The Big Apple

[Event] Philips obsessed with sound (Photo credit: PitsLamp photography)

 

In this city, this congested, smoky city, one has two options.  One can either live with the rot, the filth, the pathogens and the deterioration or one can simply clean the rot. There is one clear option for me – CLEAN!

Cleaning could bring order to this grime-filled, rat infested, germ-crawling , fog-choking city – The Big Apple. The maggot-filled, gangrene coloured, worm-festering Apple.

Every time I look on the street on my way to work, it’s there, festering, growling, lurking, mocking and sticking onto every passerby. They are the germs, the pathogens, the dust, the mould, the rotting diaper and dog crap. All is there, sitting, hiding in the dumpsters of the streets. Everywhere one steps, it sticks. Sometimes I wish to stop and pick every bacterium off the bottom of my shoe, the hairs of my coat and my actual skin.

I loathe it – the germs, the bacteria, the dirt, the oil hanging loosely in the air being sucked into my clean lungs and my body. I loathe its trickery, it mocks me. I walk fast from work and I remove every item of clothing and wash it in disinfectant. I must! Allowing them to harvest eggs onto my clothes and my body sickens me, annoys me and makes me desire to regurgitate.  I dip into the bathtub and my mantra awakens: scrub and clean, scrub and clean, scrub and clean, clean and scrub! I know that when I’m fully cleansed, my skin will feel wonderfully sore. I must quickly remove myself from the bath for the germs will return, they always know their host!

I get dressed and scrub the entire apartment clean. Beauty is a price paid daily and cleaning the house is no exception. I clean the house till it’s spotless, then clean again in disinfectant. I must clean it or the germs will wreak havoc on my world!  They are disgusting and must be fully annihilated. Germs kill two million Americans a year. I cannot be killed. I cannot be killed. I cannot be a breeding ground for the parasites of the invisible world. I must fight, even though my husband had allowed himself to be taken over by the dust and the grime of The Apple, I cannot.

I am at war with the germs every day. I am at times fearful, cowardly, but I must always remember that cleaning brings a peaceful rest at night and that life is already too short to allow myself to be taken over by the two billion types of bacteria and scum. I must fight this good fight; buying and using all the Clorox, Lysol and Ajax I can get in. I must scrub the counters, the sinks, vacuum the carpet. I must clean the windows; wash the clothes, the sheets, the bedspreads until they are at peace because the germs have retreated.

I read the paper today, after covering my hands in gloves to avoid any new breed of bacteria from the print shop. I read that the human lips has at least one million strains of bacteria and the human skin for every cubic centimetre has at least four million bacteria and dust particles.  I was appalled, and my effort felt dejected. For all the powerful cleaning I have done, especially in the bodily area, were all in vain. Bacteria have festered and will fluster wherever humans live, wherever humans trample and sought to form a new variety in their gene pool. But what will I do now? Will I become another subject of the king virus or king dust-bunny?! Will I become like other humans who accept the germs as they are and sought to live with them, like them?!  Must I now stoop and live at their level of disorder and chaos?! I will certainly not! I will certainly not! I will certainly not! I will improve my efforts; man more of my battle stations with more disinfectants. Either that or die trying! And if I am forced to live in a bubble - a germ free bubble, I will do so with bells on my feet and a grin and taunt at the germs themselves. I will not be subject to new authority! I will certainly not!

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Run Forrest, Run!

The Bra Conundrum

Jessica and I both know how it feels to forget.

It had been a long week.

My Friday plans: work, an afternoon case review and a private cash-in-hand gig I had taken to make some extra money.

I woke up feeling exhausted and distressed.

Most people looked forward to their weekend; mine was going to be filled with paperwork and long hours.

I stood in the mirror and stared at the redness of my eyes.

They were so hollow.

I felt dulled by the morning fog.

I got dressed, had coffee and toast and ran to meet my colleagues for the taxi.

It was 7am and an hour-long drive awaited me to a remote country town for an assignment.

I maintained my composure during the bumpy ride and exchanged banter with my colleagues.

Entering the briefing room, we all sat with solemn expressions.

Back arched, notes out, I was mentally fit for the session.

