You watch those MPs and whatwhat who always veer from one opinion to another yelling about being misquoted despite clear video evidence and you think it’s so easy being them.

Not!

Today, I got a first hand lesson in the delicate art of fence-sitting.

Step 1: Find a fence

In my case, the fence was found for me. My dearest boss usually handles all printing press matters, but he had a business trip, so I had to sit in for him. Since it was my first day, he *cough*cough*generously* escorted me right up to the printing press and instructed them what to do. My role was to stand around looking pretty. Except I couldn’t really, because this press belongs to people-from-a-certain-geographical-location, and people-from-that-certain-geographical-location are impartial to *cough*cough*nubian*beauty*

Step 2: Find a vantage point

Sitting on the fence requires that you have a good view of both sides, so that you can lean to the right [one] as appropriate. I found a nice vantage point – a lady in a  bright yellow suit who offered me tea, and kindly told me what she dared not tell my boss  i.e that the designer was not expected for at least another hour.

Step 3: Find something fun to watch

Well, first I went to Mayfair, a sort of mini-mall, to pick a fight with the photographer. Long story. He wasn’t there yet, so I went browsing at Shoprite. Then I checked back with the Printer. Nada.

Then I went to Shoppers for more browsing, mostly in the facial aisle, Veet have a mini-pack? Cute. Ended up buying a CD holder and some cutlery. Back to the Printer. Bilaz.

Then I went hunting for food. Azam mango juice and not-too-good samosas. **As I write, my tummy is hurting. crap!** Back to Printers. Still no designer. I finally accepted the cup of tea.

Step 4: Smile for the camera

The designer finally arrived, and I had to smile all pretty and pretend not to be upset. No, I don’t mind that you kept me waiting three hours. Yes, I know my boss is on a plane somewhere. Of course I understand. You can’t be expected to come in early on Saturday. Who me? Nah, I didn’t have anything better to do. I mean it’s Saturday, right?

Step 5: Play nice

After several more idle hours where I read a rather scary but fascinating book [see me sideways for details] I got the first proofs. All I had to do was skim them and approve, right? Easy.

Not-so-easy. First, they’re in two different colours. i report, they fix. Then, the chapter icons are missing. i report, they fix. Then, the images are blurry. i report they fix…

Aw hell no. You fixed the resolution by killing the backgroud. You can’t be serious. Put back my background. You can’t? Why not? Ati my PDF is hwat?

Step 6: Act blonde

You see, we have a little problem. It’s the doofuses in my office, see, they messed the PDF file. Yes, I can see the mistake is ours, clearly. Entirely our fault. But see, the first proof, that was soooo cool. Can’t you just fix the rest of it like you fixed the first one? Pretty please? I even have my bright yellow t-shirt and my nudey jeans. Oh you will? Thaaaanks! I could almost kiss you right now. Almost.

Step 7: From Blonde to geek in 6 seconds or less

Ok, so what happened here is that you didn’t actually fiiix it, you just printed it from the Indd file? I see. And when you swop to PDF the background comes back? Aha. And you can’t PDF the Indd files yourself? Aaah I see, but if we put they whole thing in Jpeg, then it’ll all be okay. Greaaaaat. Could we do that today? Pretty please? I’ll be soooo grateful **batting non-existent eyelashes**

Step 8: Deal with his boss

He’s called the Pre-press manager. Crap, Management. Of course he wasn’t buying my innocent eye-lash batting tactics. His explanation is simple. Go back to the office, get your people to change it to jpeg, and label each document separately, put it in one file, and come back.

Interlude 1: The pro

In the middle of talking to Management, the owner comes in. He susses out the situation, and while I am yelling and ranting and trying to be smart, hysterical and damselly all at the same time, he speaks softly and calmly, looking all smart and dignified, and gives me the same solution: Go play jpeg.

Except I can’t get mad at him coz he’s so soft and sweet and mature, and he’s got this cool unruffled thing going. The man must be, what, fifty? And he looks great. When I grow up, I want to talk just like that.

