost always at the front of your minds, and that’s okay, sex is in fact quite important to your relationship.  But even as you go out in search of your woman, please keep in mind that this is at the end of her list, granted its a very short list, but it still came last.  Turns out, she hasn’t been holding out on you to make you suffer, its just not a priority to her right now, she’s just trying to be your friend first, no?  Insert evil laughter here…

Which brings me back to the beginning, and my awkward conversation.  Whenever I’m asked what I’m looking for in a man, my mind goes blank and I start fumbling around for answers, muttering something about not speaking for all women, and then adding something vague about a good man, and capping it all off with the tried and tested, ‘someone like me’.  What I should be saying, however, is that I have no idea, not really.  Truth is, I’ve always figured that picking a man is pretty much like buying a pair of shoes; I often walk into the shop with a very clear idea of what it is I want, say, a pair of heels for work, preferably black leather or maybe dark brown, sling-backs or maybe pumps, three inches high or maybe a cute kitten heel…I know what I want, right?  Of course I do.  That’s why I walk out with a pair of orange suede sandals, wedges no less, shoes that I cannot wear to work, and shoes that nothing in my wardrobe will ever work with, ever.  But I know what I want, right?  Same thing happens when picking a man, I’ll say I want a smart, sober, perceptive man, who’s 6 feet tall and loves Tolkein, and then I walk out of the shop (read bar) with a jackass who can’t read so much as a stop sign, or reach the stop sign for that matter, because he’s a midget, and crawling drunk. 

I’ve been all around the world,
Marching to the beat of a different drum,
But just lately I have realised,
The best is yet to come…

Clearly I have no clue, but I can tell you this much, I’ll know what I want when I see it.


This one is about the comment that never came, little shits and the bloody paper.

Hands up everyone who’s been waiting for JaybloodyK to post another comment.  Come on, stop pretending, you think I haven’t seen you stopping by every 6 or so hours?  Put your damn hand up… my hand is up and I’m not ashamed to say it.  I have been waiting three, count them, three whole days for that bugger to come back here and finish what he started, but nooooooo…  He’s too busy doing whatever the fuck he was doing before he rocked up in my house two weeks ago and rearranged my bloody furniture.  You know what he is?  He is a usurper, he usurped my shit and then he just wandered off.  Nkt!  That’s right Jay, I just Nkt’d you, so there! 

Seriously, dude… where’s my car?

And with that little piece of amateur sketch comedy, the matter of the vanishing JayK has now been closed until further notice.

Moving on swiftly…

I haven’t done one of my Dunia Wiki Hii rants for a while now, not because there’s nothing going in this special country of ours, but simply because I refuse to get worked up about it any more.  I figure, come December, when silly (read election) season is well under way, I will be so consumed with matters idiotic that its probably best I take a vacation first.  So I’m not going to sit here and bitch about those little shits we call MP’s; or the not so youthful presidential candidate who told Kofi Annan to, and I paraphrase, go fuck himself; or el presidente’s spokesman who admitted to snubbing said Mr Annan, but only because Mr Annan didn’t ‘firm up’ the appointment; or the MRC chap who was so thoroughly beaten by the cops that if he wasn’t a violent man when he went in, he sure as hell will be when he gets out; or the farce of a procurement process for the biometric thingis, because its very hard to buy shit when you have money; or the other farce that is the helicopter inquiry (note to self: usipande ndege ya serikali, ever!); or the Vice President’s ridiculously ugly palatial digs, and the one they want to buy the CJ, and the one a former army general turned Commish turned Postmaster General turned one-time contestant on Hague TV is trying to sell off; or our Ministers of Health’s shamelessness when dealing with our health care practitioners, when they both went abroad for treatment…  Woooosaaaaa! 

The number of things I could, and maybe should, bitch about is lengthy, but I’ve realised that if I’m not doing anything about it, then I’m not really helping the situation.  Sure, I feel much better after a rant, but then what?  Raising consciousness?  Ptuh!  I’ll do that shit in December, when the sun is shining. 

I must have a bit of a rant though, and this time it’s directed at my favourite people in the whole wide world, the lovely people over at the Saturday Nation.  You buggers, its bad enough that I would work myself up into quite a state each week on reading your very special columnists, but you, you bloody geniuses, you saw fit to bump off Femalespeak?  And you replaced her with what?  Ati woman of passion?  Eh?  Now you listen here, you bastards, when you moved Guy Mauwhatshisname to Monday, I mourned, for weeks, but I got over it.  Removing Ms Njoki, however, is unforgivable.  I may not have agreed with what she was saying half the time, but she got me thinking all the time.  Here’s a thought, thinking is good, I like to think, I like women who write thought provoking articles because they make me think, and I really like women who piss me off in the process, because then I have something to blog about.  You selfish bastards! 

It occurs to me that a more placating tone would be better suited to this appeal, no?  Ah well…

Listen you geniuses, for those of us newspaper junkies out here, we appreciate good writing, irrespective of whether or not we agree with the opinion expressed therein.  Ms Njoki was good writing, maybe a little troubled, but good, so bring her the fuck back and get rid of the idiots who write those boring features, like the X guy, and the Billy dude.  And stop with all the baby crap…oh wait, that’s the Standard…sorry, my bad.  I was saying, bring her back or I will stop buying your damn paper, and despite the ludicrous ads with the competing handbags and your 80% market-share, I’ve seen your circulation numbers my friends, you need all the paying customers you can get. 

Please?  There, I’ve asked nicely.

Oh and by the way, good work on the election coverage, I just love how you’ve stuck everything on two pages, helpfully titled Election Politics.  It makes it much easier to skip right over all the bullshit and go straight to Gado.  Good looking out.


Kuna vile jo...