Physically however, I felt uncomfortable.

For some reason, things in the chest area felt loose and bouncier than usual.

Gravity’s effect felt heavy and my back felt like it was supporting a heavier weight.

I looked down in confused shock.

The breasts looked softer and the curves were much more noticeable.

I excused myself, ran to the bathroom and checked.

In complete disbelief, I touched my breasts, touched my shoulders and finally looked down my blouse.

“Oh sh–, I FORGOT TO PUT ON A BRA!”

Who in the history of women-dom has ever forgotten to put on a bra?

I’m aware of when the bra stays off: at home, in the shower, in bed etc.

In a meeting? Throughout a bumpy hour-long drive? How did I not feel the tug of gravity on my chest when the cab driver swerved to avoid that dead rabbit?!

What on earth happened whilst I was getting ready?

I replayed this morning’s scene in my head: I wasn’t in a rush, I was calm but tired, yet somehow, my brain made my hands skip adhering my friggin’ bra to my chest.

My mind panicked and worried: Early-onset dementia?  Would I have to start tying strings around my finger to remind myself to put on my bra? Or set a calendar reminder every day for the rest of my life to strap support to my chest?

No, no….right?

Now I stared at myself in the mirror.

Not only were they swinging lower than usual, but the cold office air had brought on its effect and made another pair of small hills underneath my purple blouse.

Nippleage.

I tried patting them down with no luck.

Walking into the bathroom was Carla, who I shared my problem with, hoping for empathy, but mostly for her thick, woolly sweater.

She laughed.

Chortled.

Snorted.

Then handed me her sweater and wondered how could I forget?

“I can understand an A or B cup going without a bra….but a C? You’re a C cup! How could you not feel it or sense it?”

Carla made me feel as if I lost my womanhood senses.

The bra misfortune was the first red flag, any more and my gender, intuition and all that came with it would be questioned and stripped.

“I’ve been having a tough week Carla.”

“I hoped you checked you have panties on as well!”

More raucous laughter from whom I hoped was an empathizer.

You can’t buy sympathy nowadays.

But just make sure I had them on, I laughed and subtlety grazed my hip.

Yep, they were on.

I excused myself, went to the meeting and sat straight, back arched with breasts swinging lower than usual.

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Male Bashing

“Besides he dresses horribly…”

“He smells like he never showers; count yourself lucky you don’t have to lay with his rancid-ass anymore.”

“I saw him kissing some slut outside a gig last week….it was disgusting, she looked like she belonged in an alley”

My turn:  “….and he has eczema..!”

Everyone turned and looked at me.

Face-palm moment.

All my girlfriends turned and said: “M…what?”

Male-bashing is primarily a post breakup ritual.

It exhibits itself other times as well, but post-breakup, it’s a compliant code of conduct.

Most days I’m pretty colourful with my insults, but today, for the 5^th day in a row, I was pretty exhausted.

I couldn’t think of anything more insulting to say about “J”.

Back-story?

Him and “L” we dating less than a year when she found out…wait for it…he cheated and he was bi-sexual.

She suspected his propensity for all things feminine, but the cheating was of course, unacceptable.

She was the conservative and her male counterpart would always be the wild-emotionally-vulnerable-need-to-be-fixed-man-whore, which is fine, because I can always count on a soap-dramasque story to entertain my inbox.

My problem was Keeping Up Appearances.

Selfish?

There were only so many Friday nights I could spend picking out flaws on men who I hardly met, let alone do so objectively. I know it’s silly to even think that in any girlfriend support situation, objectivity is priority, but hey-ho, that’s me and my “benefit of the doubt” theory.

Tonight of course was wine, tissues and male-bashing.

“K” started it off, and alternatively, as a group should, we continued bashing.

I hoped a slow-witted comment on eczema would bring comedy and maybe change the subject.

It didn’t, so I poured another glass a wine…

“M, you know L has eczema as well, how could you say that with such disdain? It’s a sensitive issue! It’s no one’s choice to get eczema!”

I drank more…

“I mean really, if you can’t support L right now, maybe you should go.”

I would, except my Friday night had nothing else on the agenda.

