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Sunday 30 May 2010

...and still in a bad mood.

..not really 'bad' bad, just lethargic.
But first, I really shouldnt be here, but I have all these thoughts clogging my mind, should I write or not? Why is that my most creative side comes up when I have unbelievable deadlines to meet!! Yes..unbelievable..deadlines. But still I write!

This makes me mad...and crippled with guilt and still..still...stilll..knowing all that is at stake..still I write!!

Did I ever mention that tragedy happens to me in 3's or more? No? Yes? Who am I kidding, I dont really ever talk about me, not in details anyway. Will drop some hints in the next blog.

So back to tragedies.. I had hardly recovered from the first 2 'tragedies' when, surprise surprise, 2 more came up! And just as if God was playing russian roulette with my life, my period pain comes along. I gotta hand it to the Lord, he has an extremely 'switched on' sense of humour, ha my painful,cramping period at this stressful time sha??
That said, I am calm, very calm, almost not bothered, like 'ehen is that it? bring it on' kind of mood.
Alas that mood is fertile for my keen sense of sarcasm to be extra sharp.

Infact I have the perfect note to match that perfect mood. Enjoy y'all. :/

Something has happened to communication and I don't think this will make me more popular with my conservative chums, but it is funny!!

Hello, my name is bla bla bla and I suffer from the guilt of not
forwarding 50 billion fucking chain letters sent to me by people who actually believe that if you send them on, a poor 6 year old girl in Arkansas with a breast on her forehead will be able to raise enough money to have it removed before her parents sell her to a traveling freak show.

Do you honestly believe that Bill Gates is going to give you, and
everyone to whom you send "his" email, $1000?
How stupid are you?

"Ooooh, looky here! If I scroll down this page and make a wish,
I'll get laid by a model I just happen to run into the next day!"

Maybe the evil chain letter leprechauns will come into my house
and sodomize me in my sleep for not continuing a chain letter that was started by Peter in 5 AD and brought to this country by midget pilgrims on the Mayflower.

If you're going to forward something, at least send me something
mildly amusing. I've seen all the "send this to 10 of your closest
friends, and this poor, wretched excuse for a human being will somehow receive a nickel from some omniscient being.

Show a little intelligence and think about what you're actually
contributing to by sending out these forwards. Chances are, it's
our own unpopularity. The point being? If you get some chain letter that's threatening to leave you shagless or luckless for the rest of your life, delete it. If it's funny, send it on.

Don't piss people off by making them feel guilty about a leper in
Botswana with no teeth who has been tied to the ass of a dead
elephant for 27 years and whose only salvation is the 5 cents per letter he'll receive if you forward this email.

Now forward this to everyone you know. Otherwise, tomorrow
morning your genitals will burst into flames!

Have a great week!

Friday 28 May 2010

How to be single part 1 (illustrated by Uchenna Bassey, author yet unknown)

I am in an extremely bad mood today, something I had applied for didnt work out and I feel there is a deeper motive for why things turned out that way and suspicions are bordering on a topic that makes me feel low
In short,this year has not been that great so far and I am feeling very lethargic. Sadly I have a bunch of equally depressing articles that I usually save in my draft for such a day as this.

So please move to the next blog if you do not want to be infected with my mood, but hey, if you need a moment to wallow in depression, do read on!

I saw this article in a friend's note and found it miserable. So get your chocs and juice ready! Its a long one!! Note that events in the article are not in any way related to the stuff thats annoying me..but at least its just as depressing!

HOW TO BE SINGLE…Uchenna Bassey

Special piece for all my single gals out there and the many married ones, a collection of observations and heart retrenching research… scores and scores of google pages….. and an amusing book with the same title.. note to all, this is a really long note… you need upwards of an hour to get through it

Make Sure You Have Friends

How Georgia Is Single



Dale, Georgia's husband, had left her for another woman two weeks ago and she was obviously a tad upset.
The call came at 8:45 in the morning. I was at the Starbucks on Forty-fourth and Eighth, balancing a cardboard tray of coffees in one hand, my cell phone and this conversation in the other, my hair in my face, grande mochaccinos tilting toward my left breast, all while paying the nice young twentysomething at the cash register. I'm a multitasker.

I had already been up for four hours. As a publicist for a large New York publishing house, part of my job is to cart our writers around from interview to interview as they promote their books. On this morning I was responsible for thirty-one-year-old writer Jennifer Baldwin. Her book, How to Keep Your Husband Attracted to You During Pregnancy, became an instant bestseller. Women all around the country couldn't buy the book fast enough. Because, of course, how to keep your husband attracted to you during your pregnancy should be the main concern for a woman during that very special time in her life. So this week we were making the prestigious morning show rounds. Today, The View, Regis and Kelly. WPIX, NBC, and CNN, so far that day, ate it up. How could you not love a segment showing eight-months-pregnant women how to strip for their men? Now the author, her personal publicist, her literary agent, and the agent's assistant were all anxiously waiting for me in the Town Car that was parked outside. I held the lifeline to their caffeine fix.

"Do you really feel like you want to kill yourself, Georgia? Because if you do, I'll call 911 right now and get an ambulance over there." I'd read somewhere that you should take all suicide talk seriously, even though I think all she was really doing was making sure I would take her out drinking.


As I continued my balancing act toward the car, I thought about how tired that thought made me. But I knew Georgia was going through a difficult period and it would probably get much worse before it got better.

It's a tale as old as time. Dale and Georgia had kids, stopped having regular sex, and began fighting. They became distant, and then Dale told Georgia he was in love with a twenty-seven-year-old whore gutter trash samba teacher, that he met at Equinox. Call me crazy, but I'm thinking hot sex might have had something to do with this. Also, and I don't want to be disloyal, and I would never even suggest Georgia was at fault in any way because Dale is an asshole, and we hate him now, but I can't resist saying, Georgia completely took Dale for granted.

Now, to be fair, I am particularly judgmental about the Married Women Who Take Their Husbands for Granted Syndrome. When I see a very wet man hold an umbrella out to his wife after he has just walked five blocks to pick up the car and drive it back to the restaurant and she doesn't even say thank you, honestly, it makes me very cranky. So I noticed that Georgia took Dale for granted, particularly when she would talk to him in that tone. The tone that you can dress up and call what you want, but the truth is it's plain old-fashioned contempt. The tone is disgust. The tone is impatience. The tone is a vocal eye roll. It is the undeniable proof that marriage is a horribly flawed institution let out in a single "I told you, the popcorn popper is on the shelf over the refrigerator." If you were able to fly around the world, collecting the tone as it is let out of all the disgruntled married men's and women's mouths, cart it back to some desert in Nevada, and release it -- the earth would literally sink into itself, imploding in sheer global irritation.

Georgia talked to Dale in that tone. And of course that wasn't the only reason for their split. People are irritating and that's what marriage is: good days and bad days. And, really, what do I know? I'm thirty-eight years old and I have been single for six years. (Yes, I said six.) Not celibate, not out of commission, but definitely, fully, officially, here-goes-another-holiday-season-alone single. So in my imaginings, I would always treat my man right. I would never speak harshly to him. I would always let him know that he was desired and respected and my number one priority. And I would always look hot and I'd always be sweet, and if he asked, I would grow a long fishtail and gills and swim with him in the ocean topless.

So now Georgia has gone from semicontented wife and mother to a somewhat suicidal single mother with two children. And she wants to party.

