I was having a random chat with my cousin the other day. She just found out her husband is cheating, and she’s pretty furious. I always thought the guy was [more than] a bit of an asshole, but she loves him. She goes for the arrogant type, and they tend to be … well … you know … assholes. I – on the other hand – prefer nice guys, or as my cousin put it, girls with ***.

See, she likes a man who is proud to be a man. In her words, what would she be doing with a guy who wants to sit down and talk about emotions? I smiled, because that’s exactly what I want – a guy who will tell me how he feels. In words.

I’m not talking about I love you or I’d die without you. Anyone can say the first three magic words, and I find it’s easier for guys to say them when they don’t mean it. The latter phrase would just make me laugh – unless it was backed with instrumentals and the fat braided guy in PM Dawn.

What I mean is I want a man who trusts me enough to tell me when he’s scared. As my cousin rolled her eyes, I explained that the reason I like my men ‘girly’ is because … well … I am a guy. I may have D cups, a baby, and occasional menstruation, but I suspect I have a touch more testosterone than the average female.

I told a former Mr 3CB that I have mothering insecurities. My deepest fear is that I suck at being my baby’s mother. I have certain ideas about what a mother should be, and well, I’m not like that. He smiled and said, ‘Well, that’s because you’re not a mum. You’re a dad.’

I laughed, but a few minutes earlier, I’d been praising some woman’s curves and he turned his head a bit to the side and asked, ‘How can you talk like that and not suspect you might be gay?’ Again, I laughed. I’m not bicurious, but I’m not blind either. I know a thing of beauty when I see one.

On a slightly related note, I read on MSN that most women – straight or otherwise – find the female body a bigger turn on than the male body. I’m going to go with a *no comment* here … except to admit that seeing a hot woman does make me want to have sex. Just not with her. So, guys, you know that argument about having a wet dream or being turned on by a stripper and then consummating the stick with your girl instead? Well, next time your girl gets all frisky, her mood just might have been prompted by Janet.

Sad as it is, this statement probably made more guys excited than offended. Tsk tsk.

But I digress. This is supposed to be about women in general, and specifically, two women that I admire. This one and this one. There’s a third girl, but apparently, she deleted her blog. Interesting.

In the female world, there’s a thin line between admiration and jealousy. I suppose that’s why we give each other the evil eye. Two random women see each other on the street and shoot looks intent on murder. Usually it’s that the girl is well dressed or has a hot boy on her arm. It could be that she is taller, shorter, thinner, fatter … or maybe it’s just because she isn’t a boy.

While I try not to give anyone the evil eye, I do have sessions of admiration-slash-jealousy. Usually it’s because the girl has something that I don’t have, something I want, something that I badly wish I had. That thing is confidence.

I suppose that’s a weird thing to say, seeing as my hair is purple and my blogger name is Crystal Balls. But as I explained to my friend yesterday, I’m not confident. I’m just proud and stubborn. Also, I like to shock people. It’s a trait that is easily interpreted as *I-don’t-give-a-f*ck-what-people-think* I do and say some crazy ish, and I’m always pretty happy about it. But I often subtly apologize for my guts, because while I’m immensely proud of them, I know how easily they offend. Truly confident women don’t do that. And yes, she’s wearing a weave.

A while back, I did the 25 things meme on Facebook, though I suspect I deleted it shortly after. I wrote that I don’t like people, I prefer my own company, and I sometimes [many times] lock the door, draw the curtains, and pretend not to be home. I do it to keep away unannounced visitors. My list of 25 things sounded a lot like this post here.

A former classmate read the list and was surprised. She says I’m actually very popular and have lots of friends, so she’s shocked that I describe myself as a hermit. Bubbly says the same thing. Many people count her as a best friend, but she alone knows that she lets nobody in.