“Sorry.”

“No it’s alright M, don’t worry. He never took care of himself, and he was bad in bed!”

Here we go; the good stuff.

“I mean what kinda of man needs a weight lifting belt for sex? And you know after he finished, he always did a celebration dance, like he scored a touchdown, and when I gave oral, he smoked and had the nerve to drop the ashes in my hair!”

Fits of giggles across the room and a snort from me.

Geez, women put up with anything these days.

I felt sorry for L and proud. She ended it, but I wonder how much horrific or humiliating things she put up with before the cheating came to light.

“…ugh and I remember our second date when he took me to a sports bar and sneaked in McDonalds burgers because he didn’t want to pay for bar lunch. I thought it was frugal and thoughtful, but looking back, he never cared!”

Bitch, please.

“…and my underwear always went missing! I had to start buying the cheap stuff now, ugh, vile right?”

“Totally! And ew!”

I didn’t say much after that, solely because it was all being said for me.

I know I would get the phone call the next morning chastising me for being the idiot at the ritual, but what they saw as unsupportive, I saw as preserving my perception of relationships….and being bored.

I sent L flowers the next day with lovely a hopeful message.

Did I mean it?

Of course!  Isn’t it customary to end the male-bashing weekend with empty messages of hope?

Your eggs are wet.

 

I came home, excited and starving.

I had grits in the cupboard, and a mini gourmet indulgence in the fridge: red peppers, feta cheese, spinach, eggs.

Yum.

My plan for my short lunch hour was to cook an omelette with grits and start to stuffus mon faceus.

My lunch hour isn’t spectacular and I don’t boast about being a great cook. What I know how to make and make well, I thoroughly indulge in with deep sighs and big mug of coffee.

Unbeknownst to me, my lunch hour was going to be a bit different. Scratch that, enormously different.

I took out all my ingredients, laid them out, started dancing and simultaneously licking my lips.

It was a joyous occasion.

I opened the egg crate and therein sat 2 empty egg shells.

Yes. Empty.

I retraced the events of my last cooking bonanza in my brain and came up with no memory of having used my eggs in the past week.

My first word: mother—arrrggghhhh!

Technically not a word, more like a word transforming into hulk-like sounds.

My eggs were taken by some thieving pirate who no doubt enjoyed every minute of the egg heist.

I screamed every horrible thing I could think of and put together every random insult:

“WHO STEALS EGGS?!”

“WHAT THE FARK ARE YOU? A FOX?!?”

“WHO IN THE HOLY-BONFIRE-THAT-WILL-STRIKE-THIS-KITCHEN STOLE MY EGGS?!”

Not very inventive, but I was fuming.

That’s what happening when you live in a house filled with callous strangers.

My roommate ran in, and of course shocked.

“Your eggs got stolen and they left the empty eggs shells in the crate?!”

My other roommate yelled: “Are you sure you didn’t eat them and left them there in a rush?”

Why would I, the obsessive control freak, leave empty egg shells? No no, my eggs were here and now stolen by some animalistic hussy!

What if I were dying and this was my last meal?

What if I had an impromptu lunch guest?

This person had no care for my plans. They stole my eggs.

I was egg-less. It was an egg tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.

After we all tired of the shocked discussion, I packed my condiments away and head held low marched upstairs, grabbed a marker and notepad and wrote lewd notes everywhere.

“I hope you choke on the egg next time you snake!”

The logic is impossible – can snakes choke on eggs?

“Keep you grubby fingers off my food!”

Hardly threatening right?

“You inconsiderate, conniving pig!”

“I hope next time you steal them a big, bloody wet, pre-developed chick falls out!”

My roommate, the vegetarian was of course shocked, but my furore had no bounds. I was outta control and vulgar. I loved it.

I came home at 5 and saw a note attached to a new crate of eggs: “Sorry I borrowed your eggs, I was really hungry and hadn’t gotten any money till today, hope you can forgive me. Xxx”

I felt slightly crummy. “Xxx” didn’t leave a name, but as much as I felt sad for my hungry roommate, I still thought it would have been a lot more courteous to ask for my eggs.

