Monthly Archives: February 2011
I feel like being naked with someone.
Does that sound filthy?
I suppose it might seem so to some.
I miss a human touch. A kiss. A gentle stroke and an arm around my slim waist. Staring into eyes, and sweet kisses that seem to never end. The clock hisses and I’m still melting from a kiss.
It’s 4am and I’m still giggling from your tickles. Biting my lip to not give in. But 30 minutes of giggling and talking turn into moaning and a desperate need for your body and spirit to never leave, to stay intertwined with mine.
Does that sound needy?
I suppose it might seem so to some.
I miss poetic love. We exchange bitter, love-filled melancholy words of missing and hoping. We rub our noses together and I bite my lip not to sulk.
6 Years pass and I can’t seem to trust again. Broken words, guarded castles and a black heart.
I’ve yet to forgive. Writing memories to blacken memories from my mind. I tear pages out of photo albums and curse the dark silence. Moving on, and having you re-appear. I curse myself for giving in. But you have me blind, handing you my all – purse, power, panties. I can never forgive you.
Close the page, I’m sick of remembering it all.
I like to think that I’m pretty smart. Not amazingly smart, just modestly smart. I can tackle certain solutions, then sit confounded at others. I’m average. And that’s ok!
The problem is my boss doesn’t seem to think its ok. Science demands more calculated and precise thought. Of course I know this, but when I’m put on the spot and have a furious boss waiting for an answer, I do the human thing. I panic. Or I lie. Depends on which area of the brain my mouth chooses.
I had a training session with my boss. It centred on diagnostically deducing bacterial meningitis and bacterial sepsis from culture plates. This is usually straight forward, except, along the way, there are calculations. Now, any normal person would reach for a calculator. In panicked mode, I attempted to calculate it all mentally. But in my defense, I hate being put on the spot. Staring back, I have no words and stutter.
“So do you think extra work should be done on this cerebrospinal sample? It has 19,680 red cells and 44 white cells.”
“Yes, I believe so”
“Because it exceeds the normal ratio of 500:1”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s 19680 divided by 500?”
“um, um, roughly 40?”
“Are you asking me?”
“Roughly isn’t an exact number”
“Nor is um. It’s actually, 39.”
This situation made me feel like I let down my entire profession. At that moment, I felt like I wasn’t fit to wear the overly snug lab coat I had on. I felt like black folk everywhere must be looking at me and saying: “Can we get rid of her? Seriously, you’ve let down your race!” In that failed mathematical moment, I felt like I needed to get onto the nearest street rocking an Angela Davis afro, a dashiki, a fist in the air and handing out pamphlets with horrible over political sayings like “There is Black Unity in Maths!” to prove my worth. Or Something.
I should have gained the courage and said something to save me. But instead, I took a verbal lecture, and then sulked. I went home and read like tomorrow was “Pop Quiz Day”. By the time I got into work the next day, I felt confident and heck, I rocked my afro. In my train of thought, if I felt great and confident, then the next barrage of questions won’t have me tripping and sliding into embarrassment.
“Come here, what do you think this is? It’s a mitral valve with bacteria growing only in air and CO2.”
Crap. It could be anything!
“One of the HACEK group?”
“Yes, your right. What would you do next?”
I got one question right, and the rest, I handled a lot better. I wanted to get on a podium and with a stern knitted eyebrow: “Brothers and Sisters, we have a breakthrough. We have seen the challenges and we have broken through!”
I was feeling great for the rest of the day. Hand me back my Science card. Heck, pat me on my back and watch me celebrate like Sally: “Yes, Yes, Yes, Yeeeeessssss!”
I still hate being put on the spot though.
I used to volunteer at an Old folks’ home for 18months. Part was due to a resolution to do more good in the world and another part was me trying to fill the empty spaces of my weekend.
It’s the type of experience that renders you in absolute awe of the human body and its capability to endure. Another insight are the lives they led, the paths they took the wars and malice they must have seen throughout the years and the unhinged outlook they must have on life, death & relationships.
I remember loving the conversations. Well the conversations with those who weren’t beaten to a pulp by dementia and constant sleeping. To me they were amazing, to them, probably nothing but a tale to tell. They just smiled and said: “Let me tell you about the time…” and the time sounded as if it were on a different planetary scale.