Not seeing the rest of you, it’s getting the best of me,
Such a shame that you shot me down, would’ve have been nice to be around,
I’m touching your skin, if it’s only a fantasy then why is it killing me,
I guess this must be,

Don’t be fooled by all the crap they tell you, this is what really makes the world go round, not that love nonsense.  That first flush of attraction, the shy knowing smile, the fluttering feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, this one may just be worth the while, the stirrings of what may or may not be longing (read lust)… 

The most excellent soundtrack is by the always brilliant Maroon 5.  These buggers…  Not too often a rocker comes along and blurs the line between mzungu music and what us natives like to call soul, hopping across genres with ease that belies their lack of melanin.  Think Phil Collins, Eric Clapton, Michael Jackson (I couldn’t help it, you can’t make a black/white music list without including him, its just not done, no?); music is littered with artists who are as broad as they are deep.  While Maroon 5 are not on the same level as the likes of Van Morrison, they’re among the new(-ish) rock bands that transcend the narrow classification, often adding elements of R&B and hip hop into their music, with the resulting sound a peculiar brand of easy listening, pop rock, contemporary, funk, hip-rock, mish-mash of somewhat eclectic tunes.  Did that confuse you?  Good, that was the point, they’re a bit of a mind fuck this band, you don’t know why they work, they just do.  If you don’t believe me, and I know you don’t you bloody sceptics, look up the bonus tracks on ‘Hands All Over’, the deluxe edition, the acoustic version of ‘Misery’, then their covers of ‘If I Aint Got You’ and ‘Crazy Little Thing Called Love’, you will be confused, but in a very good way.  These buggers, they are the shit.  Plus the lead guy is pretty fly, for a white guy…

The song is ‘Infatuation’, off their second album (or third if you count the B-side album), a bonus track stuck on the end of the album no less.  As much as I love to share a good tune with you, this one you have to go find for yourself, because you need to get the whole album to fully appreciate the genius.  If you can’t track it down, email me and I’ll put this song up.  I can say that with the peace of mind that comes from knowing you will do no such thing.  Don’t worry, I’ll hum the song to you as you read…no really, go ahead…

Baby I don’t wanna spend my life on trial, for something that I did not do,
Maybe if you stopped and looked around sometime, I wouldn’t pass right by you,
Maybe it’s because you are so insecure, maybe you plain don’t care,
Maybe it’s the chase that really gets me off, I falter when it’s just not there…

In my strange universe, attraction often takes one of three forms, instant attraction, grudging acceptance and the sneak attack.  Patience, my lovelies, let me explain.  Instant attraction is what others call love/lust at first sight, and while I have my romantic moments (I do, really I do), when it comes to men they are few and far between, unfortunately, I can count the number of times it’s happened on one hand.  Yes, it’s that rare, but perhaps that’s because I have an almost paranoid distrust of pretty boys and flashy men, to my mind any man who makes such a great effort to look that good must be a deeply troubled individual.  What?  I’m just saying, narcissistic behaviour is often manifested in male manicures, no?  Grudging acceptance, on the other hand, is more common, its where I meet a man and he pisses me off by doing something particularly foolish, in the process earning himself a spot on my ‘men I will one day slap’ list, right below Sonko, but somehow, the man manages to not only redeem himself, he then proceeds to bowl me over with his (often very well disguised) brilliance.  The problem with this attraction is that it inevitably fizzles out, once the genius engages in yet another act of spectacular foolishness, and because he’s a man, that day must surely come, no? 

The last category, however, is my favourite, because it’s the most devious, and devastating.  You know how you meet a guy and he strikes you as not your type?  Its not that you don’t like him, you just can’t see it happening between the two of you, he’s too old or too young, too skinny or too fat, too broke or too rich (it happens, no?  No, it doesn’t.), too intellectual or too blonde, too alcoholic or too sober, too deviant or…what’s the opposite of deviant?  The point is, you write the man off, for whatever random reason, usually without telling the poor bastard.  That minor matter then settled, you proceed to relax and let your guard down, convinced that because you don’t fancy him, then he’s harmless.  Shock on you when the bugger worms his way past your noble intentions, common sense and strong moral fibre(s), and right into your house, and bed.  Stop looking at me like that, I know this shit has happened to you too, today he’s your ‘good friend’ and tomorrow you’re fantasising about the first kiss… don’t be shy, it happens to the best of us. 

Now fluffy Rom-Com’s and trashy novels would have us believing that this ‘friends then lovers’ approach is the way to true and lasting love, but I say, bollocks!  That’s right, it’s all a load of bullshit.  Ladies, that man has no interest whatsoever in being ‘friends’, he’s simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment to launch his campaign.  You don’t see it coming, because you’re busy looking in the wrong direction, and whatever strike he makes will hit the intended target, because, unbeknownst to you, you’ve already drawn him the bloody map!  It’s a sneak attack, you are completely defenceless against it, but dammit if it isn’t so much fun being led to the slaughterhouse like the proverbial baby sheep…

I try to put my finger on what burns me up, it always seems to escape me,
When you have decided that you’ve had enough, just tell where I need to be,
Now I’m facing something that I never had to ever deal with before,
She left me with the feeling that she had enough, and I’m the one wanting more…

The reason I’m going on about attraction is simply because it’s the spark to the flame of infatuation; first you see it (attraction), then you believe it (infatuation), and then you foolishly go ahead and do it (where ‘it’ is love, or sex, depending).  Now, I may not know much about love, clearly, and my theories on attraction border on masochism, again clearly, but if there’s one thing I know well its infatuation.  Hell, I’ve pretty much written the book on the damn thing, no?  I am an infatuation junkie, I have crushes on everything from random musicians to presidents in homburgs, but can you really blame me?  Who here doesn’t love the rush of a new man/woman, the sweet scent of possibility, the fragrant aroma of freshly brewed lust, the allure of lands as yet undiscovered? 