I gave up the anger, had dinner.

Craving dessert, I skipped to the freezer; except, when I reached for the ice cream box, it was empty.

Surely no one is so hungry that ice cream would be an option?!

“WHAT THE FARK?! WHO STOLE MY FLIPPING ICE CREAM AND HAD THE BRAZEN BALLS TO LEAVE THE EMPTY BOX IN THE FREEZER?! ARRRGGGHHH!!”

do the right thing?

 

So I’m at a hip-hop concert…

The scene is set: music blaring, people shouting and we indulge it all.

We sing, laugh, we etch the night into our memories as “The Best”.

The patriarchal lyrics are sordid but of course we insist it’s culturally reflective of our struggle.

We vibe, we smoke.

We’re 18, young and full of colossal naiveté.

Tonight, one friend invited another.

We stood next to each other and I passed her a smile. She giggled and placed her hand on her chest, belting out: TUUUUUNNNNNEEEEE!!!!!!”

I knitted my brow in quiet shock.

Porcelain-toned, excited, wide-eyed; she loved hip-hop.

“Nigga you don’t knoooowwww!!!”

I had a number of friends who skipped over it.

The question to its current relevance, its cultural impact, and unfair usage [“But why can’t we say it?!”] was never discussed, it was understood.

But she belted it out defiantly, smiling, one hand in the air, no mercy.

My friend tapped me and pointed. We stood staring at the new problem.

Nonchalant, she clapped.

Our eyes stared trying to reprimand her. But she was calm and ready for the next song.

18 and naïve, we never thought to have a collective will to understand our history and defend its evolution.  We never asked “Why the women? Why the lyrics? When did degradation become Hiphop’s torch? Where had the artistry gone?”

Black power tees, ankh necklaces and large hair; ethno-centricity was our motto, our trend, but we had no depth.

18, serious and resolved, we sent the brave to her fort:

“Hey, you don’t need to say Nigga…”

“Why not? It’s just a word…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Digestion Story

A Comical Science piece I wrote years ago…

 

 

 

Amidst the ring and ting of a busy city life – here I lay. Amidst the shouting and the singing – here I lay. Amidst the smoke and the dirt, the hustle and bustle, the executive reports and the medical analysis – here I lay, served daily onAmerica’s favourite hour – lunch.  Here I lay, privileged to be America’s, no the world’s favourite dish – the Hamburger Dish.  Amidst everything grave and sickly, I will forever be an essential to humankind – forever packed with proteins, fats and carbohydrates.  My popularity will never be beaten, unless humankind creates a dish far economically and bodily pleasing, I will forever stay on the daily lunch menu – next to the possibly genetically altered potato fries and the Coca-Cola.  I am here to stay!

The clock strikes twelve and in floods the customers:

“One hamburger dish to go please, I must leave now, I have contracts to sign and people to fire!”

Success! I will be sold! I will be a nourishing agent to the pompous young man in the “fly” blue suit. I will be and addition to his possibly reckless lifestyle! Good, jolly good!

Amidst these thoughts, I soon realise that I am shoved into a brown paper bag – “Eat smart, Eat at Bart’s!” it bellows.  But I do not let this distract me, for I am eager to make the journey. I have been prepared for this, lectured for this by fellow burgers and have prayed to the ultimate Burger God to make a safe trip.  I have heard many unsuccessful stories of vomit and diarrhoea and do not wish to suffer the same fate.  Once I am set onto the customer’s plate, I stare longingly at my new master.  He shoves me into his buccal cavity and bites hard into me.  Juices flow into me – juices which are not my own. This salivary juice gives me a new sensation, a powerful, energetic sensation.  I am repetitively chewed upon – mastication is the term.  I can feel my starch molecules break up, literally exploding into tiny maltose molecules – it is the enzyme amylase causing such disintegration. Acting on my every being is lysosome, the antibacterial enzyme, mucus, the moistening agent and mineral salts which act as coenzymes to increase enzyme efficiency. The tongue pushes me to the back of the buccal cavity and into the pharynx. This cavity between the mouth and windpipe serves as a passageway both for food (such as me) on its way down the alimentary canal and for air passing into the windpipe. I move towards the oesophagus in a certain shape called “bolus”, formed by the action of the tongue.  I move down this muscular tube not by own will, but by this grand machine be, through a process called peristalsis.  This mechanism works by sending an alternate wave of contraction and relaxation caused by the relatively large longitudinal and circular muscles.