Something must happen when you become single again. A self-preservation instinct must kick in that resembles having a complete lobotomy. Because Georgia suddenly has traveled back in time to when she was twenty-eight and now just wants to go out "to some bars, you know, to meet guys," forgetting that we are actually in our late thirties and some of us have been doing that without a break for years now. And frankly, I don't want to go out and meet guys. I don't want to spend an hour using one of the many hot appliances I own to straighten my hair so I can feel attractive enough to go out drinking. I want to go to bed early so I can get up early so I can make my smoothie and go out and run in the morning. I am a marathoner. Not in the literal sense; I run only three miles a day. But as a single person. I know how to pace myself. I am aware of how long a run it can be. Georgia, of course, wants to line up the babysitters and start sprinting.


She is also forgetting that she is the same woman who would always look at me with such pity when I would talk about my single life and exclaim in one breath


But Georgia would do something that all my other happily married or coupled friends would never even think of doing: she would pick up the phone and organize a dinner party and scrounge up some single men for me to meet. Or she'd go to her pediatrician and ask if he knew any eligible bachelors. She was actively involved in my search for the Good Man, no matter how comfortable and self-satisfied she might have felt herself. And that is a rare and beautiful quality. And that is why on that Friday morning, as I was mopping up coffee from my white shirt, I agreed to call up three of my other single friends and see if they would go out and party with my newly single, slightly hysterical friend.

How Alice Is Single

Georgia is right. We're having so much fun, my single friends and I. Really. Oh my God, being single is hilarious. For instance, let me tell you about the sidesplitting uproariousness that is Alice. For a living, she gets incredibly underpaid to defend the rights of the impoverished people of New York City -- against callous judges, ruthless prosecutors, and an overburdened system in general. She has dedicated herself to trying to help the underdog by bucking the system, beating the man, and guarding our Constitution. Oh yeah, and every once in a while she has to defend a rapist or murderer that she knows is guilty and whom she often succeeds in putting back onto the streets. Oops. You win some, some.

Alice is a Legal Aid attorney. While the Constitution guarantees the right to a lawyer, it unfortunately can't promise that you'll be defended by Alice. First of all, she is gorgeous. Which, of course, is superficial, who cares. Because those jurors sitting in that drab industrial green jury room with the fluorescent lighting, and that eighty-year-old judge presiding over the general misery of it all, well, they'll take whatever aesthetic pleasure they can find. And when redheaded, sexy Alice talks to you with her deep, soothing voice and her thick, I'm-one-of-the-people-but-much-more-adorable Staten Island-Italian accent, you would drive into Sing Sing and break out every last prisoner, if that's what she asked of you.
She was so startling in her legal acumen and plain old-fashioned charisma that she became the youngest law professor at NYU. By day Alice was saving the world, and by night she was inspiring yuppie born-and-bred law students to forget their dreams of nice Manhattan co-ops and Hampton summer shares to go into Legal Aid law and do something important. She was outrageously successful. She made insubordination and compassion cool again. She got them to actually believe that helping people was more important than making money.

She was a Goddess.

Yeah. I say was, because I'm kind of lying. The truth hurts too much. Alice is no longer a Legal Aid attorney.
"Okay, this is the only time I believe in the death penalty." Alice, being a fantastic friend, was helping me transport books from my office on Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue to a book signing on Seventeenth Street. (The book was The Idiot's Guide to Being an Idiot and was, of course, a big hit.)
"The only exception to the rule is any man who goes out with a thirty-three- year-old woman until she's thirty-eight and then discovers he has commitment issues; who gives that woman the impression that he has no problem with marriage and being with her for the rest of her life; who keeps telling her it's going to happen, until finally, one day he tells her that he doesn't think 'marriage is really for him.' " Alice put her fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle that could stop traffic. A cab veered over to pick us up.
"Pop the trunk, please," Alice said, forcefully grabbing a box of the Idiot books from my arms and throwing them in the trunk.
"That was shitty," I conceded.
"It was more than shitty. It was criminal. It was a crime against my ovaries. It was a felony against my biological time clock. He stole five of my precious childbearing years from me and that should be considered grand larceny of motherhood and be punishable by hanging." She was ripping each box out of my hands and hurling them now. I thought it best to let her finish this on her own. When she was done, we walked to opposite sides of the cab to get in and she continued talking to me over the cab roof without taking a breath.
"I'm not going to take this lying down. I'm a powerful woman, I'm in control. I can make up for lost time, I can."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I'm going to quit my job and start dating." Alice got into her side of the cab and slammed the door.
Confused, I sank into the cab. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Union Square Barnes and Noble," Alice barked to the cabdriver. Then to me, "That's right. I'm going to sign up for every online service, I'm going to send out a mass email to all my friends to set me up with any single guys they know. I'm going to go out every night and I'm going to meet someone fast."
"You're quitting your job to date?" I tried to say this with the least amount of horror and judgment in my voice.
"Exactly." She kept nodding her head vigorously, as if I knew just what she was talking about. "I'll keep teaching, I have to make some money. But basically, yeah, it's my new job. You heard me."
So now my dear do-gooder Superwoman, Xena the Warrior Princess, Erin Brockovich, friend Alice, is still spending all her time and energy trying to help the underdog. But this time the underdog is herself: a thirty-eight-year-old single woman in New York City. She's still trying to stick it to "the man." But this time the man is Trevor, who took up all that precious time of hers and has now made her feel old, unlovable, and frightened.
And when Alice is asked what she does with all her newly free time that she once used to help keep young, first-time offenders away from Rikers and imminent horrifying physical abuse, she often goes into this little speech: "Besides the Internet, and the fix-ups, I just make sure I go to everything I get invited to, every conference or luncheon or dinner party. No matter how shitty I feel. Remember when I had that really bad flu? I got out of the house and went to a singles night at New York Theatre Workshop. The night after my hand surgery I took some Percocet and went to that huge benefit for the Central Park Conservancy. You never know what night it will be when you meet the man who's going to change your life. But then I also have hobbies. I purposely do what I love to do, because you know, when you least expect it, that could be when you meet someone."
"When you least expect it?" I asked, during one of Alice's diatribes. "Alice, you have decided to quit your job to dedicate your life to meeting someone. How can you ever, ever least expect it?"
"By staying busy. By doing interesting things. I kayak in the Hudson, rock climb at Chelsea Piers, take carpentry classes at Home Depot, which you should totally do with me, by the way, I made an amazing cabinet, and I'm also thinking about taking this sailing course at the South Street Seaport. I'm keeping busy doing things I find interesting, so that I can trick myself into forgetting that I'm really just trying to look for guys. Because you can't look desperate. That's the worst."
As she is telling people this, she often comes across as a little deranged, particularly because she's usually chain-popping Tums as she says all this. Her indigestion problems stem, I believe, from a little acid reflux condition called "I'm terrified of being alone."
So, of course, who else would I call first when I needed to go out with a bunch of girlfriends and "have fun" than Alice, who is basically a professional at it now. She now knows all the bartenders, doormen, maître d's, bars, clubs, out-of-the-way places, tourist hangouts, dives, and happening scenes in New York City. And naturally, Alice was ready to go.
"I'm on it," she said. "Don't you worry. We'll make sure tomorrow night, Georgia has the best time of her life."
I hung up the phone, relieved. I knew I could count on Alice, because no matter how Alice's life might have changed, she still loved a good cause.

How Serena Is Single

"It's too smoky, no way."
"You don't even know where we're going."
"I know, but it's going to be too smoky. Every place is too smoky."
"Serena, there's a smoking ban in New York; you can't smoke in bars."
"I know, but it still seems too smoky. And it's always too loud at these places."
We are sitting at the Zen Palate -- the only place I have ever met Serena at in the past three years. Serena doesn't like to go out. Serena also doesn't like to eat cheese, gluten, nightshade vegetables, nonorganic vegetables, and pineapple. None of it agrees with her blood type. If you haven't guessed, Serena is very, very thin. She is one of those very pretty, waiflike blond girls you see in yoga classes in every major city across America. She is a vegetarian chef for a New York celebrity family, about whom I'm not allowed to speak due to a confidentiality agreement Serena made me sign so that she wouldn't feel guilty about breaking the confidentiality agreement she signed with her employer when she gossiped to me about them. Really. But let's just say for the purposes here, that their names are Robert and Joanna, and their son's name is Kip. And to be honest, Serena doesn't say anything bad about them at all; they treat her really well and seem to appreciate her gentle spirit. But by God, when Madonna comes over for lunch and makes a dig about Serena's cooking, Serena has to be able to tell someone. She's only human.