Interlude 2: the con

The printers are already closed – I actually have to sneak out through the escape hatch in the basement. So while I have been given cards and phone numbers, I’ve also been advised to leave the CD with the watchman when I get back. Ate ke?!

Step 9: Cover your derriere

I rush back to the office, pretty pissed. Had tried calling the boss to explain, but he’s mteja. So I get to work and explain the saga to our designers, all the while assuming it was their mistake. Oopsie! We open the file and lo and behold … it works fine! So clearly, it’s the Printers that have an issue, though I’m yet to figure out what. Something to do with low resolution printers, according to our people. Except … low resolution printing … on a Mac monitor?

Step 10 : The fence

I now proceed to tippie-toe riiight there on the fence and join the workmates in bashing the printers. Sigh. This goes on for quite a while until I can get my files jpegged. We bash the printers for not jpegging it themselves, and go on and on about how indesign files cannot be meshed 20-in-1 like pirate DVDs [or … say … PDF files?] Boss calls in the midst of the chaos and more bashing ensues.

Step 11 …

Well, I got my jpegged file. It took bashing, pleading, and three calls from the boss. But it’s to late to do anything but blog right now. I guess we shall see what to do on the morrow … since the Printer Guy has said he’ll be up late and I should go by in the morning and … yes … leave the CD with the watchman. Sigh.

Off to watch some TV. Laters!

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I was working on some stuff about psychology, drawing houses and picking creatures and shrinking heads and stuff like that, and I got to thinking.

When I was little, my favourite outfit was a black-and white tiered skirt and an ‘I love Kenya’ t-shirt. I wore it so often that eventually, my mother hid it. Or gave it away. Apparently, when you wear the same outfit every day, people will think your parents are too poor to buy you enough clothes. **russumfussumkeepingupwiththe joneses**

With that gone, my default clothing of choice was a grey-and-white girly dress. How I loved that dress. There’s a picture of me wearing it somewhere, and pretending to drive my dad’s car. That one I was forced to give to a relative after I was convinced that I’d grown too big to wear it *pout*

Then came the white skirt with red polka dots … or was it a red skirt with white polka dots? I liked to wear it with a black beret. I can’t quite remember what happened to that one.

Next came the huge flowing A-line skirt with massive checks in various shades of purple. Oh I loooooved that skirt. I’d wear it with this silkish lilac top that had a flower embroidered on one corner. My dad dismissed that outfit after he decided it didn’t suit me. *russumfussumfatherlyfashion**

Okay. There was also a navy blue culotte that I wore with a little-sailor white top, and the spanish embroidered top that I wore with brown almost-pedal-pushers…

But I’m supposed to be talking about colours. I liked black at some point. Because I was at a stage where my classmates were throwing away all their skirts and buying jeans. I owned one pair of jeans, and this gorgeous long black t-shirt with some coloured print on the front. I’m thinking about it now, and for the life of me, I can’t remember what was painted on it! Odd.

I liked blue for a while, no idea when or why. And I always liked green eyes. Mostly because everybody else likes blue eyes, and I just love to disagree, even when I really don’t. It’s the only reason I like Arsenal. That and Thierry Henri. Yes, I’m aware he left a while back, but I’m stubborn like that. Arsenal damu.

Then, I picked the habit of saying I like black and blue. I just liked the reaction it drew, that whole raised eye-brow thing among the few that nyitad the joke, mwehehehe.

It’s been a while since I thought about my favourite colour. But I think I liked black because I was in a dark phase, depressed a lot, and doing some rather silly things. Low self esteem, what what.

Then I liked blue because I’d found peace, or because I felt it gave me peace. Or maybe just because of the blue culottes.

But now I like a new colour, burgundy. It’s a maroonish purplish pinkish shade of red. I started to like it because of my pal Z. Usually I hate red, but I saw her wear it, and it looked fabulous! Plus she has pretty much the same complexion as me, so I was like why not! I went to buguruni and bought a burgundy t-shirt. Gorgeous, just gorgeous!