Then there’s the issue of marriage. I don’t believe in nuptials, but that’s only because I know I suck at it, and not even the bits of it that a husband wants sucked. I can give antimarriage arguments as well as anyone, but I don’t really believe them. I am this strange amphibian thing that can survive on both sides of the fence, but is not really at home on either one. So I envy women like Bubbly and Nittzsah who are clear in their beliefs.

I find it interesting that my 25 things post, as well as Bubbly’s friends post depicted us as people who don’t want friends. We prefer to go it alone and keep the whole world out. Yet we both have all these pals who think we’re bosom buddies. Bubbly is clearly cool with that. She’s okay with her walls and her aloofness.

Me, I’m not so sure. I’m comfortable enough with myself that I don’t seek new friends, and I stopped meeting bloggers and Tweeters. I’m quite content to keep it on the web. But I do feel sorry for the people who think they’re close to me, the ones who think I’d catch grenades for them. Sometimes, I feel so sorry for them that I call when I don’t want to, and fulfill my social obligations. I do it because they often do the same for me – mostly when I don’t want them to. The least I can do is convincingly reciprocate, and that makes me sad.

Of course, being the paranoid girl that I am, I’m now looking at my friends with fishy eyes. I’m wondering how many could be Bubblies in disguise. At the other extreme, there are people in my life whom I adore and I wish they’d like me enough to let me in. I guess that’s Kharma’s way of paying me back.

I wish I was one way or the other. I wish I could either sincerely immerse myself into ‘society’ or wear my ‘back off’ banner with pride. This lukewarm space I inhabit is a terribly uncomfortable in-between.

In Harry Potter, Harry is often thought to be just like Voldemort. He speaks Parseltongue, he’s capable of magic way beyond his age, and even the Sorting Hat thought he was a Slytherin. Dumbledore says Harry is every bit as great as Voldemort, and that he even has bits of Voldemort in him, since he’s essentially a living Horcrux. The difference between Harry and Tom Marvolo Riddle is that Harry is capable of love. Harry and Voldemort consider this a weakness, but Dumbledore says it’s his greatest strength.

I don’t know if my tendency to be ashamed of my vice is a good thing or bad one, but I wish I didn’t care so much what other people think or feel. Given my against-the-grain beliefs, not caring would make life so much easier.

My *** burns in the feminist hall of shame because I want to be called someone’s girl.

Vanessa Hidary, The Hebrew Mamita

On my Twitter timeline this morning, iCon asked a simple but profound question. I’m sure I took it completely out of context, since I’m known for overthinking things, and I can psychoanalyze a loaf of  bread. But it shook me badly, because my response was automatic.

If I knew I would not fail, and I was guaranteed that he would say yes, I would find the man of my dreams and ask him to marry me.

I realize that’s completely lame because I don’t really believe in God or marriage. I don’t know happy couples, and every time I say, ‘What about so-and-so?’ they go and change their relationship status.

I know a lot of functional marriages, where people make things work and thrive without divorce or murder. They respect each other, raise honest kids, survive the empty nest, and manage to be friends. Some even learn to love each other and to keep that love alive. They make a commitment to each other and let things slide to keep it.

But I don’t want a functional marriage. I don’t want the kind of unions that I heard about on Maina Kageni’s show on Monday. I want a happy marriage, one that makes me smile every morning when I wake up next to him, and one that makes me want to hug him even as I yell and cry about the ish he did. I want to be with a man that loves me and lets me love him back. Emphasis on let because I’m terribly clingy.

But then again, I also want a man who doesn’t like strippers, lap dances, blow jobs, porn, or king sized cakes. Also, he has to accept my daughter, not have any children of his own, and not want to have any children. With me. Or anyone else. I refuse to be the evil sexy stepmother. In exchange for mutual sterilization, he will receive delighted conjugation at least five times a day. Morning glory is a guaranteed added bonus if he gets me up early enough. He will accept, despite his consternation, that while I may be good in bed, I rarely clean … and hardly ever cook.