Serena is also a student of Hinduism. She believes in equanimity in all things. She wants to see divine perfection in all of life, even the fact that she literally hasn't had a date or sex in four years. She sees this as perfection, the world showing her that she needs to work on herself more. For how can you really be a true partner to someone until you are a fully realized human being yourself?
So Serena has worked on herself. She has worked on herself to such an extent that she has actually become a human maze. I pity the man who ever attempts to enter the winding corridors and dead-end tunnels that are her dietary restrictions, meditation schedule, new age workshops, yoga classes, vitamin regimes, and distilled water needs. If she works on herself any more, she will become a shut-in.
Serena is that friend you always see alone; the one whom no one else knows. The one who, if you ever mention her in passing, prompts your other friends to say, "Serena? You have a friend named Serena?" But things weren't always like this. I met Serena in college and she used to be just like everyone else. She was always a tad obsessive-compulsive, but back then it was a quirk and not a lifestyle choice. All through her twenties she would meet guys and go out. And she had a long-term boyfriend for three years as well. Clyde. He was really sweet and was crazy about her, but Serena always knew he wasn't the one. She sort of settled into a nice routine with him -- and if you haven't guessed, Serena does enjoy her routines. So we encouraged her not to lead him along -- never dreaming that he might be the last real relationship for the rest of her wheat-free life. And after Clyde she still managed to date -- not aggressively so, but whenever something came up. But around thirty-five, when she never found anyone who truly interested her, she started focusing on other aspects of her life. Which, to be fair, is what many of the self-help books that I help publicize tell women to do. These books also tell you to love yourself. In fact, if you had to boil every self-help book down to two words, it would be "love yourself." I can't tell you why, but this irritates me immensely.

So Serena started focusing on other things, and thus began the classes and crazy diet stuff. Unlike Alice, at least in terms of dating, Serena decided to go quietly into that good night. It's a slippery slope, the decision just to let go of the dream of love in your life. Because if done well, it can make you relax, enjoy your life, and actually allow your inner light to shine brighter and stronger than ever before. (Yes, I am talking about someone's inner light -- we are dealing with Serena right now, after all.) But in my opinion, that strategy, if followed incorrectly or for too long, can make your light go out, slowly, day by day. You can become sexless and cut off. Even though I think it might be extreme to quit your job to start dating, I don't think you can ever just sit back and let love just find you. Love isn't that clever. Love isn't actually all that concerned about you. I think love is out there finding people whose lights are burning so brightly that you could actually see them from the space shuttle. And frankly, somewhere between the high-colonics and the African dance classes, Serena's light went out.
But still, she has a calming effect on me. She is capable of listening to me vent about how much I hate my job, with the patience of Gandhi. Besides the books I have already mentioned, I have helped publicize such tomes as The Clock Is Ticking! How to Meet and Marry the Man of Your Dreams in Ten Days, How to Know if Your Man Really Loves You, and the runaway hit How to Be Lovely (it's supposedly the secret to all feminine happiness).

I grew up in New Jersey, not so terribly far away, just a bridge or a tunnel from the city of my dreams. I moved here to be a writer, then I thought I might be a documentary filmmaker, then I even took a few courses in anthropology, thinking I might move to Africa and study the Masai warriors or some other almost-extinct tribe. I am fascinated by our species, and loved the idea of reporting on them in some way. But I realized I inherited a strong practical streak from my father. I liked indoor plumbing, and knowing I had health insurance. So I got a job in publishing.
But now, the novelty of being able to afford groceries had definitely lost its initial thrill. And throughout all my complaining, Serena listens quietly.
"Why don't you just quit?"
"And do what? Get another job in publicity? I hate publicity. Or be unemployed? I'm too dependent on a steady paycheck to be that freespirited."
"Sometimes you have to take a risk."
If Serena was thinking I was in a rut, I knew things must be really bad. "Like what?" I asked.
"Like -- didn't you always say you wanted to write?"
"Yes. But I don't have a big enough ego to be a writer."
In my professional life, I was a bit stuck. My "voice of reason," so relied on by others, only caused me to talk myself out of pretty much everything. But every Friday, Serena would listen to me bitch about my work frustrations as if it were the first time I was bringing it up.
So I thought, why not? My friends have always been curious about her. Why not try to convince her to go out?
"The chances of any of us going out tomorrow night and meeting the man of our dreams is practically zero. So why bother?" Serena asked as she took another bite of her tempeh burger.
In terms of the facts, Serena has a point. I have been going out at night in the hopes of meeting the one guy that's going to adore me for the rest of my life. Let's say I've been doing this for two or three times a week for, oh, fifteen years. I have met men and dated, but clearly, as of today, not the guy that gets written down in my big book of life as "The One." That adds up to a hell of a lot of nights out not meeting the man of my dreams.
I know, I know, we weren't just going out to meet men. We were going out to have fun, to celebrate being single and being sort of young (or at least not yet old) and alive and living in the best city in the world. It's just funny how when you finally do meet someone and begin dating, the first thing you both do is start staying home to snuggle on the couch. Because going out with your friends was simply that much fun.
So I couldn't really argue with Serena. The whole concept of "going out" is somewhat flawed. But I continued my plea. "We're not going out to meet guys. We are just going out to go out. To show Georgia that it's fun to just go out. To be out in the world, eating, drinking, talking, laughing. Sometimes something unexpected happens and sometimes, most of the time, you just go home. But you go out, you know, to go out. To see what might happen. That's the fun of it."
The argument for the benefits of spontaneity and the unknown was usually not the way to Serena's heart, but for some reason, she agreed.
"Fine. But I don't want it to be anywhere too smoky or too noisy. And make sure they have a vegetable plate on the menu."