So let me tell you about the time…
Rita said it was good to capture it all on film before it started to sag. She used to be a photographer and showed me some of her work. 1940s sepia shots with broody expressions on everyone’s faces. It felt like I was in a documentary. She showed me her nude shots. It shocked me. She was stunning. Young, pert, porcelain and curvy. But it shocked me. I didn’t expect a 70 year old to have a frisky past. Well, I did, but I didn’t expect her to show me. She said: “You need to capture it all, for yourself. Some days you need to look back and feel the nostalgia and the beauty you had at 20 or at 30”. I stared at the pages. Pages and Pages of the nude 20 year old version of this geriatric and then some of her lover. Boy, was he hung!
I believe in it. I’ve never taken an artistic shot, but I can see the logic in tasteful nudity. Beauty & art needs to be preserved. Why not preserve your youth? Sometimes I feel the longer I stay single and unwed (and un-laid) the more I feel like my young body is being wasted. It’s highly unfair that the prime of a woman’s sex life is in her 30s, yet the prime of her body is in her 20s. Biological bias much?
Then the battle goes in. Should tasteful shots be for yourself, your partner, or for a website like bigbootys.com? I should have asked Rita, but I don’t think she would know what to do if she was featured on bigbootys.com. Hundreds of scenarios play out in your head if your photos ever became public: partner being jealous, parents being humiliated, friends thinking you’re a harlot, losing your job, losing respect and ending up on bigbootys.com. It’s a hella of a lot to risk in the name of beauty & art. But if you have friends like mine, then they’d just advise you to cover your face and get over it.
Should I also mention the time….
Mable told me how much people’s mind-set has changed since she moved from Guyana in 1941. She had come to Oxford in her mid-twenties with her Aunt Velma. Like many black Caribbean immigrants she was bombarded with a chilling racist reality. She gained groundswork in a factory where her co-workers were predominantly white.
“One thing I remember is how cold and scared everyone was toward us. But I’ll tell you a funny story. One day I was careless, you know? I cut myself on a blade and I bled man, I was bleeding so bad and screaming. Everyone came and instead of helping me bandage my cut, they stood in amazement.” She laughed. “You know why? One said they couldn’t believe that I was bleeding red blood! Haha! You know I was scared and crying and they couldn’t believe my blood was red. One woman said, Look how I bleed just like white people.” That amazed me. At first I honestly I didn’t want to hear it or believe that level of prejudicial ignorance was experienced by this gentle lady. It was bizarrely too real. “The doctor eventually stitched me up, you know, but I still tell people that story. I never even used to see black and white talk like friends, now it’s an easy thing. Everyone’s easy, but I still know what it was like. I still know how they behaved. It’s still fresh man. Now, everyone’s changed. You know when my grandson married a white woman; I was a little scared for him. It’s that old history that I fear gon’ repeat.”
Mable struck me with her words. She smiled throughout and laughed at the minds of people. But that era was still so fresh and vivid in her mind. I wish more people were exposed to their tales, the power in their stories would make this generations trials seem so alien.
You ever have a moment when you are utterly misplaced? Disoriented and lost about how to actually target your to-do list? You stare at the calendar and time seems to be edging much more closer. The end of the month is here and yet you still have no strategic plan. Or perhaps you fear actually planning a plan. Does that make sense?
Now I’m thinking when am I gonna get my ass in gear. I have a lot to plan and little hours in the day to create a good brain storming session. Instead I get hurried ideas while trying to sleep and when I wing it by my friends, I get a guffaw. Several guffaws actually and a chuckle. I should know, I counted.
So I’m here on the 21st of February attempting to strategically plan. A part of me hates this side of me: planning and organising. Shouldnt I be more carefree? I’m young and hip. Arent I? I’m a jive turkey. But another side of me realises that i’ll be stuck here if i don’t plan an escape route. Then I panick and feel hot and flustered. I start to find excuses, like right now, telling you that in about 6.5 seconds i will be reaching for my phone to text someone. Then when that doesn’t work, I will be reaching for my vitamin water and read the label to pass the time. Then boom. 15 minutes has passed and I’m nowhere near planning. I should be slapped. Repeatedly. But knowing me, I would actually enjoy that and suddenly, there, I’ve drifted off into a daydream about me, Hill Harper and a paddle.
