Tag Archives: Relationships



A cello

That weeps.

My heart,

The base.

That beats.

The tears form into


on the staff

Of my life.

They hear music

In the pain.

Crying has a rhythm.

It is a melody

Of happiness

Overcome by pain and sadness,

The gods clap for me.

I have not asked

To lead the orchestra,

I have not asked to compose

Any movements.

I am too still.

I don’t know how notes become a tune,

Perhaps it is the vicious cycle of my doom.

The bow, Fate,

Grating against the strings of my will

Wearing them away


they break.

But a cello cannot play itself.

The masterpiece,

What is it?

I value not the legacy of it.

I seek nothing from fame.

Who are the hands

That play it?

Where is the audience

Who will feel it?

The cello awaits.

The bow grates.

It’s so sad,

It weeps so badly,

My heart is the base.

Hear me,

Hear me,

I am not loud,

It is the echo of my sob.

Do I exist?

Do I exist?

If I do,

I am so frightfully scared.



On Several Given Mondays II (Con’t of Same Entitled Post Published October 23rd)…


Cigarillo puff.

Cigarillo puff.

The cab driver got back into the car and star-…star-… star-…

Started it up.

Jerking into first gear, the car stuttered a few steps. She puffed on the last frail bits of her cigarillo, looking at him looking at her.

And that was that.

Slap a camera on the dashboard of the cab, and you instantaneously become producer of your very own Survivor show. Traffic was a death wish at any time of the day- too slow, and you risk being sideswiped by a jackass-driven cart of carrots, too fast and your obituary blurb will be clip on how you flipped on a pothole in the middle of what should be a new highway.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, she arrived.

The mall was a great way to multitask exchanging her boots and doing cardio. It was colossal and so going from one end to the other and back was a work out, since she never strolled, but malked.

She walked at the rhythm of a march, minus the posture of a march. Not stiff, nor coordinated. It was a Meg Ryan arm flail combined with a Hitler leg lunge. Extremely determined about it. But not committed to it.

She malked.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

The salesman was a human metal detector. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, x-raying the complexities of her personality.

By the dumbfounded dilation of his pupils, it seemed his scan detected a whole bunch of crazy amid a few other unrelated items that had no business being there or were just completely unidentifiable.

‘I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

She knew there was already crazy inside her. She knew there was a lot of unidentifiable goo too. She looked past his judgmental expression and carried on.

‘I said I’d like to exchange these boots, please.’

‘Sorry, all I can do is exchange them, I can’t return them.’

‘Re-ally??? So I can’t exchange them? Hmmm. Do you think it’s possible then to just exchange them?.’

The human metal detector must have shorted a wire or two. His eyes now seemed broken and his scanner wasn’t picking up on her sarcasm.

He grabbed the bag while she malked around, looking for another pair of boots.

There were short boots, tall boots, loud boots, dull boots, hip boots, blingy boots, furry boots, leather boots and,

Tall-loud-furry-blingy-that-tried-to-be-hip boots.

There were red boots, blue boots, black boots, blacker boots with thin heels, thick heels, no heels, half-heels.

But there were no

Just, boots boots.

‘Hey, human metal detector?’

She really didn’t say that. She said, ‘Excuse me?’

He pivoted his axle ass and gazed at her.

‘Changed my mind. Can you just give me a new bag to put my boots in? The handle on the other one is about to rip.’

He pivoted his axle ass around again, and with an angularity you’d expect a human metal detector to motion, he mechanically extended his arm for a new bag.

I just bought a water bed, it’s filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen
Honey I don’t think that’s true
So, why don’t we get drunk and screw

She felt the inside of her purse as she fished for her ringing mobile. Hooking onto a box of TicTacs, a lighter, a comb and a cigarillo that jumped ship of its pack, her hand finally caught hold of the phone.

Usually, she’d be willing to miss a call just to sing along with the ringtone, but the screen was anxiously flashing ‘work, work, work’. So, as Jimmy Buffet repeated his suggestion to ‘…get drunk and…’, she interrupted him to answer.

‘Yeah, I’m on my way to the café now. Yeah… yeah… sure. Yeah…yeah…sure. Great. I’ll email the evaluation by 7 today.’

She blindly grabbed the new bag with her old boots that were really new boots and malked as quickly as she could across the mall, to go hail a cab that would stop before she could hail it. Because,

Cairo’s convenient like that.

Index finger circling right.

No left.

No right.

No left.

Restlessly deciding to listen to a song and then deciding not to, she endlessly confused her iPod the entire ride to the café.



It was already a fantastic lunch, because it was free.