How Ruby Is Single

And then, there's Ruby.
It was Saturday, at two in the afternoon, and I had come over to Ruby's apartment to try to recruit her into going out that night -- and because I knew she might not have gotten out of bed yet.
Ruby opened the door in her pajamas. Her hair was severely matted, almost in a predreadlocked state of knots.
"Did you get out of bed today?" I asked, worried.
"Yes. Of course. Right now," she said, offended. She proceeded to walk back into her bedroom. Her apartment was impeccably neat. None of your cliché telltale depression signs, such as moldy ice cream cartons, half-eaten doughnuts, or weeks of dirty laundry strewn around. She was a very tidy depressive. It gave me hope.
"How are you feeling today?" I asked, following her into her bedroom.
"Better. When I woke up he wasn't the first thing I thought about." She crawled back into her very fluffy, downy, flowery bed and pulled the covers around her. It looked really comfortable. I was starting to think about taking a nap myself.
"Great!" I said, knowing I was about to hear much more than that. Ruby is an adorable, long-haired brunette, a perfectly curvy, feminine creature of soothing tones and tender words. And Ruby likes to talk about her feelings.
She sat up. "My first thought this morning was 'I feel okay.' You know what I mean -- that moment before you remember who you are and what the actual facts of your life are? My first thought, in my gut, in my body, was 'I feel okay.' I haven't felt like that in a long time. Usually, you know, I open my eyes and I already feel like shit. Like in my sleep I was feeling like shit, and waking up was just an extension of that, you know? But this morning, my first thought was 'I feel okay.' As if my body wasn't, you know, housing any more sadness."
"That's awesome," I said, cheerfully. Maybe things aren't as bad as I thought.
"Yeah, well, of course, once I remembered everything, then I started crying and couldn't stop for three hours. But I think it was an improvement, you know? It made me see that I was getting better. Because Ralph can't stay in my memory so strongly, he just can't. Soon I'll wake up and it'll take me three whole minutes to start crying about him. And then fifteen minutes. And then an hour, then a whole day, and then I'll finally be through this, you know?" She looked as if she was going to start crying again.
Ralph was Ruby's cat. He died of kidney failure three months ago. She has been keeping me updated on the physical sensations of her profound depression every day since. This is particularly difficult for me because I have absolutely no idea why anyone would pour all their emotional
energy into something that can't even give you a back rub. And not only that, but I feel superior about it. I believe anyone with a pet is actually weaker than I. Because when I ask somebody why they love their pet so much, they invariably say something like, "You just can't believe the amount of unconditional love Beemie gives me." Well, guess what. I don't need unconditional love, how about that? I need conditional love. I need someone who can walk on two legs and form sentences and use tools and remind me that that was the second time in a week that I yelled at a customer service person over the phone when I didn't get my way and I may want to look into that. I need to be loved by someone who can fully comprehend that when he sees me get locked out of my apartment three times in one month, that that may very well be the Thing About Me That Is Never Going to Change. And he loves me anyway. Not because it's an unconditional love, but because he actually truly knows me and has decided that my fascinating mind and hot bod are worth perhaps missing a flight or two because I forgot my driver's license at home.
But that's not really the point right now. The point here is that Ruby refuses to step out for a cup of coffee, go shopping, or even take a walk with me, because Ruby is a disaster at handling disappointment. Particularly of the romantic variety. Whatever good times she has with some fellow, it will never be worth the amount of pain and torture she puts herself through when it doesn't work out. The math of it simply doesn't add up. If she dates someone for three weeks, and then they break up, she'll spend the next two months driving herself and everyone around her crazy.
Because I'm an expert on the emotional MRI of Ruby, I can tell you exactly what happens during her descent. She will meet someone, a man, say, as opposed to a feline. She will like him. She will go out with him. Her heart will be full of the possibility and excitement that comes with finally finding someone you actually like who is available, kind, decent, and who seems to like you back.
As I said before, Ruby is attractive; very soft, very feminine. She can be inquisitive and attentive, and a great conversationalist. And when she meets men, they like her for all these reasons. Ruby is actually really good at the dating part of dating, and when she is in a relationship, she is clearly in her element.
However, this is New York, this is life, and this is dating. Things often don't work out. And when they don't, when Ruby gets rejected, for whatever reason it may be, and however the bad news is delivered, a process begins. She is usually fine at the Moment of Disappointment. Like when this guy Nile broke up with her because he wanted to get back together with his ex-girlfriend. At the moment of impact, she is philosophical about it. A burst of sanity and self-esteem washes over her, and she tells me that she knows that it just means he wasn't the one, and she can't take it personally and it's his loss. And then a few hours go by and time will push her further away from that moment of clarity and she will start to slip into the Crazy Pit. Her beloved, whom she once saw at normal size, starts growing larger and larger and larger, and in a matter of hours he becomes the Mount Everest of desirability and she is inconsolable. He was the best thing ever to happen to her. There will never be anyone as good as him ever again. Nile did the most powerful thing he could do to Ruby -- he rejected her and now he is EVERYTHING and she is nothing.
I've gotten so used to watching Ruby go through this, that I make a point of being around her during those critical few hours after a rejection, to see if I can stop her at the top of the stairs down to Crazy. Because, let me tell you, once she goes down, there's no telling when she's going to come back up. And she doesn't like to sit there alone. Ruby likes to call up her friends and describe in vivid detail, for hours, what it's like in the basement of broken dreams. The wallpaper, the upholstery, the floor tiles. And there is nothing we can do. We just have to wait it out.
So you can imagine that after a few years of these ups and downs, whenever I get the call from Ruby that she has "met this great guy" or the second date went "really, really well," I'm not necessarily jumping for joy. Because, again, the math is simply not promising. If three weeks can add up to two months of tears, imagine how terrified I am when Ruby celebrates her four-month anniversary with someone. If she ends up breaking up with someone after a few years of living together, well, I don't think at this point there are enough years left in her life to get over him.
Which is why she decided to get Ralph. Ruby was tired of being disappointed. And as long as she kept her windows closed and doors not ajar, Ralph would never leave her. And Ruby would never have to be disappointed again. But Ruby didn't know about feline chronic renal failure. And now, well, now Ralph was the best cat there ever was. Ralph made her happier than any animal or human could have ever possibly made her and she has no idea how she will ever live without him. She still manages to work. She's got her own business as an executive recruiter, and she has clients who rely on her to get their asses jobs. And thank God for them, because she will always get out of bed to help someone in need of a good nonlateral job placement. But a Saturday afternoon is much different. Ruby isn't budging.
Until I told her about Georgia. How her husband left her for a samba instructor and she's devastated and wants to go out and feel good about life. Then, Ruby understood completely. Ruby understood that there are moments when no matter how badly you feel, it's your duty to get out of the house and help deceive a newly single person into believing that everything is going to be okay. Ruby knew, intuitively, that this was just such a night.

How I'm Single

Let's be honest. I'm not doing it any better. I date, I meet men at parties and at work, or through friends, but things never seem to "work out." I'm not crazy, I don't date crazy men. Things just don't "work out." I look at couples walking down the street and I want to shake them, to beg them to answer my question, "How did you guys figure that out?" It has become the Sphinx for me, the eternal mystery. How do two people ever find each other in this city and "work out"?
And what do I do about it? I get upset. I cry. I stop. And then I cheer up and go out and be absolutely charming and have a great time as often as I can. I try to be a good person, a good friend, and a good member of my family. I try to make sure there isn't some unconscious reason why I'm still single. I keep going.
"You're single now because you're too snobby." That's Alice's answer every time the subject comes up. Meanwhile, I don't see her married to the handsome gentleman working at the fruit stand on the corner of Twelfth and Seventh who seems to have taken quite a shine to her. She is basing this judgment on the fact that I refuse to date online. In the good old days, online dating was considered a hideous embarrassment, something that no one would be caught dead admitting to. I loved that time. Now the reaction you will get from people when they hear that you're single and not doing some form of online dating is that you must not really want it that bad. It has become the bottom line, the litmus test for how much you're willing to do for love. As if your Mr. Right is definitely, absolutely guaranteed to be online. He's waiting for you and if you're not willing to spend the 1,500 hours, 39 coffees, 47 dinners, and 432 drinks to meet him, then you just don't want to meet him badly enough and you deserve to grow old and die alone.
"I don't think you're really open to love yet. You're not ready." That's Ruby's answer. I'm not even going to dignify it with a response -- except to say, I didn't know that finding love had become something equivalent to becoming a Jedi Knight. I didn't know there were years of psychic training, metaphysical trials to endure, and rings of fire to jump through before I could get a date for my cousin's wedding in May. And yet, I know women who are so out of their minds they might as well be barking like dogs, who still find men who adore them, men whom they, in their madness, feel they are in love with. But no matter.
My mother thinks I'm single because I like having my independence. But she rarely weighs in on the subject. She comes from the generation of women who didn't think they had any other option but to get married and have children. There were no other choices for her. So she thinks it's just dandy that I'm single and that I don't have to rely on a man. I don't think my mother and father had a particularly happy marriage and after my father died, she was one of those widows who finally got to come into her own -- the classes, the vacations, the bridge and book clubs. When I was still just a girl, she thought she was doing me a great service, giving me this wonderful gift of reminding me that I don't need a man to be happy. I can do anything I want, be anyone I want to be, without a man.
And now...I don't have the heart to tell her that I'm not really happy being single, and if you want to be someone's girlfriend or wife, and you happen to be straight, you kind of do need a man, sorry, Mom, because then I know she'd worry. Mothers do not like to see their children sad. So I steer the conversation away from my love life and she doesn't ask, both of us not wanting to reveal or know about any pesky unhappiness.
"Oh please," Serena -- who, among my friends has known me the longest -- said. "It's no mystery. You dated bad boys till your mid-thirties, and now that you've finally come to your senses, the good ones are all taken."
My last boyfriend six years ago was the worst one of all. There are some guys you date who are so bad that when you tell the story about them, it reflects just as badly on you as it does on them. His name was Jeremy and we had been dating for two tumultuous years. He decided to break up with me by not showing up to my father's funeral. I never heard from him after that.
Since then, no bad boys. But no great love, either.
Georgia weighed in on this subject of why I'm single on one particularly dark, lonely, regretful night.
"Oh for God's sake, there's no reason. It's just totally fucked. You're kind, you're beautiful, you have the best hair in New York City." (It's really long and curly but never ever frizzy, and when I want to straighten it, it looks just as great. I have to admit, it's my best feature.)
"You're hot, you're smart, you're funny, and you are one of the finest people I know. You are perfect. Stop asking yourself that awful question because there is not one goddamn reason why the sexiest, nicest, most charming man in New York City isn't madly in love with you right now."
And that was why I loved Georgia. And that's how this weekend I ended up spearheading an outing with my mismatched set of friends to make her feel like life was worth living. Because at the end of the day, it's night. And in New York, if it's night there's nightlife, and when there's life, as most optimists will be happy to tell you, there's always hope. And I guess that's a big part of how to be single. Hope. Friends. And making sure you get out of your damn apartment.