My friend showed me the news: Curves are in. It’s true.
“You should be excited! More variety in the store for curvy girls”
I didn’t know if I should slap her or drown her in the marmite tub she was licking from.
But happy days, Curves are in.
Hollywood and their celebrities have decided, and for a limited time only, that hips and a rotund ass are aesthetically awesome. The fashion world has yet to adopt this new concept. Designers are still confused as to how to tackle this concept and remain fixed with the idea that this will pass. The trend won’t harm the clothes cut for a small percentage of the consumer population, but they may start to have an influx of big-hipped girls wanting to squeeze into that Herve Leger bandage dress. Therein the problem lies.
My curves are normal to me. Until I have to go shopping for a new pair of jeans, then we have a small crisis that involves several phone calls, support pants and sighs of depressions. Yes my curves are in, but I’m still out there in the mall trying to find the pair of jeans that will fit waist, crotch and length.
In America, finding jeans that fit comfortably was no problem. It almost felt too good to be true. Comfort, move-ability and no belt! Great Scott! Why do you think Kim Kardashian didn’t go the anorexic route? An abundance of curvy jeans is why. In Europe, it’s a struggle. Blame the evolutionary lack of hips and ass. My hips tend to lie (naughty hips!). They look normal and they seem to be able to tackle any trousers you throw at them. But throw me a pair of size 12s and I’ll prove you wrong. When the hips are snug, the waistline is tripping on the extra space. I can’t win.
Are my curves in? Well lucky for me, there’s research going on. Yes, research on the proportion of women with waist to hip to ass ratio issues. Levis started it. I won’t lie, the jeans fit so well, I was happy. I didn’t have to jump up and down and do a wiggle to get into them. They just rolled right up and sat perfect like it was custom made. I was in consumer lust with Levi jeans. She told me the price. I shoulda ran out the store. The security tag wasn’t attached to the jeans anyway.
My curves being in come with a hefty price. You want your hips to fit with the rest of the female conglomerate? Buy mih dayum jeans. I didn’t buy them. I wonder how long Levis curve jeans will be in? Hopefully when curves go out of style, their prices will drop.
My curves are normal to me. Till I get a compliment on how great they would be for making babies, and oh pushing out babies. Then I don’t feel warm and fuzzy, but like I’ve been turned into guinea pig breeder. If my hips make me biologically advantageous for babies, then shouldn’t I be the ideal mate? But then again, I forget we aren’t chimpanzees, were humans. But if I were a chimpanzee, I think me and my hips would have all the males screeching. This scenario is oddly refreshing.
*photo courtesy of Vmagazine
It’s that time of the month. For 10 days my body goes into chocolate craving overdrive. So much so, that I find myself drooling over the idea of chocolate, pictures of chocolate and of course chocolate itself. With my chocolate craving in full go, I needed something to calm my nerves and wondered if there were anyone out there who thought of the phrase.
I googled “Chocolate Porn”.
I knew I crossed the line.
Of course I know about pornography etc etc. But at that present time, at that present hormone induced chocolate stupor, I forgot about sex and explicit imagery. I was hoping to find oodles and oodles of exciting, arousing chocolate. In a paradoxical way—I actually did, just not what I needed to calm my cravings.
I took a step back, reassessed the situation, grabbed my keys and ran to the nearest cornershop.
Pajama bottoms, oversized coat, ugg boots and an afro in disarray. I shook like Tyrone Biggums.
I waited till i got home before I opened the goods. At least I was a patient addict.
I sat in front of my computer and indulged….
People who say women and chocolate are stereotypical, redundant cliches, need to go and grab a snickers.
Chocolate is better than sex, the solution to war, gangrene and the recession. It’s soothing, smooth, sweet and hits parts of neurone centres that keep researchers in funding heaven.
And I love the headlines.
“Scientists have found a link to women and healthy hearts” Yea right.
It’s shameful marketing propaganda of course. But hey, an addict needs justification.
