The Rules

There’s a difference between preferences and the rules needed to survive the dating world.  My rules aren’t unreasonable, I swear to you. They come from numerous experiences: the weird, the wonderful and the unexplainable.  This isn’t about being picky; this is about being protective of my genes (and jeans), sanity, and preventing psychotic flashbacks.

I think I’m a fairly open person- I like to describe myself as an equal opportunity dater. I don’t discriminate. Short, tall, round, lean, smart, dumb; I will give you a twirl on my spaceship.  That is until you screw up and make me create a rule just to prevent others like you coming in and messing it up again.

I know some women with some crazy rules and let’s face it; there is a logical reason why some women have these crazy rules. The longer your single, the more fanatical rules you’ll create because time is your bestie.

So here are my rules:

• Names

There are certain names which make me mad.  It stems from teenage angst, heartbreak and oddities. This rule is purely stupid and I admit it, but I won’t ever date a guy who shares the same name as any of my exs, or my family. It’s just too coincidental and in the latter case- weird.

A friend of mine once told me that she will never date a guy if she can’t moan his name sexily. When she told me this, I had to ask for an explanation, because it was too hilarious. Things that influence the “moaning of his name” include the length and the pronunciation.  Come on, there are nicknames and no man would object to you saying “Oh baby” in bed. But then she countered, “try saying ‘oh Oluwafemi’ in a sexy way”.  She had a point and I conceded.

• Smells

I’ve told this to a lot of my girlfriends. I had a date with a guy and as cute as he was, he had an odour issue that he wasn’t aware of. His locs, his breath, his BO, and I guessed his feet, stunk.  It just STUNK. I remained a certain distance at all times. No adult should have an all over odour problem. None. Even if you suffer from Halitosis and Hyperhidrosis, then you’re going to have to explain the hair and feet funk.

• Odd talents

I love creative and talented people. What I don’t love are odd displays of talent at the dinner table and anywhere else. Telling me that you can make your gums bleed by just tapping them is not a talent and is not attractive. Heck, you can’t even mess around with someone if THAT’S your talent!  Other odd talents include: being able to balance a knife on your nose, and having a love for doing push-ups wherever you are, including right now, in a club, with people staring at you.

• Beauty enthusiasts

Well groomed men are sexy. They are gorgeous, just look at those Italian models for Versace (rraoaw!).  But they also seem high maintenance and fussy, like Ronaldo.  There is something uncomfortable about a guy who tastes like cherry lip balm and offers to join you for your next wax trip at the salon. It’s not wrong, it’s just not right for me.

• Lovers of Love

I love love. I love the way Oxytocin makes it all furry and pretty.  But there’s something to be said about men who love love and fall in love faster than any Hollywood celeb.  Two measly dates in and BAM! “I love you and want you to have my babies”.  I wish I could say this was one single occurrence, but it’s happened 4 times to me and I haven’t hit 30 yet. Should I appreciate it? In the beginning I did, but after a while I think their love obsessions were not only intense, but dangerously bizarre.  Of course some would say they were lines, but c’mon, poetry rants and obsessive texts are not signs of a playa.

• Handsome men

I see your confused look already. I have a weakness for handsome men. I see a hot guy and I get flushed and woozy. I’m 100% for it. My mom on the other hand thinks it’ll make me do bad things (Oh I reeaaally wish!) and make bad decisions.  And she’s right. I won’t tell you the stupidly stupid things I’ve done just because the guy was an Apollo, but I wish she wasn’t right, because it felt amazing.  I refuse, however, to date unfortunate looking men. I just cant.  I need an attraction, heck who doesn’t?

 

Green Eggs and Pancakes

The alarm clocks wakes me.

I get up cursing it and hoping that 8hours hasn’t just gone by.

I look at the clock. It has. Damn—another work day.

I get up, head to the bathroom and stare at the mirror.

For some reason, I smile. I want pancakes- to hell with calories.

Its 6am I make and devour said pancakes and I feel a hell of a lot better.

Pancakes have healed me.