Oh come on… you didn’t really think I was actually going to get all lovey-dovey and poetic on your ass?  You poor, deluded creature, you must accept that given the slightest opportunity, I will seek the lowest common denominator, she says, as she rubs the small of your back in a calming circular motion… 

There’s nothing better than the rush you get when start considering the possibilities of something new, real possibilities, not deranged fantasies of happily ever after with the guy in the flat two floors down, he that doesn’t even know your name.  I’m talking about that moment that it finally clicks in your head that something could actually happen with the subject of your (undercover) attention, and that you’re okay with that idea.  Better than okay, you’re excited.  Your silent crush is about to burst into full blown, publicly acknowledged longing, with the promise of love and happiness in the not too distant future, but only if you don’t blow it by doing something foolish, like talking about the not too distant future of love and happiness.  Infatuation is the high wire act in the circus that is a relationship, its tension and drama and ‘heart in your mouth’ suspense.  There you are, holding your breath, waiting to see if you’ll make it to the other side and all the (alleged) rewards that lie just a few tantalizing steps away, but one tiny misstep and, to paraphrase Hank Azaria in ‘America’s Sweethearts’, “Puthy boy go thplat!” 

I once read that infatuation is triggered by the dopamine in your brain, that’s what makes your heart beat faster and what not, not unlike getting high on drugs.  Basically you’re in a excited mental state, its all chemical.  Put differently, for all intents and purposes, you’re out of your damn mind.  Thing is, once your brain has adjusted to all the new stimuli and calmed down, the effects wear off and you crash back down to earth, but after that rush, when reality sets in, the relationship can sometimes be a bit of a disappointment, no?  Think about it, when the bugger in the slinky leotard is done tiptoeing across the wire, how many of you stick around to watch him climb down?  Didn’t think so.  As lovely as being infatuated is, it’s not real.  Wait, that’s wrong, it is real, but it’s really short.  Short lived that is, it doesn’t last, which is a probably a good thing considering, can you imagine going through life in a constant state of nervous hyper-excitement, overworked sweat glands, awkward nonsensical giggling and rampant, aching lust?  I’ve had two weeks of this nonsense and I’m completely worn out. 

That’s right folks, I am currently infatuated with a man, or at least I was until the bastard forced me to do the sane thing and think with my head, instead of my loins, I mean heart, instead of my heart.  Bloody killjoy!  This being a mature woman thing is not nice, I am seriously not enjoying being clear headed and responsible, thinking about the repercussions of my (occasionally) foolish actions, where’s the fun in that I ask you?  It’s a crying shame, is all I’m saying, I want to go back to being a silly teenager, ruled by nothing but hormones.  Then again, maybe not.  At least now I’m old enough to really know what’s going on, no?  Instead of worrying about silly nonsense like how my hair looks and if I’m smelling fresh enough, I can sit back and enjoy it for what it is, a delightful, and temporary, high, and you know I like me some high. 

I’m so attracted to you,
The feeling’s mutual too,
I get scared the moment you leave,
It’s so hard I forget to breathe…

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take another hit off his pipe, because I am a grown ass woman who gets to suck on whatever she wants.  I’m talking about the dopamine, you bloody perverts… 


You buggers, do you actually speaka da English?

Every so often I’ll have a conversation with a man that will leave me wondering if we are of the same species, hell, I’m starting to think you bastards are all aliens, and illiterate ones at that.  Is it so hard to tell me, “Look here woman, there’s a way I penda your ass like a nonsense, si we hook up?  I know, that’s not very sexy, but at least it’s direct and to the point, no?  What is it about men?  For whatever reason you buggers find it damn near impossible to say what you feel for a woman to that (specific) woman.  Oh sure, you’ll go out of our way to ‘show’ your intentions, with (not) expensive gifts and lengthy dinners, elaborate emails and long phone calls, funny tweets and sexy pokes, such like courting nonsense, instead of just looking her dead in the eye and telling her what it is you want and need from her.  Is it so hard to tell that woman that you think she’s the best thing since sliced bread?  Is it really that great a challenge to tell her you crave her like an addict craves smack?  Or is it simply that we don’t speak the same language?  

I am vexed, is all I’m saying, and I’ve concluded that these communication problems are the reason half of us are single, and the other half would like to be.  Folks, today we’re going to break this language barrier, if only so that I’m no longer the slow idiot who doesn’t realise a man wishes her, until he no longer does.   

As always, I turned to google for some unscientific research, such as I do, but oddly enough this time the search itself was more helpful than the results.  First I googled ‘men+women+different+language’, but the results were either psychology mumbo jumbo or marriage counselling, clearly not relevant to me, seeing as how I’m both (not entirely) sane and single.  Next I googled ‘trying to figure men out’, and the results were a load of ‘don’t try and be what he wants, be what you want, be a better you…’ self help bullshit, also not useful (I mean, come on, ‘How can you improve on this?’ she says, pointing at her fabulous, if somewhat delusional, self.  No?  Ah well…).  Getting frustrated, I punched in ‘what is he really saying?’, and that’s when I hit the mother lode, 1.13 billion results, everything from the always frustrating, and ultimately useless, pieces of dating advice from ‘experts’ (all for the magic price of $29.99), through to random analysis of what season four of Mad Men was all about, because that’s somehow related to what men say, apparently.  It would appear that in my quest for clarity, I stumbled upon a question that has been asked by very many people, very many times.