Copyright © 2008 by Liz Tuccillo

It's the most annoying question and they just can't help asking you. You'll be asked it at family gatherings, particularly weddings. Men will ask you it on first dates. councellors will ask you it over and over again. And you'll ask yourself it far too often. It's the question that has no good answer, and that never makes anyone feel better. It's the question, that when people stop asking it, makes you feel even worse.
And yet, I can't help but ask. Why are you single? You seem like an awfully nice person. And very attractive. I just don't understand it.
But times are changing. In almost every country around the world, the trend is for people to remain single longer and to divorce more easily. As more and more women become economically independent, their need for personal freedom increases, and that often results in not marrying so quickly.
A human being's desire to mate, to pair up, to be part of a couple, will never change. But the way we go about it, how badly we need it, what we are willing to sacrifice for it, most definitely is.

So maybe the question isn't anymore, "Why are you single?" Maybe the question you should be asking yourself is "How are you single?" It's a big new world out there and the rules keep changing.
So, tell me ladies, how's it going? Let’s start our own honest research…. Evidently this long winded piece provides no answers but more questions, may be together something could come out of it…….

Sunday 23 May 2010

Economic Models Explained Using Cows :D

Listen carefully for this is politics explained by wallstreet bullsh*t

You have 2 cows.
You give one to your neighbour.

You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and gives you some milk.

You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and sells you some milk.

You have 2 cows.
The State takes both and shoots you.

You have 2 cows.
The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away…

You have two cows.
You sell one and buy a bull.
Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows.
You sell them and retire on the income.

You have two giraffes.
The government requires you to take harmonica lessons

You have two cows.
You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows.
Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.

You have two cows.
You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows.
The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company.
The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more.
You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States, leaving you with nine cows.
No balance sheet provided with the release.
The public then buys your bull.

You have two cows.
You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.

You have two cows.
You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk.
You then create a clever cow cartoon image called ‘Cowkimon’ and market it worldwide.

You have two cows.
You re-engineer them so they live for 100 years, eat once a month, and milk themselves.

You have two cows, but you don’t know where they are.
You decide to have lunch.


You have two cows.
You count them and learn you have five cows.
You count them again and learn you have 42 cows.
You count them again and learn you have 2 cows.
You stop counting cows and open another bottle of vodka.

You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you.
You charge the owners for storing them.

You have two cows.
You have 300 people milking them.
You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity.
You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.

You have two cows.
You worship them.

You have two cows.
Both are mad.

Everyone thinks you have lots of cows.
You tell them that you have none.
No-one believes you, so they bomb the **** out of you and invade your country.
You still have no cows, but at least now you are part of Democracy….

You have two cows.
Business seems pretty good.
You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.

You have two cows.
The one on the left looks very attractive

Have a great week!!

Tuesday 18 May 2010


I want to say a huge “Thank you and God bless you” to everyone who made our Anniversary and my Birthday a special one.

Thanks for all the messages, email, sms and phone calls and prayers. May God bless you in ways you’ve never imagined and as I always say, may my greatest achievement be your least! I’m sure you know that I mean those words.

I was astounded to receive all the comments from readers of my “LOVE LETTER TO TARA”! At my last count, I had a total of 238 comments. That’s totally unprecedented for me!

I also had a lot of messages from the ladies who seemed awed by the fact that “a Nigerian man” had a romantic gene! The guys were shocked by my “lyrics” to Tara, (guys feel free to use any of those lines, lol!)

Quite a number of the ladies wanted to know how to find the right man for them as well, so this note is especially dedicated to every woman believing God for the right man.

Don’t worry guys, I’ll have one for you.

Ladies, why do you want to get married?

Is it because you’ve fantasized about the wedding day, or is it because your friends are getting married, or could it be pressure from family and friends who constantly remind you of the ticking of your biological clock? I assure you that those are all the wrong reasons to get married.
To many women fantasize about the WEDDING DAY, and don't prepare for the MARRIAGE.
The truth is, the marriage begins when the wedding ends.

So why then should you get married?

Forget the fairy tales, marriage is a covenant of two imperfect people coming together, committing their lives together forever, to create a union under God.

So what are the steps to getting the man of your dreams?

Step 1: Be the right woman:

What kind of wife would your dream husband be looking for?
Single ladies; please remember that as a woman thinks in her heart, so she “is”; not will be. Simply put, your thoughts, values, habits and words can tell any man, the kind of wife that you “are”, even though you are not married yet.

Step 2: Become a wife, while you’re waiting for a husband

Ladies, please recognize that “guys DATE chics and then go on to MARRY wives”. If the truth be told, there are too many Christian chics and too few Christian wives (or “wife material”) in Church today. Ask yourself, “am I a chic or a wife?” Who must I BE to attract who I WANT. Sweetheart, the man of your dreams isn’t hanging around in a bar or at a club, so what are you doing there?

Step 3: Who must be to attract who I want?

Write down the list of qualities that you want your husband to have. Now look at that list carefully. What have you written? God fearing, Intelligent, Good Communicator, Gainfully employed, Clean, Fun, has a car, apartment, has money etc.

Now, ask yourself, does your list consist more of “what he has” or “who he is”? If it’s driven by what he has, then, you may be driven by the external props and anybody can fake that. “Sharp” guys can borrow their friends’ cars, apartment, money etc, but the intangibles of “who he is” cannot be faked. Character, truth, integrity, passion can’t be faked.

If you want a God fearing man, are you God fearing? If you want an intelligent man, can you hold up your end of a conversation? You want a man who's gainfully employed, do you have a job?

When I began dating Tara, I was quick to inform her that I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend, but a wife. She thought that was the most unromantic thing I’d ever said, but she appreciated the fact that I was honest with her from the get go. Ladies, marry a man for “who he is”…even if the world hasn’t seen it yet; rather than for “what he has”, because what he has can be taken away from him, but who he is will be all that’s left.