“Dark chocolate has more antioxidants and fewer calories”
Well spank me hard and call me Georgia, I’ll take a swallow of Lindt dark chocolate truffles please. And since it’s been proven to re-fine wrinkles AND it’s an aphrodisiac, I’ll smear some on my face and ask the next hottie to lick it off during foreplay. I dont know why men think it’s absurd. It actually multi-functional and life saving. I wouldnt be here right now, if I didnt have a bit of chocolate cake to inspire me and save me fom blog post boredom. Truly.
The only thing I hate about this that it usually coincides with the “in heat” phase of the month. And do you know how hard it is juggling chocolate cravings and arsousal urges?
It’s a phenomenal human struggle.
You meet a new guy, smile shyly and he smiles back.
You feel hot and flushed.
He asks “how you doing?”
You giggle and respond with standard polites.
You think, gosh, an actual nice guy.
You exchange pleasantries while waiting for your coffee orders.
He continues to talk.
And you get this feeling that you’ve seen this scene before.
In a bad romantic comedy and now you’re re-living it.
When the realisation creeps in, the glass shatters. He’s not suave but an annoying sociopath who stares at your breasts.
You realise that you were talking to a man, for the sake of being a man and nothing more.
Your reproduction members took control and made you flirt and giggle with a man who isn’t your type. You blame the celibacy and the pheromones he’s obviously exuding (obviously).
You make a dash for your coffee order before answering the “Can I have your number” question.
You cringe at the usual faux pas. Can instead of May. Can instead of frickin’ May!
Cool winter air hits you and you re-think everything.
Are looks really that important?
Is it really his fault that he couldn’t stop staring at my breasts? They are swollen this month.
Aren’t pheromones responsible for love these days? Primal attraction and whatnot?
His conversation flow was amazing. Isnt that what I’m looking for? Articulate and smart?
He had great lips, wouldn’t that count for great foreplay?
Oh my Gosh, did I just make a terrible mistake?
You make a dash for the coffeeplace and peep through the window.
He’s on his laptop, with his headphones on watching what looks like either Miley Cyrus or Japanese porn.
You turn to leave and he looks up and sees you.
He smiles and waves.
You walk away, ashamed that you even thought this man could be yo’ babydaddy.
You feel hot and flushed.
You sip your coffee and with all your thoughts, conclude that a man purge would be best.
Isn’t it always?
You sip and accidently spill coffee on the swollen hills in your Gap blouse.
You wipe and bump into another guy with a smirk on his face.
“Nice tits love”
You wonder if the men from 1967 were to engage in a chivalry fight with men from 2011 who would win.
You ask your girlfriend, but she counters: “But who would be more sexually liberal? And who would be more sexually repressed? And does willingness to perform oral count as a cool point?”
She concludes: “Chivalry stop existing after the 1980s and isn’t making a reappearance, no matter how many romantic comedies with Jennifer Aniston they use to convince you. You might as well put chivalry down as a myth.”
You ponder and sip more coffee, undeterred by recent coffee spilling events.
“Besides”, she adds, “After a while, you just want to be with the one that makes you laugh.”
Each month, I try and save for some in case of an emergency or some unforeseen event. This usually works and since I’ve incorporated this strategy, I’ve made a sexy savings account. However, every month, I have to go through the temptations, the obstacles and the burning desire to shop, spend and end up feeling crazy guilty about it. It frustrates me. Once, I placed myself on a strict no-shop restriction and when I broke it, I refused to tap into my savings. Do you know what happened? I ran outta gas, purposely didn’t refill the tank and walked to work. I lost 3 lbs in a week.
I know it sounds strange and absurd, but if I had let myself spend more, I would’ve been telling myself it’s ok to binge-shop, I need them, they’re necessities (when they’re not!). Does that sound crazy? It’s financial punishment. You do the time in Gap; you have to pay the price. And boy did I pay the price today.
I had a mini-spa day today, pre-planned and accounted for J I felt really good, relaxed and groovy. I needed to hit the shopping centre for only a new pair of pajamas. Somehow I ended up in Next, Gap, TopShop, and Marks& Spencers. Yes, even Marks & Spencers. All this and I didn’t even get my new jam-jams. I didn’t even get my new jam-jams. It was that serious. I don’t know what happened. It was like some weird cosmic takeover. The inner shop-freak needed to buy those shoes, needed that new blouse, needed those new panties & bra, needed that new Clinique pressed powder compact especially since scientists have introduced new smooth skin technology with SPF! Yes even SPF!