He will never lie or cheat. Never ever ever ever ever ever! Unless I ask him if I look fat. He has to be nice. And sensitive. And straight.  He will refrain from flirting or straddling women in public [and also in private], because I’m super possessive, passive aggressive, jealous … and I like to break things.

Yes, I’m taking lessons in art, sculpture, animation, and alchemy so I can build him out of straw.

Speaking of Maina Kageni’s show, I need an iPod or something. Listening to Maina’s callers in morning traffic is some form of Chinese torture. You know that episode of Sheep In The Big City where he’s chained to a collar? If he tries to escape, his ears are attacked with easy listening music. That’s like really annoying pipe music, the kind they play in lifts.

If you made me Sheep and put Classic Breakfast on my collar, I would stay in that collar even if we had tsunamis, volcanoes, and atomic bombs combined. I keep wanting to smash my head on the window, jump out, and just walk the rest of the way. But clearly, I am alone. Otherwise, his show wouldn’t air in every single PSV. The term Matatu FM was aptly coined.

Back to the point. I’ve decided I’m not built to be a girlfriend. My conclusion is a defense mechanism. After all, the man I want doesn’t exist, I don’t want to settle for anything less, and I don’t want to get hurt again. So I decided I would pose as a married lesbian and refuse to believe in relationships.

I’ve been talking to my married friends, smiling politely and saying that I’m happy for them – and I am – then listing all the reasons why it wouldn’t work for me. Yet even as I list them, I daydream about cuddling my dream love on a couch, having him rub my feet, hanging out at the beach, talking about everything and nothing, doing the dishes together, or simply playing Strip Scrabble.

I envy women who know exactly what they don’t want, because they have solid opinions that will not be swayed. There is such immense joy in being a true rebel … you know, as opposed to just sounding like one and having purple hair. Me, I’m just afraid I’d suck at marriage, so I’m happy not to try. Besides, I was married once … well … sort of. Common-law-come-we-stay-what-what. It didn’t end well.

I pretend to be a feminist – when it suits me. Mostly, it’s because people assume that I’m one and I don’t feel the need to argue. I’ve had guys tell me I’m an ummarriable, and one suggested that I need a wife, so to them, the shoe fits. Besides, how do I explain that while I pay my own bills and ask guys out when I want to, I would still like a man to take care of me? It’s not that he has to, or needs to, or even that I expect him to. It’s that I want him to want to. I want him to protect me and shield my heart, because that’s what a real man does. I want him to stand next to me as I live my dream, ask for my help when he needs it, and hold me to keep all the bad things out. And I want him to do that while accepting that I will never have his children.

See why it’s easier to just denounce marriage?

Sometimes I have myself convinced that I don’t want anybody. After all, I love my life, I have no pangs about Valentines Day, and I’ve become quite efficient in the art. Sometimes, I’m even more efficient without … um … phallic guidance. I like my space and freedom, I’m scared of in-laws, and I don’t want to be told how to spend ‘our money’. My baby’s almost ten, so I have no bio-clock issues, and the folks aren’t complaining, so it’s not like I’m missing anything. I’m not against marriage. It’s perfectly fine – for other people. I’m happy with my life, and with being single. Sure, I could use a lot more money, but I really wouldn’t mind being a hot old maid.

Yet when I’m asked about the one thing I would do if I was guaranteed I’d win, I think of being a bride and living happily ever after. I know there are fights and disagreements, and that sometimes people want to sleep on the couch or be somewhere else, but I just want to be the girl he’s mostly happy to come home to. I’m sure I’d make a lousy wife, but in my deepest parts, I still want to see him grinning at me as I walk down the aisle in my little red dress, bopping my head to Canon Rock. Since the thought came so automatically, it must be really important to me, and I think that’s really sad. I blame it entirely on Walt Disney.

When I joined Facebook five years ago, it was because of a boy. I’d been invited about five times – by five different people. I was pretty green back then, and it looked as silly as MySpace, so ignored it. Eventually, this one boy who lived halfway across the world posted birthday pictures. I hadn’t seen him in five years, and the only way to see the pictures was to join, so I did.