Once the final wave of peristalsis is sent out, the cardiac sphincter relaxes, forming an opening through which I can pass into the “room”. Then the muscle contracts, closing the opening to preventing any of my being from moving back into the oesophagus. The oesophageal sphincter is the first of several such muscles along this alimentary canal. These muscles act as valves to regulate the passage of food and keep it from moving backward.

I am in a new room, a dismal, pungent sack-like room with strong muscular walls. Now, in this bag, I remember being repetitively encouraged by my mentors to have no fear about the size of the room, for it can expand significantly to store all the food from a meal for both mechanical and chemical processing. The stomach, as I should call it, contracts about three times per minute, churning the food and mixing it with gastric juice. This fluid, by thousands of gastric glands in the lining of the stomach, consists of water, hydrochloric acid; an enzyme called pepsin, and mucin (the main part of mucus). The acid is secreted by the parietal cells while the zymogen cells secrete the inactive form of pepsin. Hydrochloric acid creates the acidic envirois secretednment that pepsin needs to begin breaking down my proteins into polypeptides. It also kills any micro-organisms that may have been ingested with me. Mucin, as I noticed, coated the stomach, protecting it from the effects of the acid and pepsin.

I remain in this tomb, for what seems an eternity, but in reality it is a mere three to four hours.  After being chemically processed I feel drained, but am still able to tell you of my journey through the remainder of the canal.  According to the rules of biology I am now a semi-digested liquid called chyme. I am passed a little at a time through the pyloric sphincter into the duodenum, the first portion of the small intestine. Then on from the duodenum to the small intestine, where I am again experience the action of the body’s juices. Structures called Brunner’s glands secrete mucus to protect the intestinal walls from the acid effects of digestive juices. Bile is secreted from the liver into the small intestine through the bile duct. Bile acts as an emulsifier, breaking my large fat globules into small droplets, which enzymes in the small intestine can act upon. Pancreatic juice, secreted by the pancreas, enters the small intestine through the pancreatic duct. Pancreatic juice contains enzymes that perform hydrolysis reactions, specifically – amylase breaks down starches into maltose, lactase breaks down lactose into glucose and galactose, sucrase breaks down sucrose into glucose and fructose and maltase breaks down maltose into glucose.  Lipase breaks down my fats into fatty acids and glycerol, and trypsin breaks down my proteins into amino acids. Additionally, chymotrypsin and carboxypeptidases breaks down polypeptides into amino acids. These nutrients, my nutrients, are what the intestine absorbs.

The small intestine’s capacity for absorption is increased by millions of finger-like projections called villi, which line the inner walls of the small intestine. Each villus is about 0.5 to 1.5 mm (0.02 to 0.06 in) long and covered with a single layer of cells. Even tinier finger-like projections called microvilli cover the cell surfaces. This combination of villi and microvilli increases the surface area of the small intestine’s lining by about 150 times, multiplying its capacity for absorption. Beneath the villi’s single layer of cells are capillaries (tiny vessels) of the bloodstream and the lymphatic system. These capillaries allow nutrients produced by digestion to travel to the cells of the body. Simple sugars and amino acids pass through the capillaries to enter the bloodstream. They are then transported to the liver via the hepatic portal vein. Fatty acids and glycerol are absorbed into the epithelial cells of the villi, where they are reconverted to lipids.  These are wall converted to lipoproteins which are secreted into the lymph vessels found in each villus from where they are carried in the vessels to the point where they are placed into the bloodstream.