Today will be great.  I skip out the door. I feel very Madeleine like.

I walk to my car.

Penalty fine for parking.

I scream. The neighbour laughs. I huff.

I walk into work.

The security guard stares at me:

“mmm, babylove, yuh lookin’ sweeeeet tuhday”

“how yuh get so sweet so eh? Mm! looking like a ripe yellow banana”

I don’t blush.

*Stueps*

I walk, trying to strut.

20 yards and a no wet floor sign later someone grabs me from behind and my Naomi Campbell reign ends.

He was falling, so obviously he needed a partner.

The shock takes me by surprise and I’m on the floor slipping across trying to manoeuvre my way up.

I’m ready to scream, but I apologize to the guy (and I don’t know why).

The guy looks at me, He’s cute and I begin to imagine a pathetic romantic TV episode.

He says: “thanks for humiliating me”.

I reach the breakroom. Make a cup of coffee and the cleaner becomes chatty.

She tells me a story and her mouth become akin to a hurricane: gusts of wind and rain.

I look at the clock: 8am.

The cleaner is still talking and laughing; now her mouth bellows spittle like a frickin’ seastorm and some lands on my face.

I wipe.  I keep smiling.

I’m too nice.

For some reason, I expected a Disney prince to walk in and slay the wicked spitty cleaner.

Someone has to want to rescue me.

I take a sip of spittified coffee.

I walk away; hoping that down the corridor a frog will jump in my throat and give me reason to escape with a sick note.

8 hours left.

Lawd Fadduh Gawd.

Turks and Caicos, you had me at hello.

1. 

 

So funny story right, this guy sees this girl struggling with her shopping.

He stops and gives her a hand and at the same time compliments her on her stunning afro.

She giggles, he continues to flirt.

They started dating, and she called him beautifully romantic. He called her loyal and unflawed.

They made a love nest and had a bunch of kids.

Location: Turks & Caicos

I grew up in the Turks & Caicos.

My parents fell in love and stayed in love with the place. Me, I’m a wanderer and my feet always itched to travel and score some excitement away from the religious zeal of my father.

But every now and again, I miss it.  I miss it all; the air, the sun, the beaches, the dialects, the accents, culture, the people and their Jedi knight ability to put you in your place with one stern look. I miss it. Call me crazy, but some days I wake up and hope to have the sun beaming through my windows and chickens clucking through my ear drums. If you’re quick, you’d guess I grew up on one of the lesser of the cosmopolitan islands, i.e. Not Providenciales. This isn’t a bad thing, of course.  It was just more rustic, charming, (and hot as hell), but it holds memories and now of course political saga and a slew of tourists pointing and saying: “look darling, people actually LIVE in houses!”  Yes I’ve had the “do you live in huts” question. I was 17 and completely stumped why anyone would think Caribbean people lived in huts. The sheer arrogance I tell you.

Every generation has its nostalgic centrepiece. My dad used to tell me stories that seemed so far-fetched and unbelievable. I wonder if when I get older I’ll have a story that begins: “when I was your age…” I keep trying to think of one now so I can work on it, but I can’t come up with anything. Turks and Caicos is normal and quaint, but there’s no mass change (again political &tourist saga aside). If you can think of any, let me know, I’ll add it to my growing selection of Stories To Tell To My Grandkids.

If you’re a tourist and you need an idea of what the place is like, then I have 9 great things to tell you.

1. Get ready to spend your dollar.

Yes, dollar. As in US dollars. Turks and Caicos use the American dollar as its legal tender, and not as you thought, Turks dollars. Also, the place is pretty pricey. But if you’re staying in a swanky hotel, then that probably won’t be an issue to you.

2. We don’t have accents.

Growing up, I never thought we islanders had an accent, till someone burst this pretty little notion and noticed that mine was pretty skrong strong. I resent that person to this day. I was however fully aware of the different way the other islands pronounced things and like all my peers, unashamedly mocked them. Ah, kids.