When it reached the point that I accidently pulled out the new credit card, I panicked. I freaked. I had gone too far. Spending my money is fine, I can cut corners and make frugal changes, but spending the bank’s money was just something that sent me into schizophrenic shock. I started talking to myself: “how could you? How could you!”
I got home and I was shaking like I stolen something. I blame the fashion blogs. They drive people to “ooh and ahh” at their pretty thrift/expensive purchases and you know what? You want a piece of the action. You wanna take stylistic photos in alien poses with blurry backgrounds, while looking deeply in the lens as if to say: “Look! Look bitch, I have artistic flair!” And you know you can’t. Well I can’t, I’ve tried.
So what plan do I have? Paying the full balance, and never ever pulling that stunt again, no matter how euphoric I feel about the look and cut of that crotch-length red dress.
When I love, I love immensely, passionately.
Yet when I love, my love seems to go unnoticed, untouched, futile emotions into a sea of pre-occupied thought and deception.
When will my love return such passion? When will He touch my heart and kiss me with fervour?
I long for his grasp; my body in his arms, our bodies writhing in ever rising heat, indulging in each other’s needs.
My heart feels hollowness. My soul feels a gnaw. My love is far, searching for me, and I him.
Concentric cosmic circles play with our sense of direction; eluding us of each other’s position and making us the ever hunting fool.
This world was made for our love, yet we go on, painfully so, at lost for each other’s mesh of love.
Being a microbiologist gives you an odd perspective on things.
In the beginning microscopy work was amazing, challenging, and a great way to investigate.
Some days, I’m pleasantly surprised- oh! Look at those white cells!
Other days: oh it’s another Staphylococcus, great (!)
Today however, was different.
Today I delved into Semen analysis.
It was a new avenue.
10 samples to work through, all magnificently different.
Don’t laugh because I’m dead serious.
I really enjoyed was watching the sperm whiz around.
Everything about them was remarkable.
Initially, they just swam around haphazardly with no particular sense of direction. I know this will be silly, but if the sperm were knowledgeable things, they should have at least stopped swimming and organised themselves in a straight line under that microscope lens. What’s the point in swimming if there’s no ovum to get to?
The chilled out sperm that only swam along at 2mph looked bored and out of place. But in a fucked up way, they were the smart ones; they knew not to waste their energy zapping around like the others ‘cause frankly speaking, being in a tube isn’t where the party at.
Maybe I’m reading it wrong and their all constantly training for the vagina-thalon or something. I mean, really, outta all those billions of sperm, the fastest one is the one that will make world a better place. My friend used to pat me on the back and say: “Well done on being the fastest!” It’s a cold, cruel, cramped space in those testes and honestly, their just looking to make it in a bigger world. I wonder if they have dummy guides on “how to succeed at the breaking that egg”.
The most comical sight were the abnormalities. Yes, I know it’s insensitive, I mean they are one half of a baby. But at a cellular level, those sperm cells know how to make good farcical comedy.
Two-headed, two-tailed, bent-head, three-tails: they were just a huge amount of weird sperm swimming around. Groups were clumped together, some bumped uglies, and I swear, I watched one stop, itched its tail with its snout then move on. Even from a cellular level, men know that a good itch needs concentration.
Even the dead had a part. From an anthropological view, if a human sees a dead body, they run and take action. Sperm will just swim over, around and push its way through. Talk about barbaric. No sympathy for the dead; which is what’s expected. They aren’t programmed to think about anything other than “get to the egg homie!” but still, most of our cells operate with some form of decorum (except for cancer cells ‘cause they just look to bulldoze, pilfer, pillage and rape–bastards!).
Throwing the sample away always puts a cartoon image in my head. You know when you’re a kid and you see microscopic stuff talking and having a conversation. Though you know it’s completely silly, you kinda have that idea in your head for a long time. In the sperm’s case, I always feel the scene would go something like:
“OMG, where are we?! I can’t breathe!”
“Help! Help!”—whizzes and panicks.
“For fuck’s sake, stop swimming and let’s think of a plan!”
“We’re never gonna make it! I wasn’t BORN to do this!”
“Get me to the EGG man! Just get me to the fucking egg!”—faints and dies from shock
All die from chronic asphyxiation.