I now feel separated and torn apart, my goodness separated from my badness.  I know that my nutrients are in proper use, though some may be in excess, I know the body will be able to care and counteract any deviation from the norm.  I am able to sense this, like a mother senses her child from miles off.  My “badness” as I phrase it, is a watery residue of indigestible food and digestive juices remain which are unabsorbed. I learnt that I can spend an average of twelve to twenty-four hours here, given the correct conditions. From what I have been though and what I have learnt, the large intestine forms an inverted U over the coils of the small intestine. It starts on the lower right-hand side of the body and ends on the lower left-hand side. Again I am drained; this large, hollow tubing absorbs large amounts of water and salts from the residue, until it forms a solid. In addition, bacteria in the large intestine promote the breakdown of undigested materials and make several vitamins, notably vitamin K, which the body needs, for blood clotting. I am now faeces—waste material that consists largely of undigested food, digestive juices, bacteria, and mucus. I am moved towards the rectum for storage where I am now in full awareness of my fate.  I can now feel the two sphincter muscles, contracting and relaxing.  I creep slowly towards the anus, I see the light, but it is a light I wish to turn away from.  I know I cannot cower, I have prepared for this, I am the ultimate dish, and I can end the journey -: “Splat!”

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Unrequited

Glaring across the room they sit, fingers intertwined, breathing synchronized.  A playful touch on the nose and a rapid peck on the forehead solidifies their ties. Lovers.  Months in and they’re affection never wanes.   She tilts her head back and lets out a rambunctious laugh. He tickles her throat and they fall again into hysterics.

Carefully analysing their every move, another sits.  She ponders on the significance of each gesture he makes towards his lover and each subtle grimace, She records and analyses.  Hiding behind large hopeful eyes and a yearning heart, She stares.

She studies his lips, the smoothness of his freckles and the deep throaty laugh.  Every motion he makes induces a throbbing, and a heat. She bites her lips.  Her yearning unrequited, blocked by another woman she disproportionately despises.

On any given day, she would extend her hello. He would be alone, standing, poised, sexual, inviting. She would enter: makeup polished, blouse slightly unbuttoned, girdle choking her waist, perfume and pheromones languidly hanging between them.  All a bid to arouse attraction and perhaps a spontaneous grab and grope.  Far-fetched and delusional, she laughs at his jokes, gently squeezes his arm and subtlety licks her lips.

“C’mon! Find me attractive!”

Desperation begins to seep through her pores.

Conversation ensues: “So how about that Ronaldo eh?”

Football was her greatest weakness, but his laugh, his eloquent explanation of even the most mundane topics sent her skin hot, and her legs shaking. Though, it was all still unrequited.   He gives in, talks, jokes, and then extends his goodbye with a quick hug around her waist. She melts.

She calls every girlfriend and every perceptive male friend.

“What does it mean?”

Opinions waver from:

“Nothing, possibly something, but most likely nothing.”

To

“You’re getting close, wear a tighter skirt. Talk about his interests!”

The chase is arduous. Eight months on, small signs processed and love-related data are then extrapolated.  The protocol for obsessive preoccupation with one man has never been explained to her. She smiles broader, studies his interests to seem poignant and profound.  Still all remains unrequited.  Infuriation gathers when she sees him with a different lover: buxom, yet utterly unattractive.

With alcohol-fuelled rage, she sends him an Instant Message. Confidence and a technological wall in place, she sends a barrage of honest, bitter questions reminiscent of melodramatic teenage rejection.

“I really like you, don’t you feel the same?”

“Lol, really? I never thought you were interested.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, you never talked about yourself, and you seemed pretty distant and serious.”

[All my smiles were in vain?]

“Do you find me attractive?”

“Are you kidding? Every guy I know wants you. I just always assumed you were too serious for flings. Unless you’re interested….? Come over, or shall I pick you up?”

[Part disappointment/Part excitement]

The conversation turns from IM to phone. She laughs and her skin tingles over his sensual sayings of nothing and everything. Gentle boasting and soft coaxing, He imagines for them both. Yet still, Her hope rise & fall. Her obsession over the past eight months seem to have been over a personality she created to fit into a handsome human being that could never exist.

Now, He smiles, He calls. She ignores.  All remaining unrequited.

Opinions waver from:

“Good, I told you he wasn’t worth it.”

To:

“I don’t know girl, I think you still should’ve seen him naked.”

Indeed.

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Speeding

This isn't me by the way.