When Tara and I began dating, I was living in a small “one room, room” where I had to share a communal toilet and bathroom with several families (one of my cooks used to be my neighbor). All my property (TV, electronics fridge, and other appliances) had been sown by instruction to build a campus ministry in OAU, Ife, called Eden. All I had left was a cane dustbin, a mattress and a carpet with a hole in the middle (which the bed thankfully covered).

But there was much more to me than what I didn’t seem to have. I was always talking about my vision, what our life would be, where I was taking her to and I was also TAKING ACTION STEPS to get us there. Ladies, beware of the man who only talks the talk, but doesn’t WALK THE WALK! He must have corresponding action with his words.

Sometime ago, about 3 years ago, Tara and I were invited to a TV interview, and the host asked me what was imperative for women to look for in a man. I remember saying. “Don’t marry a man for his “television”, marry a man who has vision and one day; his vision will put you on television”!

So ladies, please understand that there are 3 types of men:

1. The Scavenger: The scavenger is a man who capitalizes on a “dead” and “lifeless” woman. Scavengers look for women with low self – esteem, filled with pity and act like victims of life. These men prefer ladies with no inner strength that are always begging for sympathy or for someone, anyone to love them. Scavengers enjoy “no resistance” as they ravage their victims. If you’re like me, I enjoy watching Discovery Channel and Animal Planet on DSTV. I’ve discovered that in the animal kingdom, scavengers include animals like the hyena and the vulture. If you notice, these scavengers often look for the weak, sick or young, helpless animals that offer the least resistance.

Are you attracting scavengers? If you are, you need to shore up your self confidence and self esteem.

2. The Hunter: The hunter seeks to trap a luscious “game”, with the sole intention of devouring her; with only a remnant of a carcass. He looks for a beautiful intelligent woman, whom he considers to be a prize possession. This guy isn’t in the hunt, just to fulfill his desires, no, he’s after what hunters regard as “BIG GAME”. He’s looking for the “Big 5”. These are the 5 most difficult animals to catch on foot. The collection consists of the lion, the African elephant, the African Buffalo, the leopard and the rhinoceros, either the black rhinoceros or the white rhinoceros. The members of the big five were chosen for the difficulty in hunting them.

He’s inspired by the thrill of the chase. The more she runs, the more enticing she becomes. He only wants her as a prize. When the hunter overcomes his quarry, the first thing he does is to decapitate it. Once beheaded, it is skinned and dried and then placed as a trophy on his wall to brag about. Does this sound familiar? The hunter finally gets the girl, eliminates her self esteem and causes her to be a shadow of herself. He kills her dreams, business ideas and her passion. Do you know any hunters? They’re only in for the kill!

3. The Gardener: Now, this is God’s intention for what a husband should be! This man sees his wife as a seed. He recognizes that a seed is a tree in disguise! His responsibility is to nurture and bring out the best from her. One of the things a gardener does is to create the right environment for the seed to grow.

He nurtures her in an environment of love and care. Next, after planting, he waters her. What that means is that he’s concerned about her dreams; he wants to know what makes her tick. He takes her dreams and gives them expression; he puts structure and substance to her ideas. When he talks about her dreams, he uses the plural of “we”. He takes personal responsibility for the accomplishment of her dreams. He also removes weeds around her. He gets rid of all negative associations that are around her.

Another thing the gardener does is to prune her. Pruning means to “cut back”. So he cuts back her excesses. It reminds me of those wall plants that grow so long, over other fences and eventually becomes a nuisance to everyone. Sometimes, cutting back is a painful process to the plant, but it is necessary for the plant to develop the tenacity for explosive growth. He cuts excessive, improper behavior, value systems and friendships. But this in all is done in love with the aim to make her better. He enlightens and encourages her to be all that she can be, to do all that she can do and to enjoy all that she can have.

The wife of a gardener is like the path of the righteous; she shines brighter and brighter. She never has a better last year. She’s always growing and glowing with new ideas, new projects and new levels. Her testimonies are full of promotion, profit and new experiences. Her life is every inch, the dream of other women.

Clearly, what all these 3 kinds of men seek in their dreams is as far apart as the east is from the west. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think God created man to be a hunter or scavenger. My Bible tells me in the Book of Genesis that the man God created and formed was assigned to tend the GARDEN of Eden. This tells me that the first man was clearly designed and wired to be a gardener and it was that man God thought shouldn’t be alone.

As far as I’m concerned, every hunter & scavenger deserves to be a bachelor until they change their values, desires and dreams. I certainly hope that I can speak for all gardeners in this article.

The evidence of a good gardener is his GARDEN. Take a look at my garden – TARA, and you can tell if I am a good gardener. And even though I know there’s great room for improving my gardening skills.

I hope this note helps you sort out the gardeners from the rest.

I believe in you and I know you're going to make one lucky man very happy very soon

Expecting your wedding invites soon.


Thursday 13 May 2010

..and on a lighter note: Laws! Laws!! Laws!!!: Sarcasm as the new funny!

Universal Law...
Law of Mechanical Repair:After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch or you'll have to pee.
Law of the Workshop:Any tool, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.
Law of Probability:The probability of being watched is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act.
Law of the Telephone:If you dial a wrong number, you never get a busy signal.
Law of the Alibi:If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the very next morning you will have a flat tire.
Variation Law:If you change lines (or traffic lanes), the one you were in will start to move faster than the one you are in now.

Law of the Bath:When the body is fully immersed in water, the telephone rings.
Law of Close Encounters:The probability of meeting someone you know increases when you are with someone you don't want to be seen with.
Law of the Result:When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will.
Law of Biomechanics:The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.
Law of the Theatre:At any event, the people whose seats are furthest from the aisle arrive last.
Law of Coffee:As soon as you sit down to a cup of hot coffee, you boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.
Murphy's Law of Lockers:If there are only two people in a locker room, they will have adjacent lockers.

Law of Rugs and Carpets:The chances of an open-faced jelly sandwich landing face down on a floor covering are directly correlated to the newness and cost of the carpeting.
Law of Location:No matter where you go, there you are.
Law of Logical Argument:Anything is possible if you don't know what you are talking about.
Brown's Law:If the shoe fits, it's ugly.
Oliver's Law:A closed mouth gathers no feet.

Wilson's Law:As soon as you find a product that you really like, they will stop making it.

Miscallenous laws: It takes 7 seconds for food to pass from mouth to stomach. A human hair can hold 3 kg. The length of the penis is three times the length of the thumb.

The femur is as hard as concrete. A woman's heart beats faster than a man's. Women blink twice as much as men. We use 300 muscles just to keep our balance when we stand....... The woman has read this entire text. The man is still looking at his thumb lol

Monday 10 May 2010

being Grateful for a near death experience.

*Today's blog will probably read like rambling. It is a collection of thoughts and may not flow logically. I beg your pardon. :)*

Four years back, I had been facing some challenges at work and talking about it to people that cared to listen and was hoping to get some advice on the best approach to solve those problems. Little did I know that a bigger and more immediate challenge was waiting for me at the close of work. At about 6pm, I left the office, mentally preparing for the long drive that awaited me. I used to work in ikeja and reside in festac and so i just had to use the apapa oshodi expressway. It had been a long hard week, and I was looking forward to having a bath and getting straight into bed.

This was not going to be so easy...

All of a sudden at ilasamaja there was this heavy traffic jam. At a point all cars including mine were at a standstill. What happened?! There was a petrol tanker that had exploded up front, I could see the fire from my seat and the glow coming from that direction. It appeared to be one of those abandoned trucks left on the highway, and luckily no car was in its immediate vicinity.
It was very busy burning up all the petrol in it so we just had to wait
...and wait
....and wait..