Slight detour, so where do us allegedly undeveloped types (read natives) go for relationship (and I use this term most loosely) advice, online that is?  Is that a paradox, undeveloped and online?  Whenever I search for relationship stuff, the sites I find are mostly by and about Americans, and maybe the Brits, probably because I’m searching in English no doubt, and while I believe the human condition is universal, I suspect some of our problems are not the same.  I’m just saying, when I’m trying to figure out what a Kenyan man meant when he said, “Shoree…si you know I feel you vibayaz…”, I’m not convinced that someone sitting an ocean or two away has the requisite knowledge to help me out, not really.  Where the hell are all the African (or Kenyan for that matter) shrinks, agony aunts, such like ‘dating experts’?  We have relationships too, dammit, stands to reason that there would be one of our own looking to make money off our misery, no?  Ah yes, that’s why they sell us Saturday papers, no?  Detour over.

Before I get into the dodgy research, I’ll be needing you to play the song.  Just press play, this post has a certain rhythm to it, plus the song is funky enough to dance to.  That’s right, my people, today we are getting down!  Give it a minute to buffer, then read on.

You’re not going to play it, are you?  You just shook your head, didn’t you?  Useless buggers.

Sure baby we could be friends… 

As it turns out, there are a million and one sites (literally) on how to ‘decode’ men, what they say, what they do, how they do, how they don’t do, why they do, why they don’t do…its a bit scary how much time has been devoted to this one topic.  Thing is, after wading through more ‘dating advice’ sites than are recommended for someone my age (I should know better by now, no?  No.), I realised that its pretty much the same shit being said in not too many different ways, how to read his body language (Decode any guy in seconds), how to read his mind (36.5 Truths About  Men), even how to decipher his text, as in sms, if you can believe it (Does he like me?).  What I was specifically interested in, though, was what men say and what they mean by it.  In my girl brain, for example, when a man asks me, “Do you have a meeting in the morning?” I take that to mean, “Do you have a meeting in the morning?”, but according to this brilliant article (Translating man speak), the man was really asking, “Do you want to go home with me tonight?  Kuna vile jo…”, and this while I was standing there thinking, “Kwani this bugger doesn’t want to take me home tonight?  Kuna vile jo…”  Now I know I can be a bit slow when it comes to some of these things, but surely, how does asking about tomorrow morning mean you want to have sex tonight?  In what universe is that even remotely logical?  Do you see what I mean by a different language? 

Girl just relax, I know we just started talking,
Girl I can’t help, but to think how we’d be,
We could sail the seven seas like it was a dream,
We can climb the highest mountain, know what I mean,
Or just chill and watch a movie, or look at TV,
Baby you just gotta trust, I promise you’ll see… 

Which brings me to today’s soundtrack, ‘Why just be friends’, a song that always gets me swaying the hips, even when I’m sitting down (I’m doing it right now…).  You know how I keep saying I’m a music junkie?  Its slightly worse than that, see there’s a never ending stream of music in my background, like the soundtrack in a movie, even when there’s nothing actually playing, and while that is usually brilliant, sometimes the line between fiction and reality gets blurred in my head.  Every so often I forget that life isn’t a mellow R&B track, especially when it comes to matters romance.  As strange as it sounds, I often go out there expecting men to step up to me with lines of great clarity, like in a typical R&B jam; boy meets girl, boy likes girl, boy tells girl he likes her, in rhyming verse no less, then girl falls for boy, all’s well that ends well; but real life is never that easy, is it?  I’m sitting there thinking a bugger is saying what he means, because, to my mind, that’s how a man seduces a woman, and meanwhile the bugger is just being a normal bugger.  Its not his fault I’m clueless and unable to ‘decode’, I’m just wrapped up in a make-believe world of simple lyrics and catchy melodies, hell, it’s a miracle I don’t sway my head when said bugger starts talking (because I’m hearing, make that feeling, the music, unfortunately by myself).  Its no wonder I almost always miss the cues he’s sending, I’m not entirely present at the time, am I? 

Seriously though, my peculiar tendencies (and possible mental imbalance) aside, I’ve come to the conclusion that when it comes to dating the general rule of thumb is less is more.  Don’t say, or do, too much, and for crying out loud, do not ever tell someone what you want, what you really want.  How depressing is that?  Now from what I read, and what I’ve learnt from experience, men, being the allegedly shy bastards they are, will rarely tell a woman what they want, instead preferring to hide behind euphemisms, anachronisms, generalisms, all manner of isms, anything to help him tell a woman he likes her without actually telling her he likes her, because that would just be silly, being straight forward like that.  Can you imagine the utter devastation that would occur if men went around speaking clearly?  Women all over the world would understand you…the horror!  Yes, I’m mocking you.  I’m mocking all of us. 

I don’t want to move too fast, but girl I’m ready,
No pressure girl, just sit back and let it be,
If I’m rushing baby girl just let me know,
It ain’t no thing for me to stop and take it slow,
I ain’t trying to make you feel uncomfortable,
But I can’t help feeling like you are the one I’m looking’ for…

There’s a massive industry dedicated to giving us allegedly clueless types tips on everything from saying hello to crying goodbye, offering up quick solutions and cheat sheets, clichés and metaphors, feel good rubbish and nonsense affirmations, but all they’re doing is treating the symptoms, not the disease.  We say we want to know how they feel about us, but what we really want to know is whether they feel the same way we do, we’re simply running scared and looking for some form of reassurance, even from the dodgiest of sources, like Cosmo, or the Saturday Magazine, or suspect blogs like mine, and maybe Doc’s (he has a four part series on rejection, I’m not kidding…).  Truth is, this decoding bullshit isn’t about differences, it’s about the similarities between the two sexes, we’re both out here trying to say as little as possible, so as not to get crushed into insignificant little pieces when the object of our affection rejects us, with malice no less. 

