Warning: For girls eyes only. The boys can take a peek if they like, but this involves Mwaura so…

I like extremes. My dream car either has to be superbig or supertiny. And other things. My skirts are either really short or really long. Mostly really long, short ones are for indoors, for his eyes only.

So here’s what happened. I had a little accident.

Now let me first expalin that I have never had an accident. Not in all my 16+ years of white-skirting. So this is beyond embarassing.

And then, I had it at work. Not in school, or in the esto, or in the dark, but right here, at work. And just after I had walked up and down the corridor, in full view of like six clients, giving a presentation to the boss. **shudder**

Today I am wearing this billowing pale-blue layered skirt with lots of gathers and faux pleats. It runs right down to my ankle, and I’m wearing it with a pretty blue t-shirt. I like t-shirts. I like monochromes more. It’s got an elastic waist, so no actual seams, but it’s made of like 6 metres of fabric, so you can see the joints if you know where to look.

So when I was alerted to my accident I was annoyed, mortified, stumped…it was suggested I turn the skirt and address said issue. Okay. So a pretended curtsy gave me an excuse to hold the skirt, and keep holding it as I glided into seclusion.

The first idea was to somehow drape my leso around said accident. I always keep one in the office – for AC wars. My officemates prefer to keep it fixed at 16 degrees, and I got tired of yelling, so when it gets too cold, I just cover up. The said leso is blue as well, with some black, so I could probably tie it into some kind of gipsy sash. Lakini that would only draw attention to the crash site, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do.

Then I thought of washing but we don’t have those air-hand-dryer thingimies, and walking around with a wet patch on my skirt would be like walking around with a ‘Kick me’ sign.

Then I got it. Light bulb idea. Just pin the fabric together! It would look like another faux pleat. Yay! Except I couldn’t find any pins, and I couldn’t bare to walk across the corridor again to the staitionery office.

Solution? A stapler!! Quick n easy. Made a nice neat staple-pleat around said area and hey presto! Problem solved! Now to find some plugs…

For more information on 3CB, click here.

You know the way in sitcoms, there’s always this one guy who every girl consdiers a pal? The boy who’s stuck solidly in the ‘friend-zone’? Well, I’m him. Her. It. Er… I’m the pal.

I had this pal once [pun not intended] who reminded me of my kid brother. He complained that all girls saw him as a ‘kid brother’, and asked me to teach him how to be ‘bad’ so he could get the girls. I tried to tell him that I like the little-brother feature in boys. That lost look and innocent smile totally disarms me. No, it is not some Freudian, Oedipal, fraternal thing, I just like them innocent, pretty and cuddly. With a little baby fat and nice broad shoulders. Preferable over 5’7 and under 6’3.

Anyway, back to my pal. I explained to him that as long as they are no bloodlines involved, I melt over the lost-little-boy look. But I was heavily… er…heavy … at the time, and Baba Toto made himself very visible. Territorial that one. So my compliment was not received as sincerely as planned.

Um…got diverted for a second there. What was I on about? Oh right, pals. Well, when I started this post, the plan was to analyse why I like boys. Not that I have a greater reason to like girls or anything. The point is, I crush every five seconds or so, and the white suede love jacket is so random that I’m starting to worry myself.

[WSLJ **pointing above – see previous paragraph** is NOT some CBnese euphemism for…eh…that one. It is a reference to some post I wrote way-back-when-before-i-deleted-it-twice. No, it is not on RSS. Found it’s title and summary though 🙂]

This morning I was thinking about all the countless guys I’ve liked and trying to find some LCM. I have fallen for softies, toughies, nice guys, nicer guys, jocks, poets, aloof-and-broodies, exuberant-and flirties and etc and etc. I can’t seem to find my ‘type’. The only thing they have in common is a Y in their X. And I need to find my type, so that I can break the pattern. See, I have this pattern of falling guys who just aren’t that into me, and it’s getting really old.

Dudes in my life fall into three broad groups. Category A are the leeches who are attracted to my strentgh and feed off me. Thankfully, there have only been three of those. The fourth was…well, he’s the reason for this post.

Category B are hostile-ly unrequited suitees. They either ran screaming for the hills, or ran screaming for the hills. At least one hired my roomate as a bodyguard – I have mild stalker tendencies; I tend to barrage the OMAFs with soulful poetry. And apparently, boys find that scary. Go figure.

I will say one thing. This whole running way issue? Proof positive that boys like to chase. More than once I have asked a boy out because I thought he was too shy to ask me, so I ‘helped him out’ only to see him run away and ask out another girl. No matter what Tyra says, boys do not like to be asked out. Except to GAG dances. So no matter how strong, gutsy, gorgeous [or impatient] you are, you have to let the boy make his move.