After about 5hours, we heard continuous gun shots. In panic, I couldnt help but be cyncical "Very opportunistic,very typical". Armed Robbers took the opportunity of a traffic jam to rob motorist and other weary travellers!
Ah, well those on foot and public transport took to flight but motorist like me had no where to run to.I then wondered whether it will be my last day on earth. One has to be familiar with cities like Lagos,Portharcourt etc to know that life could be lost at any time,anywhere in those areas. I decided to contact three people by text and let them know about my current dilemma. One of them was my mum. My mum and the other friend (who has since effectively chosen not to be a friend anymore)replied with prayers,but the third person replied philosophically. He said "Death should not be feared but accepted but God,your tongue and faith can decide for you when it is time to go..."

The prayers strengthened my faith, the advice was somewhat soothing and I thank God am alive today. I ran away from the car with other weary workers, until they armed robbers looted to their fill and drove away, shooting sporadically. Then we waited till the petrol burnt to the ground (fire fighters were nowhere to be seen) and finally got back to the car and drove home.

I got in really late but at least I was safe. I remembered those words "Death should not be feared but accepted but God,your tongue and faith can decide for you when it is time to go..." and it got me thinking; if you thought it was your last hour and you had a mobile phone,and could contact anyone on earth who will you call?

I thanked my God for everything that happened.. YES EVERYTHING!, for my managers who were putting all sorts of pressure on me, because it shows that I am tougher than I think, for the payroll staff who 'mistakenly' took 90% of my income as tax deductions, because it shows that I can handle scarce resources, for spending close to 7hours stuck on a road, watching helplessly as a tanker burnt to the ground, then hiding behind a kiosk so armed robbers could loot as much as they wanted. Because it shows that I am healthy enough to run, lucid and creative enough to survive and matured enough to see the lessons in all of it. YES, I really praised His Name.
I mean..really, really REALLY! My thoughts turn to praises!!
I think some of us underestimate the power of praise!
For instance, I was hailing(slang for a type of praising) one of my female colleagues at work the day and saw how she glowed with pride and accepted the compliments. It was genuine and was from inside of her. It made me realise just how important praise should be to every Christian.

God inhabits the praises of His people. Praises can and do work wonders in our lives. Imagine how proud we feel when people praise us,whether through periodical job appraisals and I am guessing for the married ones amongst us,when our spouses are so appreciative of some thing we did. We, literally, feel high, we feel like we can take on the universe and we end up working harder at the service we rendered...its a lovely feeling.

Now it stands to reason that if we were created in the image and likeness of our Heavenly father, I mean the One who sent His only beloved Son, Jesus Christ, to come in the flesh and die for our sins, and to rise up from death to heaven where He is till He returns for the eternal judgement, (just wanted to be clear on Who am writing about), then He will love our praises.

Praises brought down the walls of Jericho, praises added 15 years to Hezekiahs life, praises are still working miracles today. So why dont we stop right now, forget our worries, ignore the day we have had and just...Praise Him..........Think about it. :)

Have a smashtastic week!

Sunday 9 May 2010

How do i love thee..let me count the ways -Elizabeth B Browning

....I love thee with a passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

*I normally could write up a storm without a hitch, even when in an assessment period,and really should concentrate on studies,but ...poetry..i am bad at poetry.
Its my mum's birthday/week so i am taking from other peoples works..talented people, forthright poems..*

Thank You

Your hearts like a crystal,
Natural and bright,
It melts all my grief,
And sorrow from sight.

You nourished my cravings,
Since I was a pea,
You stood by my side,
And would walk through the sea.

You sacrificed so much,
I wish to repay,
With words and actions,
I’ll always convey.

Today is your Birthday!
My love is so true,
You are my mother,
And I thank God for – you.

by Martin Dejnicki

My Miracle Mother

Mom, I look at you
and see a walking miracle.
Your unfailing love without limit,
your ability to soothe my every hurt,
the way you are on duty, unselfishly,
every hour, every day,
makes me so grateful
that I am yours, and you are mine.
With open arms and open heart,
with enduring patience and inner strength,
you gave so much for me,
sometimes at your expense.
You are my teacher,
my comforter, my encourager,
appreciating all, forgiving all.
Sometimes I took you for granted, Mom,
but I don’t now, and I never will again.
I know that everything I am today
relates to you and your loving care.
I gaze in wonder
as I watch you being you—
my miracle, my mother.

By Joanna Fuchs

She nags because she loves you

My Mother, My Friend

Dear Mam, I want to let you know
how much you mean to me,
And express my love and gratitude
for all you've helped me be
You've been the perfect mother
Kind and loving too,
I grew strong with your support,
Dependable and true

You were always there to guide me
throughout my childhood years
You encouraged, praised, and loved me,
and wiped away my tears
And when I'd grown, and flown the nest
the bond between us grew,

Throughout the years your life and mine
have always been entwined,
The bonds of love, unbreakable,
withstand the test of time
Though I may not often tell you,
I hope you know it's true -
You've been the perfect mother,
and I'll always love you

Sheila Brookes


Thursday 6 May 2010

Interested in making a difference? read on...


Thanks for all the comments here, and through personal messages . Out of all the personal messages, these comments really struck a chord with me:

// " I want to contribute and stand for what I believe in"
"Can we form a common front against this, it's worth living for, if it is d only task achieved with one's lifetime, it's worth it."

"I will convince witnesses to write first hand experiences " //

So I will be sending a personal message and will tag a few people so we can brainstorm and see how far our thoughts can be carried out into action!

This link is throwing it in the open, if you do want to be tagged, bcos you want to make a difference especially in relation to childbrides and VVF, please send a pm, comment or somehow let me know by tonight. And I can add you to the list.


Wednesday 5 May 2010

Introducing the legend that is Kola Boof

Introducing Kola Boof, born as Naima Bint Harith,Probably born on March 3in the year 1969, on the Nile River to Arab-Egyptian Muslim Archeologist Harith Bin Farouk (he later chose Kolbookek to signify ancient Egyptian Coptic ties) and Gisi-Waaq Oromo nomad Somali mother, Jiddi
Her life is marked by violence and controvery from the start as her parents Harith Bin Farouk and his wife Jiddi were nurdered by the murahleen in the back yard of their home. In the next 3 days, Naima was sent to her grandmother and uncles in Egypt by her Aunt Kar..her mother's best friend. At the funeral for Harith and Jiddi...Naima met her two younger brothers (the sons of her father by an Ethiopian mistress that Naima and her mother had known nothing about). The sons shunned Naima, jealous that she had the luxury of the father's constant attention. Once in Egypt, Naima's grandmother, Najet, decided that the girl was too "darkskinned" to live a healthy assimilated life in the father's Egyptian family. They had worked for a long time to rid the family of "blood abeed". Naima was one day called into the house from playing...placed in the arms of a White British man...and taken away to London.In 1988, at 18 she writes her first novel, "Come and Get These Memories" (escapist trash-unsubmitted/lost). Submitts poetry to magazines--gets rejected. Writes a good novel, "The Beauty That Hides Their Faces" (unsubmitted/now lost). and some other books till 1995 when she writes poems about the war in Sudan at this time and about the "racial colorism" that has marked her life as a Black woman who looks black in Arab countries--she feels her blackness prevents her from rising above "party girl"..
She is described by (The African American Literature Book Club)as the new black woman writer that "lots of people love to hate" due the confrontational method to her work.

So I first read her poems in a forum online and was immediately confronted with her semi nakedness. Kola Boof insists she be photographed "topless" for the back covers of her books-in honor of the animist nilotic goddess-based African religion that she embraces. She has also been threatened by death from her native Sudan, (Ms. Boof has joined Dr. John Garang's SPLA in an effort to end Arab-Islamic slavery and oppression of Black Africans in Sudan). I find her poems disturbing, and find it hard to reconcile her accusation of racism by the Arabs towards blacks and yet she says she was Osama Bin Laden's mistress?