People, life is hard enough without having to read in between the lines all the bloody time, and the last thing we need is to complicate an already overly complicated dating scene with words unsaid or misconstrued, no?  Look at it this way, if we stopped hiding behind fluffy meaningless phrases and actually said what it is we really want, perhaps we’d actually get round to going on dates and shit, and enjoying them.  Just a thought… 

Now I know that love has failed you many times before,
But I’m trying to make you see,
That the only one is me,
So forget those other guys you dated long ago,
And just let your mind be free,
Let’s be more than just friends…

Listen, I get that men are afraid of rejection and therefore cautious, but here’s the thing, women are too.  No one likes to be knocked back, that shit makes you feel horrible, like you’re suddenly 2 inches tall (big?), or embarrassingly naked in a room full of fully clothed strangers, but every so often you have to grow a pair and just spit it out.  I’m constantly scared that the boy I like, and by like I mean harbour faint hopes of one day exchanging choice bodily fluids with, that he won’t like me back, or worse, that he’ll like me, then stop liking me before I stop liking him.  Thing is, fear is a nasty thing to carry around, it has a way of seeping into even the most remote part of your psyche, and then eventually seeping out.  I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of seeping through life. 

The next time I’m in one of those vague situations and I’m struggling to figure out what language the bugger is speaking, all the while being careful not to say too much lest I expose myself, I’m going to try a new approach.  I’m going to go ahead tell him what it is I want, and don’t want, in short sentences, using small words that cannot possibly be misunderstood, in the pathetic hope that letting my guard down will earn me a direct response.  Worst case scenario, the man then tells me to go fuck myself, and I do.

And all you gotta do is take it off… 


(not) dating drama...

One of the best things about being female is that we’re generally allowed, make that able, to change our minds at a moment’s notice.  Thanks to my ovaries, I get to say ‘I’m looking for a man whore’ one week, then turn around and say ‘I want to date’ the following week.  That’s right folks, this week I’m going all girl on your behind(s).  I am going to flip and flop all over the place, and if you quote my earlier statements back to me, I will make like a politician and deny, deny, deny!  I don’t care what you have in writing, so there!  You can sue me if you’re unhappy.  Disclaimer out of the way, I shall now get on with it. 

I want to go on a date, dammit!  And soon, before I finally give in and take one of my stalker’s very many calls.

Slight detour, so I think I officially have a stalker.  Stop laughing, I’m being serious.  I met this man in June and within hours of meeting he’d named me his ‘soulmate’, among other things.  I had two and a half drinks with him a couple of days later, in a dodgy bar no less, and now, 3 months later, the man is still calling me, at 11:30 at night, roughly twice a week.  Now I’m sure that I am an amazing date (no?), but 3 months?  Really?  What part of ‘I continually refuse to pick up your calls at midnight’ is unclear?  Okay, so maybe I kissed you goodnight that one night, but it was a sympathy kiss, you’d just spent the night crying into your beer about the ex who left you, seemed like you needed a bit of a boost is all.  See, this is what you get for showing a bit of kindness to a stranger, no good deed and what not.  You’re not buying that are you?  Fine, I kissed the bugger in an attempt to redeem what had turned out to be a very peculiar night, figured I might as well get something out of it.  I didn’t.  Oh how I didn’t…  You know how I keep saying my men are batshit insane?  This bastard makes the rest look like amateurs.  Really.  When a man not only claims to have a mental condition of the obsessive variety, but then goes ahead to disclose the fact that he diagnosed himself, after watching a documentary on TV no less, and then informs me that my recent entry into his life, 48 hours ago, is just what the doctor ordered (or didn’t, as is the case)…  Eh?  What the…  Then again, in light of the past three months, it would appear his self diagnosis was spot on, no?  My life really is a tragic comedy, isn’t it?  Stop nodding.  Detour over.

I need to go on a date, a real date, not a loose drink after work, or breakfast the morning after the night before, I’m talking about a meal in one of those restaurants with sheets on the tables and everything.  I want to spend an afternoon at the salon getting plucked, pruned and buffed to within an inch of my life. I want to spend another 2 hours standing in front of my wardrobe staring at the only two tops I own that could be misconstrued as vaguely sexy (yaani they’re low-cut enough to distract a man long enough for me to order an expensive piece of meat, and/or wine, and maybe dessert), the same top that will be paired with the only pair of jeans I own that make my ass look luscious (read firmer).  And then I get to spend another half hour trying to decide between the flat loafers that do nothing for my deportment, but are comfortable enough for me to outrun a carjacker in, should the situation arise (this is a serious concern for me), and the heels that make my legs look sexy as hell (delusional, remember?), but that will in all likelihood cause blisters if I stand in them for more than half an hour.  I know, weighty decisions, no?  No?  You just don’t get it. 

Once I’m suitably coiffed and attired, I want to spend half an hour, nervously sitting by the phone, waiting for the ‘I can’t make it’ call, or more likely text, in reply to the (not so) casual ‘Hi, are we still on?’ text I sent about 3 hours earlier, give or take an hour.  Finally, having gotten no response from the man and having decided to take the chance at not being stood up for a change, I shall leave the house, the stone of dread at the bottom of my stomach being tickled by the butterflies of excitement, making sure that I have my wallet with me, containing enough cash for me AND my date (don’t ask).  Then I shall make the short drive up the road to the recently designated date restaurant cum bar, all the while trying to remember if I brushed my teeth (because fresh breath is my biggest concern at that point, no?), consoling myself with the knowledge that if I’m going to be stood up, at least I’ll get stood up in my almost local, where the barman will generously buy me (possibly a lot of) tequila and listen to me rail against the other half of the species.  What?  You think I’m being too negative?  Perhaps, then again perhaps not.  You know what they say, failing to plan is planning to fail.   