3. Don’t get in the water!

I kid of course.  The beaches are pristine and the water clearer than pearl. However, there’s Private Beaches where tourists like to be hidden away from the rest of the island (with a population of like negligible I don’t see the point) and bury their heads in a good Hemingway. It ruins it for you. You want to be able to frolick from end to end undisturbed, but capitalists put an end to that.

4. Pack your golf cart or your dune buggy.

Grand Turk is 7 miles long by 1.5 miles wide.  It’s tiny, but not tinier than Salt Cay. A lot of tourists love to drive around in them. For the rest of us, it’s annoying. Why? Because we want to drive at 30mph in our land rover dammit! I must admit, when I did go to Salt Cay, I drove one, loved it and did the entire island in less than a day. I figure one day when I’m 75, I’ll retire there and annoy all the hip kids with Beyonce blasting from my golf-mobile.  Oh, and we drive on the left.

5. Sean Paul is ok, but we prefer Bob Marley and Morgan Heritage

I love Caribbean music. If you want to get a feel for reggae music, do let your hair down to some Morgan Heritage, Lucky Dube or Buju Banton. You’ll be pleasantly surprised. And if you really want to crank it up a notch, get some Soca & Calypso in your system. You’ll love it. C’mon be a rebel.

6. We don’t all eat Jerk Chicken.

Ah, the famous Jerk Chicken. It’s actually native to Jamaica rather than Turks and Caicos, but we still love it. The best dishes are the seafood dishes: fish, lobster, shrimp, conch, yumyumyum!  Fish in the Caribbean has a different savour. It’s fresh, soft, and just amazingly delicious. I’m a seafood snob; I refuse to eat fish if I’m not in the Caribbean (with the exception of salmon).  And the great things about Caribbean cooking are the flavours, spices, aromas, textures and creativity that goes into them.  If you have a sensitive stomach or abhor pepper, than make your case known! You still will be fine with less spicier foods, just not having as much fun as we are.

7. Learn to swim.

Especially if you’re planning your holiday for 2012. Kidding.  Watersports are HUGE, and why shouldn’t it be. You have one of the best beaches in the world; it’s natural that surfing, snorkelling, parasailing, etc are going to be at the top of your “must-do” list.

8. You’ll have a “whale” of a time

Was that a little too lame? Sorry, I was just dying to type that. If you love sea animal life: whales, dolphins, the barrier reef and spongebob, then pack your underwater camera and don’t get Botox if you want to be amazed. It’s simply astonishing watching them in action.

9. Go on, pack your sunscreen

This is self-explanatory.

Sidenote: if you do have a great time, come back and tell me about it. Better yet, a thank you ticket would be great.

 

The single “I” in single.

The “I” is either an ironic comical coincidence or a linguistic fault.

The word: single. It just about encompasses intrigue and opinion from everyone. It’s multi-faceted. Seriously, you can be single and sexy; single and lonely; single and having sex; single and loving it; single and hating it; single and looking; a sassy single sistah; single and stupidly getting played;  etc etc. Get the point? I hope you did ‘cause I just about ran out of single ‘facets.

Having a “single” status can be fun, and it can be challenging, especially on days where you find comfort in writing bad poetry.

Here are 5 things I think are awful about being single:

1. The Questions, i.e. “so why have you been single for so long?”

You’re always geared to say: “I’m focusing on me.” But c’mon, really? How much focusing can you be doing? Especially if it spans 6-10 years. That’s a hell of a lot of focusing.

My answer is always: “I went in search for Mr Right, couldn’t find him, so I went in search of Mr Hottie instead.” This doesn’t work on my parents.  My dad is happy for me to remain single. My mom wants a wedding by December 2011.

2.  The “oh-table-for-just-one-madam? Are you sure”

Yes I’m friggin’ sure!

Actually a friend of mine responded once by saying: No actually my Aunt Flo will be joining me a bit later.

3. The generic words of encouragements.

Please do not act as if you do not know them! They are the most vile, irritating phrases on this planet!

“You’ll find someone”

“there’s someone for everyone”

“when you stop looking, you’ll meet him”

“plenty of fish in the sea”

I feel utterly stupid for even typing those out.