I went speed dating once. A friend kept telling me how much of a great experience she had, so I wondered, “why not put myself out there?”

I told my friends and they laughed. “Desperate move!” Sure it was desperate. I didn’t expect to have a husband by the end of the night, but I wanted a different social experience.  Albeit it might be seen as a desperate one, but it was a unique experience!

I didn’t know what to expect. I wore a black dress with tan heels and a matching tan bag. I wore my hair out and wore soft sensual makeup. You know the kinda lipstick/lip gloss that draws attention to the curves of your mouth *ahem* and stuff.  I looked ok. I was confident and ready to attempt some flirtation skills I read online.

Walking in, I wish they had told me that everyone had brought a buddy or several buddies for “social support”. I just brought myself and a bit of confidence. Damn! Every guy looked nervous and every girl clung to her wine glass, myself included.  I did the typical thing: I scanned the room for hot men and black men (or hot black men).  Only a few were present. And by a few, I mean hot men. Nevertheless, I was ditching my vain need for hotties and decided on getting to know people – that was the aim right?

Rules were explained: 2 minutes per table. Women were to move to each table and tick whether they found him likeable enough to date.  My first date was cute, had a great engineering career, but he struggled with his English and when he told me he was from Transylvania, I thought he was pulling my leg. I really wanted to make a Dracula joke like: “aye! you ain’t gonna drag me to your dungeon right? Cuz’ I hear y’all love snatching people up!” But that would’ve been childish and I certainly am not childish….on a date.  The entire 2 minutes with him was spent helping him gather enough words to become interested in each other.  By the time I had enough information, the bell rang and I was semi-relieved.

Guy to Guy I kept moving and hoping for a spark, but it’s kinda hard to get a spark when you have to ask all the right questions and at the same time, play it cool.

“What do you do?”

“Where are you from?”

“What would you do if I gave you 10 bucks, whip cream and Russian vodka?”

One guy was pretty vocal about interviewing for a wife: “What’s your hobby? Can you cook? Do you want kids? Would you consider getting married in 6 months?”

One date kept me cracking up like I was at the Apollo, just hysterical. Too bad I guffawed him outta interest.  He was such a nice guy and I really wanted him to take me out (hehe).

I couldn’t help notice the competition women in the room. One girl confessed to me that she was only there because of the open bar and made damn sure to nab a bottle of white wine, which she proudly took from table to table. She was obviously drunk and really pretty.  And they say pretty women don’t have issues! Puh! One girl wore the tiniest dress and flirted her way through a lot of phonebooks (which was totally unfair, rules are rules! Hello?). It was unbelievable and commendable, but the competitor in me needed to step it up to her level, but I didn’t have the gall to.  Homegirl said some lines which I thought were explicitly meant for lovers.  Just phenomenal.

At one point, I honestly felt that my ideal match would show himself, emerging from the corner in full Bollywood dance and song “My lovelyyyyyyyyyyyyy!” The flirty girl would be jealous and try to entice him and all the dancers would be singing in high-pitched voices: “No no! He only has eyes for herrrrr!” And we’d be carried away to an exotic date on an elephant.  Of course, if this were Nollywood film, the flirty girl would have poisoned me with a bit of obeah and he would be in a loveless marriage with her trifling ass.

I know, I’m delusional.

Anyway…

I found guys I liked: 10 out of 25 men. I was pretty excited with my selections. They were smart, engaging, funny, ambitious, loved books, art galleries etc!  I couldn’t wait to go home and see who I matched up with.  I signed in, and scanned through, the computer says, “Number of matches: 1! Contact him now!”

Wow 1 guy? That was my reaction! One. Single. Uno. One shot with one guy. I felt mortified and slightly confused. I thought I was sexy? I thought I was funny? I thought I was interesting? I thought I used my flirtation skills right? I mean I played with my afro hair, I smiled, and I didn’t overshadaow him, blah blah blah….!

I know I shouldn’t have based my attractiveness level on the response of 25 men. But, it was just mind-boggling, brutal and semi-honest.

Will I go speed dating again? Probably not. It was fun, but there’s only so much desperation a girl can put out there.