Oh the joys of dating, I get to use all the crap clichés I have stored away in the dark recesses of my brain.  Moving on swiftly…

I want to walk into the bar and find the man sitting at the counter, waiting for me.  I like it when I find a man waiting for me, it means he’s punctual, seeing as how I’m rarely late for these things (thanks to my OCD tendencies, plus I’ve been waiting for this moment practically the whole day so you best believe I’ll be there on time), and punctual is very, very sexy.  More important, I want to find him already seated because I like to see the look on his face when I walk in, that look pretty much determines how the rest of the date will go.  Useless tip for the ladies, if the man looks up and smiles when you walk in, the man is happy to see you.  I said useless, didnt I?  Seriously though, there’s a way a man smiles when he’s really happy to see you, he lights up…the best description is childlike joy, pure unadulterated delight.  That first look is un-blinkered, before he has time to put his guard up and resume his macho, oh so restrained bullshit (read nervous posturing).  The only other time you’ll get that look is after you’ve just shagged him to the moon and back, the only difference being that on the date his eyes won’t be cross eyed, I hope.  I want to see the ‘disturbingly happy to see you’ look on my date, it reassures me that whatever else may transpire, at least I’m sure he wanted to be there to begin with.   

As for the rest of the date, well, for as long as I manage not to spill any food or drink on myself, and I do not tell my very silly goat story, which for some reason always makes me snort in laughter (a real snort, I assure you its very embarrassing), and I do not blurt out anything too offensive, which happens more often than I care to admit (especially if he brings up religion, or his ex, or Arsenal), and I do not, under any circumstances, get shit-faced drunk, if none of that happens then the date will go just fine.  Honestly, for as long as I am out of the house, in a joint with half decent service and clean washrooms, with a halfway decent conversationalist, plus a good red to boot, then I’m a happy camper. 

I realise it seems strange that I’ll happily put down 1000 words to describe the preparation for the date, and only 50 words on the actual date, but my rule has always been to plan for things I can control and leave the rest to fate/destiny/the recently impregnated karma bitch (another Kai Nikii? first, and by Ms B no less.  I always thought it would be a deviant who’d get someone pregnant in my house).  I figure, there’s no sense wasting time thinking about what a man will or will not say, will or will not do, such like nonsense, the bugger will do whatever possesses his addled brain at that point, mine is simply to survive long enough to see the main, and possibly only, course.  Thing is, my hankering for a date isn’t only about the man, its also about the process, I like the anticipation of what’s to come, the fuss I go through, the ridiculous stress of getting out of the house looking (marginally?) better than usual.  Simply put, I like the foreplay, sometimes more than I like the actual thing.  Strange?  Perhaps, but I have never claimed to be normal, have I? 

And now that I’ve decided I want a date, all that’s left is to go out and find one.  Oh joy!  My default method was online, but in light of recent events (stalker anyone?), I’m thinking perhaps not.  I think I have to go and meet a man in the flesh.  Where does one do that these days I wonder?  Bar?  Too tedious, I’d have to get all gussied up repeatedly to go hunt, only to end up with what seemed to be an attractive specimen under the UV lights, but turned out to be a bit of a dog, and not in a good way, in the harsh light of day.  Church?  Insert hysterical laughter here…  Work?  That could work, but then I get to choose between delinquent clients and even more delinquent colleagues, and their wives.  Perhaps not?  Maybe I should take up an interesting hobby, like bird watching, or maybe join a book club.  Only I don’t like people very much, so that probably won’t work too well for me.  I could join a gym, no?  No.  Bloody hell, where does an anti-social, lazy bugger like me go to find a date?  Ah yes, that would be the internet.

And right on cue, my stalker calls, again…


Blogging 104: Let's Stay Together...

Let me say that since,
Since we’ve been together,  
Loving you forever,
Is all I need,
Let me be the one you come running to,
I’ll never be untrue,
Oh baby let’s, let’s stay together,
Loving you whether, whether,
Times are good or bad, happy or sad…

I have a mini hi-fi, which, for those of you younglings who have never seen a hi-fi with a tape deck, is one of those compact thingis that can fit in your handbag, minus speakers of course (unless you’re one of those misguided chicks who carries a Friday Funga sized bag).  Being the complete technophobe I am, I have a 1-disc changer…hang on, can you call it a changer when it only plays the one disc?...I was saying, I have a 1-disc changer, which means that the last CD I played today will probably be the first CD I play tomorrow, and since I wrote the shag me now post, Tina Turner has been stuck in the player on repeat, in part because I haven’t had too much time to play much of anything this past week, but mostly because every time I think of taking it out, I get it into my head to play it again, just one more time. 

Slight detour, this explains why I’ve felt the need to wear skirts to work this week, you can’t channel Tina without the legs and heels, no?  I’ve been strutting around the city make-believing like I’m in a music video, and all because I’m too lazy to change the damn CD?  Who knew?  And there you have it, yet another useless tip on wardrobe choices for the discerning woman looking to get her groovy walk on.  Further detour, my dear City Council of Nairobi, can you please do something about the cracked pavements in the CBD?  It’s hard for a girl strut confidently when she’s forced to weave drunkenly to avoid the numerous, and I am not using this term lightly, pitfalls scattered all over the place.  I’m just saying, I nearly broke my ankle on Wednesday.  Detour over, back to the song…

