So.

For a little over a week, I felt what it was like to be sanguine. I have to admit, it’s kinda fun being so funky and pretty and energized all the time. And you ladies [Max, Loco, Thogori, Kipepeo] do it so well ! It was a pleasure serving with you.

But I can’t do it fulltime, I’m just not built that way. In bursts and moments sure, but not fulltime. Being sanguine is hard work man, I don’t know how you guys do it!!

The itch is gone now. The extroversy is spent and I’m happily back in my shell. The energy remains, and I got enough of a taste to come out occasionally. The next time I’m invited to a party, fanfare or meet-up, I will not screw up my face and say ‘maaaaaybe’. I will buy a pretty dress, fix up my hair, buy a pretty purse, make some new friends, and have at least one phone number when I leave.

Lakini beyond that, I am back to my happy house-mousing self, showing my madness only to intimates and twittans. It’s been fun ladies, but for now, I’m out.

Don’t be sad now! I’m still bubbly on the inside, and my new twitter friends are just so good at turning my insides outside, yeah?

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Me!! That’s right. Me! Me me me. And I. Myself. Personally. On my own behalf. Me.

I just screwed a light bulb. Or to be more accurate, I unscrewed it. I have here, for my own viewing pleasure, and since I have no pixels to prove it, exhibit A, one unscrewed light bulb. It is sitting here in two neat pieces. Section 1 contains the stub and some floating filaments. Section 2 contains the bulb itself, a piece of smoky glass with a perfect cylindrical hole at its base. I was standing on my tippietoes screwing in the bathroom bulb when shortly, the thing came off in my hand! What the…

No no no, you are not listening. I am not talking about the light bulb fixture. I am talking about the light bulb. You know that round white contraption that twists and turns when you try to put in a light source? The one that can come on and off for repairs? That’s not what I mean. That one is intact.I mean the actual BULB. I broke it. Twisted it clean off it’s grey metal base. It’s right here!

CB, you got skills. You are oooone gifted chicka. Talent. Mad talent. Mad maaaad talent. Ish!!

**russumfussumtootiredandsleepytochangealightbulbproperly**

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I’ve been pretty busy with work and stuff, so I have bounced my fortnightly dates with Rashidi the Moody Hairdresser for a while. Consequently, my head has left a lot to be desired. Fortunately, when you have dreads, uncoiffed just makes you look more rasta. But when you’re a rasta feki like me, the temptation to hide said locks under some red-green-and-yellow paraphernalia is … NOT.

So anyway, finally, after like two months **shudder** I took myself [heheh, gotta love direct translation. It is a beautiful beautiful thing.] I took myself to the salon to get my hair done. Result, I feel all clean and pretty. Yay!

Now, there are days when all heads in the office turn, and ex-office…mates start sending random ‘I-miss-you’ texts. It’s been a while figuring out what prompts these sudden bursts of love, but I think I finally know what causes it. You see, ever since I did my hair last Saturday, well, let’s just say a lot more boys have been … um .. noticing.

It started with the construction guy. He sees me every morning while my litle one and I wait for her schoolbus, and he always says hi. Little One doesn’t like him, and he never says more than hi. But yesterday, for the first time in like a year, he asked me my name.

Of course I pulled the ‘disant smile’ and answered Mama [insert princess’ birth-certificate-name here. You didn’t actually think I named my child Princess, did you? Who names their kid princess? Well, Gwen Stefani did, and Michael Jackson. And Madonna. And, well, my little one’s classmate’s mother named her kid princess, but really!!]

The idea is that by introducing myself as Mama so-and-so I make it clear that social interest is not welcome, yeah? It didn’t work. Next day, another of the bus stop regular asks my name. Princess doesn’t like this one either. He likes to touch people. Not in the dirty way, but in the Typical Tz ‘Hi-my-name-is-so-and-so-**as-i-stubbornly-fondle-your-palm-and caress-your-shoulder-with my-other-hand-and oops-did-my hand-stray–little-too-far-down ‘** kinda thing.

And of course he’s like [in swa] “I saw you in town but I couldn’t call you because I don’t know your name. And btw I just looove your hair!” I gave him the Mama Toto treatment, and he went all flirty. **Russumfussumflirtyneighbourhoodmen**

Then, last night, Mr handbagman, whom I at least consider a pal, [and princess actually likes this one] asked me my name. Ookkkay. Are we sensing a pattern here? This morning a watchie stopped me in the street to declare his undying love for my complexion, and my hair, and to give me a lecture on how women take watchmen for granted and request that I sit with him and exchange ideas. Right.

Now the only thing that has changed this week is the state of my hairdo, and suudenly all the boys are asking for my name. Er … Rashidi darling … help?!

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