The boy was my brother, and that’s an awful lot of fives.

I spent the first few weeks ranting about how complex it all was and how I didn’t get it. My brothers – and pals twice my age – declared me too old for Facebook. I posted maybe once a month and logged in even less. Yes, it’s possible.

Once, I had a prolonged coffee high. I posted every day, and sometimes, I wrote every five minutes. Those were two very interesting weeks, and I spent more time there than I had in two years … combined. I call that my manic phase. The Twitter version of that was … scary.

I deleted my Facebook account twice because I wasn’t using it much. Deleting meant erasing every friend, photo, and status update before killing the account, so each time I rejoined, I started the friends list afresh – and left out a few people. Wasn’t intentional – it’s just hard to keep track.

Some people complained after adding me four times, others whined that I had left them out, and some I couldn’t find at all. They’d changed their Facebook names. I also had to use new emails each time, because my old ones were still in the database. Luckily, I have fifteen to choose from.

Twitter was pretty much the same. I joined for a boy, deleted for a boy, rejoined for another boy, and am posting for a fourth boy. I used to tweet a hundred times a day, and I accumulated 5,000 tweets in 3 months before my last deletion. I’ve had 6 different accounts, and each time I leave, I wipe it clean. This time, I’ve built up barely 1000 tweets in six months. *shrug* But at least I’m having fun with it.

Interestingly, people say far smarter things on Twitter than they do on Facebook, even when they have parallel accounts. Maybe it’s because we’re trying harder to impress strangers. Your FB friends already know how dense you are, but Twitter timelines are a whole new ballgame. Or something.

Facebook is way more detailed than Twitter, mostly because there are more pictures. Most people use their real names and connect with friends, colleagues, and family. Twitter is a touch more secure because people use nicknames, and few avatars involve their real likeness. Even if you use your photo as an avatar, the timeline shows a quarter inch shot that is pretty hard to recognise … unless you really want to … in which case, you can click on the tiny head shot and get a larger image. Maybe.

Twitter should – logically – be more anonymous than Facebook, and in some ways, it is. I mean, if I use a handle like @bigfattyjunkkid then nobody will know I’m a closet body builder. Or if I call myself @supersexydiva, nobody would think I’m a … boy.

But people are … not very smart … sometimes. You use a misleading username, then you tweet your location on Foursquare. And there’ll always be that nosy person peeking over your shoulder in a cyber or public transport, and they won’t always introduce themselves.

Another scary thing is this. On Facebook, you can usually tell when your mum becomes your friend. You can refuse and earn her wrath, or you can accept and up your privacy settings. Did you know you can fix different levels of accessibility for individual Facebook friends? Like, for example, Mr X can see my status reports, Mr B can see my photo tags, and Miss C can see my lewd photos, yet they’re all on the same friends list.

No, I don’t have lewd photos on Facebook. Shut up.

On Twitter, conversely, your mum just has to sign up as @foxymama and she has access to all your random vibe. Assuming of course she knows your username. That hot tweepette you’re flirting with could actually be your …

But all this is beside the point. Most tweeps are anonymous. With time, they meet up and the cloaking device is gone, but until then, people are free to say outrageous, nasty, insensitive things because no one knows who they are. It can get pretty annoying.

Still … once in a while, I long for anonymity. My life and my PC are intertwined, so my online persona feeds my offline one. My tweets, blogs, quotes, and Facebook statuses are linked, and they can all be viewed by friends, foes, clients, mother … and daughter. So every once in a while, I think of getting new ID so I can talk trash online. Sadly, I’m not very good at spy stuff, so I’d likely bust myself on Foursquare.

I wonder if it’s possible to have a secret Twitter timeline, one with no followers. I could say anything I want and nobody could judge me. But then again, venting isn’t half as fun when no one hears it.