Today’s track is Tina Turner’s cover of Al Green’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’, the song I always thought would be my wedding song (the one they play for the first dance), at least I did until my ex played it at his wedding and now I can’t use it, bloody song stealing bastard, but that’s a story for another day.  My earliest recollection of this song is from around 1986, it was on some random collection of many videos (this was back in the days of VHS), no doubt dubbed by the would-be pirate neighbour I’m guessing, although truth be told I don’t remember where the tape came from, I just remember watching it.  My elder siblings were caught up in the then hit music of Levert (Casanova) and Mac Band (Roses are red), such like funky tunes, but being the uncoordinated blob/basketball with an afro I was, this song was more my style, slow, but not too slow, therefore easier to dance, and sing, along to.  To this day I can still recall the dress she had on and how she swayed oh so seductively as she sung…if you’ve watched Tina you just smiled, the woman can sway like no other…all I wanted at that point was to get up on that stage and sway with her.  What?  I was 9 years old, I was bloody impressionable, and I couldn’t dance all that well so swaying was pretty much the only option open to me.  Don’t worry, I grew up and found rhythm.  No really, I did, she says, looking away all innocent like…

I’m, I’m so in love with you,
Whatever you want to do,
It’s all right with me…
Let me be the one you come running to,
I’ll never be untrue,
Oh baby let’s, let’s stay together,
Loving you whether, whether,
Times are good or bad, happy or sad…

Folks, it would appear that blogging has a shelf life, after year one things start to slow down, and if you’re lucky enough to make it to year two then you’ve earned the right to post once a quarter.  Why is that?  What is it about blogging that makes it so unsustainable?  Is it because most bloggers, myself included, are not writers, at least not in the professional sense, and therefore disinclined to spend their valuable time in service of this most demanding hobby?  And if that’s the case then you’d assume that the buggers who write for a living, they with the real talent, would be the ones with long running blogs, no?  No.  Seems even they call it quits, eventually.  Don’t fret my pet, I’m not going anywhere just yet, but that’s only because I’m not a very serious person.  And I still have no cat.  Or man/housemate.  No doubt when I get something else to distract me, I shall start giving you the run-around, but until then I’m afraid you’re stuck with me (insert evil laugh, nay, cackle, here…).

I came to this party quite late, seemingly well after the hey-days of…who were the famous bloggers back in the day?  Hell, I got online long after ‘sue da poco’ made being an educated ho a novelty.  Now, the good thing about being last to the party is that I keep discovering new blogs all the time, which means I constantly have new reading material, which you know I love.  The problem is, most of the ‘new’ blogs I unearth are in fact old blogs, dead or dying off, which then means that once I’ve caught up, there’s nothing more to read, and that’s not good.  Imagine stumbling across the blog equivalent of Asterix, or Chimamanda if that’s more your style, and then a few minutes later you realise that there are only 10 pages in the damn book…its bloody heartbreaking is what it is. I know, this blogging racket isn’t a paying job, but perhaps for some of these long lost buggers, perhaps it should be, no?

If I wasn’t a blogger, this would be a whiny post about how these selfish buggers just stop writing when they feel like without giving a second thought to their mafans, but I am a blogger so I know better.  I get that you cant keep doing this shit indefinitely, that more often than not blogging is just the first step on a journey of self discovery, a journey that usually continues away from the keyboard, out in the real world, but that doesn’t make it any easier to come to terms with the final instalment of the series, does it?  Fortunately, especially for late comers like me, the beauty of blogging is that you can never tell what impact you have and what legacy you leave behind; whose fingers you inspire to type up thoughts of their own, if only because they’re tired of waiting for you to resolve your bar angst; whose mornings you’ll make with embarrassing tales of new camera phones and ostriches; whose battered hearts you’ll soothe with the unexpected advice to put on a yellow sun dress, paired with a thick belt; whose love of fiction you will reignite with a short story so brilliantly written; whose civic pride you’ll trigger with calls for a loose hour of nudity to fight the terrorist neighbours…

Which brings me back to the soundtrack for today.  By now you’ve realised I have a certain disdain for covers, especially when I love the original, but this has to be one of the most brilliant covers of an Al Green track I have ever heard.  Hell, its so good The Rev covered Ms Turner’s cover of his own damn song.  Now I didn’t hear the original until more than a decade later, but by then it was too late.  Its not that I don’t like the original, my love for The Rev is only exceeded by my love for Freddie Jackson, and even then, only just.  Thing is, despite the fact that I know in my mind that the two songs are in fact one and the same, to my ear they’re not, to my ear, and I presume my soul, these two songs are night and day, the only thing they have in common is the lyrics.  I can’t explain it, but Tina takes me back to a quiet childhood and gets me swaying, while The Rev takes me back to a couple of years ago and a long boozy dinner with an old friend.  The mind is a strange thing, no?  

The point to my rambling is this.  You know how they say imitation is the greatest form of flattery?  Its not.  The greatest form of flattery is taking something magnificent and making it your fabulous own, simultaneously paying homage to those that came before and leaving something behind, for those that will come after. 

Why, oh tell me, why do people break up,
Then turn around and make up,
I just can’t see…
You’ll never do that to me, would you babe,
‘Cause being around you is all I see,
So baby let’s, we outta stay together,
Loving you whether, whether,
Times are good or bad, happy or sad…


Are you the one?

Every so often I read something in the papers that just makes my day, or month.  Its usually something very idiotic like the all too common reports of ‘secret meetings’ between politicians (if its secret, then how do you know about it?); or a nonsense puff piece about a woman/activist who claims to have 5 children, and not just the one, yet can’t be bothered to name them, and the journo cant be bothered to investigate (I’d bitch about this but I’m scared of Lucy); but this Saturday was special, and this time it was an ad than did it for me, a personal ad to be precise. 