I wonder why, no one has ever  set out petitions to have them forbidden or branded them as crimes against the single adult.

4. The rain and oh yea…lust

There’s something about the rain (when you not in it getting soaking wet) that drives most people crazy. It’s exhilarating.  It draws you in and makes you primal. There were actually studies that linked high rates of baby conception to areas of heavy rainfall. Seriously, I kid you not.

Lust is a powerful thing. You always think: when I get in a relationship or married, we’re gonna do it like rabbits. But then you talk to people in relationships who say: it fizzles out. I’m sorry I don’t buy it. SEX fizzling?! There are a few things I don’t believe in; sex fizzling out is one of them. In my head, sex is always hot and uber-amazing, especially if rain and a good Brenda Jackson novel is involved.

5. The uncertainty.

The thing that drives me insane, truly insane, damn near bipolar, is the waiting. The never knowing. The “when is just gonna happen so I can stop waiting” feeling. I find myself chanting mantras in the mirror to discourage my single self from screaming in complete single boredom.  Truly.

But then again:

“Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free till they find someone just as wild to run with them.” – Sex in the City

Baloney.

“all of us were scarred from high school”

Nerd meltdown

Credit: graur razvan ionut / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

…..well maybe not all of us. I certainly was. However, I can feel eyes rolling and chests heaving and sighing at the idea of repetitive stereotypical bore. “the nerd, the jock, the popular kid, the weirdo”; the lists are endless.

What was i? Good question.  I didn’t define myself by any label, but I was forced onto one: the nerd.  It was cringingly awful. But my confession is this: I never thought I was a nerd (and that’s not modesty folks). Truth be told, I tried to achieve top class status, because other than that and my family, I didn’t have anything else to feel great about.  Honestly, I always loved reading and was an imaginative child. I guess if any human saw another human reading they’d guess nerd right? I mean, that’s the logic? That’s the environmental push factor that drives another isn’t it? Hm….

The problem was, getting use to the routine of achieving an A all the time, did something to my psyche, it made me develop an obsession and a constant need to over-achieve. It was an odd high. Getting the 90% was an awesome feeling, but it never felt enough. When the high was broken, I broke down in (public) violent tears and subsequently got teased for it. I hated the teasing, but I wanted that A. I wouldn’t kill or cheat, but I would study and be able to repeat shit ad verbatim if I had to (which I usually did).

“Dude, you cried because you got a B?”

Um….yea.

Where is this going?

Well, now a fully-fledged adult, over-achieving has rattled me. It’s given me a weird sensation of “I KNOW I can do it and do it AWESOMELY so I’ll do it later, no problem”…oh oh oh what’s the name for it again? Procrastination. It’s done other things, but procrastination has a nice recognizable feel to it.

I procrastinate like a muggafugga. No, I’m not particularly new at it, but I’ve perfected it.  I don’t know how I even came to this path.  Most over-achievers hustle and bustle and are immense control freaks. Me? I’ve mellowed and it boggles my mind. I typically wonder what I would look like if I kept that attitude going.

Would I be where I wanted to be in life? Would I have had my wedding planned to the last floral arrangement a la’ Monica Geller? Seriously……how did our obsessions subsequently result in our flaws?

Or am I analysing this completely wrong?

So what is it?

It’s not some pretention at being a sci-fi intellect.  Like many of you would have realised, the title is playing on the theme of being an outcast, hitherto, this blog will show my loves.  It’ll be a mish-mash. Puh! I know that’s not the most original idea. With over 8 billion people living in the world, I hardly doubt I was the first to come up with this ingenious idea. But I digress (did you see that coming?).

What are my loves?

The God factor

Literature & philosophy

Beauty & fashion

Photography

Science

Relationships & sex

Music

Epiphanies and throwing my stream of consciousness out there into the world.  Hopefully, no one will diagnose me with a personality disorder.

So there it is.  Pretty standard stuff.  Or is it? We’ll see!

marts