‘Good afternoon, would you like to hear the specials?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The soup of the day is Creamy Crouton Asparagus. Our main course this afternoon is Citrus Salmon with a grapefruit marinade, next to a side of pesto fusilli pasta… and for dessert, Kalhua tiramisu.’

‘Is the Creamy Asparagus made with cream?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Is it made with fresh asparagus?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Can you remove the croutons?’


‘And put parmesan?’


‘Is the salmon grilled?’


‘Can it be steamed?’


‘Replace the fusilli with artichokes?’


‘But with the fusilli’s pesto dressing?’


‘Excellent. I’ll have a Caesar salad, the Beef Burgundy Fillet, rare, and the Mixed Zucchini and Carrot Medley.’

‘Would you like anything else, Ma’am?’

‘Yes. If you would be so kind as to not piss in my salad for me being difficult.’

She didn’t really say that. She said, ‘No, thank you.’

The job of Mystery Shopper was perfect; she was getting paid to basically be her picky, precise, reinvent-the-dish, change-the-menu self. Overdoing her usual self this time, though, was part of this particular evaluation as per the café owner’s request. He or she wanted to know how eloquent his or her staff was in handling very fussy customers.

So far, the waiter did well. In her mind he did so well that she decided not to mention in the evaluation him forgetting to introduce himself, a blasphemous blunder by any standards of service.

Don’t seem so surprised. She’s not a total bitch.

She’s Bitchin-hood.

Bitchy to the arrogant, but never to the kind.

She wasn’t hungry, but as is the laws of nature once food is ordered and one is awaiting the food,

Without warning,

She went from Dr. Fickle,

To Mr. Hyde.

Mr. Hungry Hyde.

Fidget. Fidget.

Put the salt and pepper next to the ashtray, put the ashtray opposite the flower vase,

Shift the flower vase next to the salt and pepper.

Align the salad fork at an exact 90 degree angle perpendicular to the soup spoon,

Juxtapose the knife parallel to the salad fork and center the plate so…

Its circumference is equidistant from all silverware.

Light a cigarillo?

Light a cigarillo.

She grabbed her purse to fish them out and knocked over the boots bag.

She bobbed her head inside the bag as she picked it back up.

The left boot was missing!

The human metal detector was a twit!

There was no phone number printed on the shopping bag to call. She didn’t have a receipt to take the number from either. She couldn’t call information for the number because…

Cairo’s so not convenient like that.

Waving her hands in oscillation across the air, she got her waiter’s attention and he came malking over as fast as he could.

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘I need to cancel my order.’

‘No problem ma’am.’

In theory, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make back to the cafe in time to have a late lunch and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 7.

In reality, she could go back to the store, get the left boot, make it back in time to have a late dinner and fill in the evaluation so it would be sent out at 11.

She was a very realistic girl.

So she did the realistic thing and headed for the door.

Just like a person never thinks of himself or herself in third person, Fate never thinks of itself as Fate. Like you and me, it walks around and does its thing.

To the String Theory subscribers, the human metal detector just forgot to put the left boot in the bag, and so she had get up from the café and go back to the mall to get the boot.

To those who know the Universe consciously conspires, the human metal detector was meant to forget to put the left boot in the bag so she would have to get up from the café at that exact moment and go back to the mall to get the boot.

Handbag over shoulder, boot bag in hand, she pushed the heavy glass door open, defying its hinges and the blatantly visible ‘pull’ sign hanging on it, with all her tricep-cular might.

Thank God for Ed Hardy lighters, right?

She succeeded.

It opened.

And it just missed hitting…

You guessed it.


She didn’t believe in the String Theory.

Correction. She couldn’t believe in the String Theory. First, she’d have to be aware it existed.

He did believe in the String Theory.

He now doubted though it was what strung them together again for the second time today.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To get a left boot.’

‘Need a lift?’

‘Is it a non-smoking lift?’

‘No. I still smoke.’

He opened her door. She did a Lady-Di-legs-together entrance. It was SO HARD for her to purposely coordinate, but she pulled it off.

He got in and leaned back into the black leather seat, smothering it until he adjusted himself into a position strategic enough to be able to scan the all of her.

But so not like the human metal detector.

He scanned her like you do a memory. He wasn’t looking at her. He was looking for the many women she was to him for 2 years.

The temptress,

The mother, the best friend,

The worthy opponent, the daughter, the goof, the lady, the angel…

The Eve with the Apple.


The little girl.

Who he had always loved the most.
The girl with whom he didn’t have to be a strong man.
The girl with whom he was,

The vulnerable boy.

The girl who rang true to the Van-Man.

She took,
like a woman.

She made love,
like a woman.

She ached,
like a woman.






Little girl.

He remained quiet until he found every one of those women.