Now I love reading the personals.  Scratch that, I’m addicted to the personals, the never ending search for love/lust is my one guilty pleasure in the papers.  Trust me, after you’ve had to write your own ad/profile, you learn to appreciate the work that goes into them, or doesn’t, and how to spot the earnest from the swindlers, to the downright crazy.  See what you don’t know, oh ye ‘I would never stoop so low’ self-righteous bastards, is that there’s a science to pimping yourself; you have play up your attributes without sounding pompous, play down your flaws without sounding insecure, be ambiguous enough to attract as many idiots as possible, but clear enough to steer away the plain unacceptable; it’s a fine balancing act, and as a connoisseur let me tell you that not too many get it right.  Creating a personal/profile is like trying to sell a tub of BlueBand, no matter how you dress it up, its still a tub of (unnatural?) fat.  It’s notoriously unhealthy, synthetic to the point of resembling molten rubber, so unessential that if you do without it for a week you forget what it tastes like, but someone out there is convinced it’s the shit, all they need is for you to tell them why, preferably with an ad extolling the added vitamin D (very healthy, no?).  

The biggest problem with pimping yourself is that its taken as a sign of failure when you do.  Why are you single?  Is there something wrong with you?  If you’re as great as you say you are, then why hasn’t someone snapped you up already?  Are you so desperate that you’ve taken to soliciting strangers?  Admit it, these are the questions running through your mind when you see these ads.  Thing is, the person who put up said ad probably thought the exact same thing, and still went ahead and did it.  There can be no shame in that game, is all I’m saying, unless the ad is crap then perhaps some shame may be warranted.  But today it’s not about the why, it’s about the how, how to write, and read, a good personal, and thanks to this lovely genius, we have a case study.  Incidentally, I’m assuming because it was in the papers then I’m allowed to do with it as I please, public domain and what not.  If not, I suspect someone will let me know. 

Did you happen to see this piece of brilliance?

from the Saturday magazine

Manna from heaven, no?  It’s like the gods of nonsense read my blank mind and sent me this little gem, pun wholly intended, to have my way with.

First things first, the man paid for an ad on page 16.  That’s right, this was not in the classifieds, he spent real money, an ad this size must have set him back a couple of thousands, especially with the colour and everything.  Bloody hell!  He must be a very serious man.  Or not, do you see the caption in the corner about coloured diamonds being rare and therefore historically significant?  He is a poet, he does not know it…  Moving on swiftly…  So this guy is allegedly a 6 ft tall Kikuyu man?  Say what now?  Now my tribe was blessed with many, many attributes, but height was not one of them.  Roho tu safi, we are generally a bunch of short ass bastards.  No really, you can count the number of Kuyo’s above 5’8” on one hand, and all of them have Maa blood in them, thus for the purposes of this discussion do not count.  Thing is, almost all men lie about their height in their personals, sometimes (allegedly) unknowingly.  I once met a guy online who claimed to be 5’7”, but when I met him in person he turned out to be a couple of inches shorter than me.  I’m 5’7”.  Stop laughing.  The bugger actually had the audacity to ask me why I lied about my height on my profile, seeing as I was so tall, and he was quite serious.  These men I keep meeting are not entirely sane, are they?  Back to the gem search… 

This man describes himself as…wait for it…God fearing.  See, no half decent ad is complete without that mandatory line, how else will they know that you’re not like a pagan, or a devil worshipper or something such like?  That line is the equivalent of going to Church to look for a spouse, it’s code for, ‘I’m not here to fuck around, I mean business!’  If you put that in your profile, be prepared to have discussions about Proverbs over coffee.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Then there’s the bit where he calls himself a ‘visionary with integrity’, but I don’t know what that means (sounds like hes a guy of sharas, or a pastor/reverend/bishop/apostle, no?  No?), but I’d be willing to overlook that because he says he ‘usually smells quite good’.

And then comes the really good bit where he describes what he’s looking for.  Now at this point of the personal, I sink a little lower into my chair, salivating.  ‘Why?’ you ask.  ‘Let me show you, innocent one,’ she chuckles.  Usually people will try and restrain themselves when talking about themselves, partly because it makes you feel self conscious to do so, but mostly because self awareness is sadly lacking (put differently, delusional tendencies are common amongst the lovelorn).  Ask them to describe what it is they want, however, and all the foolishness flows out, page upon page of unrealistic expectations…  Its bloody brilliant!  Its the chocolate sprinkles to the ice cream that is the personal.  And this bugger?  He’s good, really good!  He says he’s looking for ‘a queen’, ‘that she may sit beside me on my throne’.  Yawa!!!  My friend, this is a very serious man, mpaka he has a throne and everything?  Skip past the complexion (which chocolate?  Milk, dark, white, caramel) and age requirements (I’m too old, dammit!), past the decent family and polished qualities, past the ban on weaves (really?), past the college degree and mandatory HIV test…all that is fluff, standard operating procedure for a personal.  The next bit, where he customises the template, is what counts, ‘she should also either be a Sagittarius or Libra…’.  Eh?  Now I’ve seen a lot of shit, but this has to be the first time a man has specified a desired star sign.  Which one is sagiwhatever, December or April?  More importantly, what does it matter?  Even more importantly, why on earth is a grown ass man concerned about astrology?  And don’t even try and give me that saga about personalities and what not, that is just odd, this bugger will cook your rabbit if you joke

And last, and definitely not least, he felt the need to clarify that the following will not be tolerated:
  1. gold diggers (because he clearly has gold),
  2. non serious (because he is so very serious), and
  3. independent/modern woman (because he is looking for a homemaker, who appreciates family and old school values, and this coming from the never married father of two?).
Now do you see why I love the personals?  I couldn’t make this shit up if you paid me.   

I know I shouldn’t, but I am sorely tempted to write to this genius, the only thing stopping me is the thought of all the bad karma I’d generate with that stunt, because the last thing I need is bad karma, right?