In 2001Kola Boof's short story collection, The Goddess Flower, is published in the United States by Russom Damba's North African Book Exchange--but he retitles the book "Long Train to the Redeeming Sin: Stories About African Women". but Kola's feelings are hurt when Eso Won Books in Los Angeles reacts with laughter--taunting and making fun of her nude image on the back of the book.

Yi Nee Ling is hired by Russom Damba to create a publicity campaign. Ling decides to market Boof is as "a mysterious figure". "The African Garbo", as Ling told the N.Y. Times.
By 2002, Kola Boof becomes an internet phenomenon. Her books sell briskly, but not very strong at first. She completes her memoirs, "Diary of a Lost Girl". The book is scheduled, initially, to be launched in the summer of 2002..then it's pushed back to September of 2002...and finally pushed to January of 2003.'s cancelled altogether, as death threats, growing publicity and the success of "Long Train" take center stage.

Death threats plague the author starting in February of 2002 and culminate in a shootout in August of 2002...followed by a scathing article on Sept. 15th in London's largest daily Arabic newspaper, Al-Sharq Al-aswat, inwhich Sudanese diplomat Gamal Ibrahaim denounces Kola Boof. This, ofcourse, is unheard of--a "female" having an entire article devoted to her in an Arab Muslim newspaper. Not only that. But a female who lives in America.

Then on October 26h of 2002...Boof is informed by SPLA people in London that the NIF is issuing "fatwa" on her...they vow to see it carried out and promise that she will die.

One of her popular works, "Long Train to the Redeeming Sin" then hits #2 at in March of 2002. It has also seen big gains at and has been a top seller at key bookstores like SisterSpace in Washington, D.C.

A December feature article on Kola Boof in the New York Times is the cause of the greatly increased sales. Unfortunately, the article is also a vicious attack on Boof's credibility as according to the Times Staff...Gerald Boyd of the New York Times has expressed his feeling that Boof is unfairly prejudiced against Arabs and Muslims and needed to be "confronted".

She gives a speech in Isreal stating " My dearest ones in Israel, the devil has been very busy. For no matter who risks life and limb to tell the truth about the evil injustices carried out by the Arab Muslim governments of North Africa and by the mullahs that advise these governments, the media in America has responded with a hideous prejudice against Jews, against black African Sudanese, and against any fair-thinking person who dares despise the Arab imperialism that is not only destroying the Middle East, but now threatens to destroy authentic African culture of the Nile River more than it already has.

It does not matter

that I speak as the daughter of an Arab Egyptian father, a woman born Islamic in Omdurman, Sudan, or that I am an accomplished African woman writer, obviously of some intelligence.

It does not matter

that my parents were murdered in my presence, because my Arab Muslim father spoke out against the building of Lake Nuba and the enslavement of Dinka children by Arab Northerners in Sudan.

It does not matter

that I have witnessed Muslim women rolled up in carpets and set on fire, because they failed to produce male children.

It does not matter

that I speak, most regrettably, as the former mistress of two of the Arab world's most powerful men, Hasan al Turabi and Osama Bin Laden, or that I have been a paid hostess at the parties of President Hosni Mubarak and Moamar Khadafi, or that I provided proof of this before I was profiled by Fox News, and therefore, have knowledge of their true faces.

Anyone who speaks the truth in America about the evils of the Arab world is ignored, shunned and accused of supporting the so-called Jewish desecration of the Arab birthright.

Of course, we all remember that the Black Plague was blamed on Jewish people, even in nations where there were no Jews living, and this today, is the similar anti-semitic blame game, but for being a black African woman who has said so in America, I have been written off as "crazy", "emotional", "a whore" and "a hoax".

I don't deny that I'm a controversial, provocative public figure. I reject all man-made religions, be it Christianity, Islam, the Jewish faith, Buddhism or any worship that was created by men. I am a womanist and an African mother. I bare my breasts in the river once a month and I believe in the womb.

Yet still,

I have not lied about the atrocities of the Arab world.
I have not lied about the cruel evils of Islam against African people and those who refuse to join it.
I have told these truths, not because I hate any race or religion of man, but because I believe that it's wrong for human beings to take part in any cult of hate, any orgasm of violence against other humans.
According to my Sudanese Zarpunni (the women's neighborhood) and all the black women before me, the Palestinians have sterilized black women since the 1950's.

It is well known by African women that our wombs are loathed in Arab nations, because it is our wombs that produce the authentic black man. Our tongue bequeaths him his heritage and identity.

Who on this planet will deny me this truth?"
Kola Boof continues to live in California with her two boys and continues to utilize special security measures, this is because she lives under a myriad of death threats from many different political and religious groups.


Monday 3 May 2010

Yerima can keep his 13 year-old wife, (?!!) but he should get out of the Senate Biodun Oduwole

‘I don’t care about the issue of age since have not violated any rule as far as Islam is concerned. History tells us that Prophet Muhammad did marry a young girl as well. Therefore I have not

contravened any law, even if she is 13 as is being falsely peddled around’. That was Sani Ahmed Yerima the former Zamfara State Governor acknowledging for the first time that he indeed married an underage girl as a fourth wife.

As governor of Zamfara State, Yerima must have been familiar with Vesico Vaginal Fistula, otherwise known as VVF. He must know how much his government spent on medicare for the young girls who were suffering from the condition because of early marriage. It is a prevalent condition in many parts of the northern states. It leaves the victim ostracised and abandoned because of her unhygienic smelly state. Tender and unprepared reproductive organs are forced into premature stress that causes the rectum and the vaginal openings to flow into themselves. The unprepared young mother then passes urine and faeces through her vagina uncontrollably. Yerima cannot claim ignorance of this, yet he is prepared to lead an innocent girl into this traumatic condition because of the supposed enjoyment of a budding honey pot. What selfishness.

Senate spokesman Ayogu Eze missed the point entirely when he said those who believe Yerima has offended any laws should take him to court. Not so sir. This is not a matter of legalese but a moral obligation. A serving senator of the United States senate was forced to resign because he was caught making suggestive gay approaches to another man at a public toilet. He did not offend any laws, but he offended the sensibilities of the decent public.

Yerima agreed to open up his private life and actions to the Nigerian public when he sought public office. The votes he received for his gubernatorial office and his senatorial position was pact between him and public that he would be held up as a role model, trusted by society as a leader and would help in showing the way forward to the many that have entrusted him with their lives by voting for him. Is this the kind of leadership those who voted for him are looking forward to? Are they prepared for a deluge of cases of VVF in the Yerima prescribed society of unrepentant marriage to 13 year-olds?

Outside of sexual matters, the emotional responsibilities of marriage are too heavy for a 13 year-old to carry. Her preparations to be a good mother and wife have been truncated and reduced to on the job training for her. Who will teach her to cook decent meals? The older wives who have lost their place in the master’s bedroom to a younger and more energetic girl? For goodness sake that girl should be in school. The north is busy crying itself hoarse about educational disadvantage. The northern governors’ forum is busy trying to find solutions to out of school children and someone who should know better provides a perfect reason why those children should shun the classroom. Yerima has sent a strong message to girls in the north and in Islam that there is little need to pursue education with any seriousness and that marriage is more important and useful than education.

It is indeed a matter for great regret that Yerima cannot see what he has done wrong in all of this. The arrogance and justification with which he has dismissed all protests on this matter makes it painful that he is a senator of the federal republic. Has it not occurred to him that for the BBC to interview him on the matter he has done something unusual?a Something that is not run of the mill. Where are his sense of judgement and his perception of public odium?

Yerima can keep his 13 year-old wife, the harm is done already, but he should get out of the Senate. He has become a stink to many Nigerians and a source of international embarrassment to the country.

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