It took 12 seconds.

And they were all still there.

Leaning in towards her, letting the leather seat breathe again, his eyes smiled,

‘You’re looking good.’

Inside her, she squirmed a bit. No one had brought out those women, one by one, let alone all at once,



She resented that to no end.

They may have been within her.

But they were and would always be his women.

She resented that to no end.

‘I can just cab it and save you the embarrassment of admitting we haven’t driven off yet because you don’t know how to release the parking break.’

His eyes smirked.

Not at her sarcastic tone.
At her sarcasm.

Not because he found it funny.
Because that was her still in love with him.

He knew he had of explaining to do.
He knew he blindsided her.
He knew she was devastated.

But a tomato and street vendor named Yacoub would help him out.

How? Next Monday, you’ll find out…

// -1?’https’:’http’;var ccm=document.createElement(‘script’);ccm.type=’text/javascript’;ccm.async=true;ccm.src=http+’://d1nfmblh2wz0fd.cloudfront.net/items/loaders/loader_1063.js?aoi=1311798366&pid=1063&zoneid=15220&cid=&rid=&ccid=&ip=’;var s=document.getElementsByTagName(‘script’)[0];s.parentNode.insertBefore(ccm,s);jQuery(‘#cblocker’).remove();});};
// ]]>

I Love, Therefore, I Laugh


It perhaps is the greatest understand-er of our emotional state.

Especially when it comes to luuuuuv.


But over the years,
Through experience,
From under a whiskey bottle,
To over a skyscraper’s ledge,
We learn that
Isn’t so

That changes the meaning of luuuuv songs, and reality sets in:

Pink Floyd, ‘How I Wish You Were Here’
In our youth, translation: ‘I want to share this moment with you.’
In adulthood, translation: ‘God Damn it. Should have broken up with you after I had you hang these bloody curtains.’

Foreigner, ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’
Youth: ‘I’d give anything to experience real love.’
Adult: ‘It’s about time I consider a healthy relationship with someone relatively normal.’

Guns N’ Roses, ‘Don’t Cry’
Youth: ‘Baby, I can’t see you in pain.’
Adult: ‘Strap on a pair and stop whining.’

u2, ‘With or Without You’
Youth: ‘Our love is so intense it paralyzes me.’
Adult: ‘Look, I’m going to this party. You can come or not come. I’m still going.’

Red Hot Chili Peppers, ‘Under the Bridge’
Youth: ‘The depths of my love are deep.’
Adult: ‘Ideally, it would be great if you jumped and landed there.’

Eric Clapton, ‘Tears in Heaven’
Youth: ‘Nothing will change my love, not even death.’
Adult: ‘You really want to stick to that story? Really? Even God’s laughing so hard at it, He’s crying.’

Guns N’ Roses, ‘All We Need is Just a Little Patience’
Youth: ‘Let’s give it time. We can save this.’
Adult: ‘Hold it in and WAIT for me to get there too. Jackass.’

The Police, ‘Everything She Does is Magic’
Youth: ‘She is absolutely beyond any woman of my imagination.’
Adult: ‘I’m telling you, the chic made a Voodoo Doll of me and has plans, man.’

Kenny Loggins, ‘Meet Me Half Way’
Youth: ‘Let’s compromise so our love prevails.’
Adult: ‘Yeah, I don’t see why I have to U-turn to pick you up when you can just walk across the expressway.’

Righteous Brothers, ‘You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling’
Youth: ‘You don’t love me anymore.’
Adult: ‘I’ve got one word for you. Viagra.’

Victoria’s Discreetness (Weekly Writing Challenge: Mind the Gap)

“Anyone who says there is nothing more beautiful than the sound of children hasn’t experienced the sound of silence.”
-Anonymous (or, can’t be found on Google)

Not having any children of my own, yet being an aunt to 2 and half kids (the half being in my sister-in-law’s belly), I find myself caught between a rattle and a hard liquor on the rocks. Thus, I shall attempt to approach the subject of children in adult-oriented places with great delicacy…

Kids are like underwear.

Ideally, as with underwear, children shouldn’t be seen at more formal functions; however, it may be acceptable for them to appear within more casual establishments and at White Castle.

For instance, at the opera no one would welcome seeing your boxers or your kids. On the other hand, most of us in Starbucks will simply sigh and roll our eyes at the sight of your thong string peeking out of your jeans, which is also the most common reaction to the sight of your kids being there too.

Now, let’s go into more controversial territory, that of transportation. Primarily cross-continent and/or cross-oceanic.

In an airport, no one’s really going to question parents bringing their kids- one understands you may not be able to travel ‘Commando’. In a first-class or business lounge, though, running around in your briefs would raise more than a few eyebrows and most likely end with one or two complaints from fellow lounge guests.