Category C are…is there a category C? Oh yeah, Category C are the ones that are attracted to my…er… Eveness. They don’t really know me that well, they just like my…er…fashion sense. I never pay them much attention. Mostly coz I’m sure that once they get to know me, they will evolve into Category A’s and B’s. The whole INFJ deep, poetic, clingy type is apparently not a crowd pleaser.

And then there are my pals. These beautiful, wonderful boys who treat me like a princess, pamper my baby girl, and activate the love jacket. They have only appeared in the last two years, [hmm, I wonder if moving to Dar had something to do with that…?] and because I lived half my life with boys running from me, I didn’t know what to make of these ones. So I assume they like me, and get bewildered when they don’t respond when I ask them out.

Fortunately, these sweethearts are also very tactful and gentle, and have stayed friends with me even as they turned me down. Three of them have gone on to find lovely girlfriends, and I am immensely happy for them. I half fear I will lose my darlings to their women, but I’ll take it a day at a time.

Now. I have never been asked out except by a 57 year old coffee farmer from New York, but his ten babies, some older than me, kinda scaried up that situation. And of all the [many many many many] guys I have asked out, only one said yes. I had my baby with him. That didn’t work out very well, but I’m over it. Mostly. I can’t be responsible for the action of a blunt, rusty slasher that I happen to be holding when in the vicinity of his…belt, but I’m over it. Mostly. 😉

A part of me is afraid to let guys get to know me, for fear of them jumping from C’s to A’s and B’s, so I mostly keep my distance and let them assume that I am a cold hard b****y dume jike. Defense mechanism. Truth is I’m nothing like that. I do have a tough-girl side, the side that pays all my bills in time and kicks in when someone messes with my baby girl. But mostly am all soft and needy, a scared little girl – without the bows and frills and spiked high heels.

In fact, I melt under flattery, literally. I blush into all shades of red and only my blue-black veneer keeps me safe. Luckily, none of the mboches, watchmen or jobless-corner boys that regularly catcall me knows that. So don’t sell me out, deal?

Which reminds me of this one boy who whistles every time I pass his digs. At first I thought it was a bird, coz he whistles really well, and can mimic about 20 different ones. Then I thought it was some kind of heat sensor that got triggered when I brushed past the fence. I’m still not sure what or who it is, since Ms Hard-and-Cold can’t feign to look up at her whistler…

So. Point being, boys either see me as meat, pal, or ATM. But never as a girlfriend. So since my beef is all chicken and my wallet is on a diet, I need to learn how to be a friend without crushing, pun intended. Then, if or when I find a boy that like likes me, I will learn how to play nice and wait to be asked out.

Meanwhile, I still need to find that LCM…

For more information on 3CB, click here.

So, it finally happened, the next cowboy got lassoed and I am back here . Sigh. It worked out fairly well last time, so hopefully second time’s a charm. 🙂 Good luck my friend, I wish you both all the happiness in the world. I’ll refrain from those midnight texts if you’ll keep her from plucking my eye[lashe]s out, deal?

Anyway, naturally, me being CB and all, this news prompted some soul searching and think-alouding and all that good stuff that churns endless posts and…

I was having a conversation with some girls the other day, and they were bashing the L word. I don’t mean lust, they were rather in favour of that one. See, their argument was, love is a gamble. No guarantees.

You can’t avoid alcohol by marrying a teetotaller, coz he could pick the habit. That man-about-town who takes you rave every night could get promoted, grow sense, and suddenly force you to tame. Your chain-smoking boy-toy could get cancer and start lecturing you instead of buying you fancy gold lighters. Your mousy man could turn schizo and grow an Italian accent. So their argument was, stick to lust, and when you get hurt, find some sweet innocent rebound to hurt. Karma.

I suppose one way to insulate yourself is not to love at all. If you can. Some people do it pretty well. I haven’t learnt that yet.

Anyway, what was my point again? Right. In many relationships, using condoms is seen as a threat. Ask your S/O to use a condom and he/she will likely ask ‘Don’t you trust me?’

Trust is the best reason to use a condom.

Think about it.

Cheating happens one of two ways. Either your S/O is so confident of your love/affection/devotion/neediness that they don’t bother to hide their promiscuity; they know you’ll never leave them, so they bully you into riding bareback.

Or your S/O had an accident [like a stripper at the bacelor(ette) party] and would die if you found out. Possibly the ‘accident’ is a more permanent side dish, lakini your relationship is mandatory [because of status, extremely high dowry, kids, pesky relatives, scary in-laws, ‘love’, social standing etc.] and cannot be disturbed. The offender knows that even the mention of the C word will cast doubt, so he/she keeps it quiet, pray you will never find out, and keep putting you at risk.

So call me cynic romantic like Pinkem and Val, lakini I think the closer you are to your partner, the greater the reason to go durex.

For more information on 3CB, click here.