The first day I wore it, I felt all warm and confident and va-va-voom! It’s still my favourite, though I’ve worn it so often that it’s faded to maroon 🙁

Either way, I was sold. From then on, I grab anything I can in that colour, from bracelets to swimsuits. I want to be surrounded by burgundy. I bought this jumper on River Road [literally] because it was burgundy. Never mind that it had a stain-slash-singe that will never come off, and I can never wear it anywhere except indoors or in AC … it’s a pretty big stain! I just love that it’s burgundy. My very own little red riding hood.

I don’t know what it says about me that I suddenly like red. I want to think it means I’m finally in my skin, that I’m strong and confident, that I’m in my peak, gutterally speaking. I imagine the fact that it’s a deep off-red rather than a fiery bright one means I still have some level of conserved … conservativeness … conservatism … what’s the word I’m looking ?

Reserve. Yes, reserve. I think I still have some level of reserve, even now  when I’m at my most self-assured. I want to wear a little bit of red every day, and I do, with my bracelet.  Even my dream car is red – well, burgundy *grin*

I’m now shopping for a little burgundy dress to wear to my pal’s wedding. I already have the hair, the bag and the shoes, all I need now is the dress. The only question is … can I wear red to a wedding?

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Disclaimer: …

I’m not a very girly girl. That’s what I think anyway. *insert Victor and Hugo theme here*

A while back I started feeling a little more … feminine. I had cravings for make-up and spike heels. Fortunately, that didn’t last very long, phew!

But while I was home I got three pairs of super girly shoes. The first was a gift from my brother, this gorgeous pair of dark buckled heels with a solid walkable sole, yay! After that the bug was caught, no turning back.

The second pair are industrial leather [?] black boots with a burgundy-laced ribbon on the side. They look just beeeeaaauuuutiful. But my feet ache if I walk all day.

The third pair I haven’t tried yet, they have a high light brown wedge and open toes. Preeetty. I got them at Bata for a K. Then, for the first time ever, I let Rashidi style my hair! Usually he just twists it and ties it in a ponytail, but this time he wanted to be adventurous, so I let him. Hmph, that’s all I’m saying.

I have also lately acquired a taste for accessories. I have a faux ruby bracelet, two jingly blue glass bangles [the other two died, *sniff sniff* And no, I don’t mean bluegrass], a choker with matching earrings and a massive pair of silver gilt hoops. No, I do not wear them all at the same time. But lately, I always have some item of bling on my person, and I am saving up to shop for more.

I’m watching this with interest, and wondering what form of oestrogen will attack me next. I hope it’s something useful, like the sudden urge to clean, or some metamorphic ability to cook things that are considered palatable by someone other than me. In all fairness, my ‘food’ usually seems fairly edible … until you taste it.

One other thing I have developed is a **shudder** facial regimen. I read about a milk mask at Lily. It was more like ‘my auntie said to get rid of pimples I should sleep with milk on my face’. Right. Well, I tried it, and it worked!!

I got curious and went a-googling, and found that if plain milk doesn’t work, you should add a steaming. I did that last night, and voila, my face is spotless. Yay! Except for that annoying heat rash, but there’s no beating that.

I was pretty lucky as a teen, I had a spotless face for the longest time, so I never bothered with all that cleanser, toner, moisturiser stuff, even though my dad worked at J & J. But lately I’ve had awful breakouts, and I pick at them when I read [which is like all the time!] so I have nasty marks on my face.

Luckily, I’m really dark, so no one can see the spots but me, and only in a certain light, under a certain mirror. I’ve tried Bio oil to get rid of the marks, but even as I squint at the mirror whining, my live-mates claim they can’t see them!! They must have some super power invisi-cream or sth.

Now I need to go to a supermarket and shop for face products. I’m not looking into make-up, heavens forbid. Just the stuff to wash it with before I sleep in milk and steam. I hear egg white makes a great weekly mask as well.

I just hope this spirit of adventurous-ness-ness doesn’t stretch into tweezing, threading or waxing…

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