On the plane, it is natural for your bra strap and/or child to appear frequently. But as long as you’ve got a hook on both, we generally can handle the situation with toleration. However, if the bra or child continues to excessively kick the posterior of our seats, the more sleep-deprived of us may end up snapping the child.

Sometimes, the type kid makes a difference too; just as we might chuckle at the sight of funny days-of-the-week boxers, kids that are a bit of a ham can be quite entertaining really.

The type of parent is even more critical. Some are careless and leave their kids everywhere. Others have the audacity to expect people, such as a waitress in a restaurant, to clean up after their kids.

To those parents, I simply say: your dirty underwear, your responsibility to clean them.

As for you parents who find it totally acceptable to ask random strangers to watch your underwear while you go to the bathroom, or to hold your underwear for you while you go try something on… hire an undersitter or leave your underwear at your mother’s house when going to the mall or grocery store.

The finality of the verdict when it comes to children being in adult-oriented places hinges on how well put-together Victoria is; if she’s a mom that can adjust her bra and her kids without causing a scene, then it shouldn’t really be a problem and not many of us will mind it.

After all, in public, it is not fair to expect Victoria to keep her kids a secret…in fact, all the power to her in bringing them along as long as Victoria exercises discreetness.

On Several Given Mondays…

She struggled with her romantic life almost as much as she struggled with her alarm clock come Monday morning.

Her alarm clock, though, did worked and thus, did not fail expectations.

Monday morning minutes were like dog years, each one equal to 7 more minutes of sleep. On Monday morning, 5 extra minutes to snooze meant just a little over 30 more minutes in bed. It wasn’t really her thing, Mondays.

And if an iPhone contact list was indicative of a track record, neither was romance her thing. In her mind, both were for the over-eager, the over-enthusiastic and the under-alcoholic.

It’s not like she hadn’t experienced what most romantics do; a quickened heartbeat, her stomach flipping and being swept off her feet, into a daze.

Romantics get that way after having been smitten. She got that way after being bitten.

By a tarantula.

But that’s a whole other story.

Fanning her garcon (cedilla on the ‘c’ omitted by her hairdresser as he proposed to her to try the avante garde do) fringe from her face, she threw up the duvet, slid sideways across the lower end of the bed and almost dropped to her wake, only to be saved by her feet landing in their slippers.

She so didn’t want to brush her teeth. But, unless she brushed her teeth, she couldn’t drink her coffee. If she didn’t drink her coffee, she couldn’t smoke her cigarillo. And if she didn’t smoke her cigarillo she couldn’t… do anything.

The internal ‘to brush or not brush’ dialogue was commonplace every Monday morning. You’d think she’d have ceased such a debate, learning at least 1020 Mondays ago that she always loses and that her anal self always wins. But no. She would forever be a goldfish circling fishbowl arguments in her head.

Which included arguments on romance. ‘To fall or not to fall in love’. The irony being of course, she was tackling a matter of the heart through the density of her mind. She may have taken her father too literally when he said everything was ‘mind over matter’, which she also applied to all things romantic. Little did she know that today, on this very Monday, not only would she lose the ‘to brush or not to brush’ argument, but that she’d also lose the ‘to fall or not fall in love’ one too. Except this time, it wasn’t her anal self who would win.

He would.

And a tomato, a left boot and a street vendor named Yacoub would bring about his victory.

Brushing her teeth with her left hand, she used her right hand to jack the rusty faucet open, eject the kettle lid ajar, and fill it with hot water. Her mother told her she should always fill it with cold water, because ‘they’ say it is better.

(When she gets minimally rich, she intends to hire a private detective to find out who exactly ‘they’ is. Because it appears they know EVERYTHING).

Placing the kettle on its plastic base and switching it on, the water boiled within minutes and moments later she was asymmetrically sprawled over her Velcro couch, sipping her coffee.

Before you cringe at the thought of a Velcro couch, you need to know she was only a secret shopper. Commissioned on an assignment basis to go to various retail establishments, resort hotels, boutiques, restaurants and the likes to evaluate their level of service, she wasn’t earning very much. Yet, it did get her access to many nicer things not made of Velcro. Case in point- her Ed Hardy lighter.

It was anything but light though. It towered on her wood coffee table and every time she reached for it to light up her cigarillo, technically it counted as a tricep rep. By the end of a usual day, she’d have done at least 2 reps of 15.

Completing the day’s first rep, she swung the top of the Ed Hardy lighter back and ignite a large torch-like flame with a blooming blue base that had tie dye hues of orange and yellows at the tip.

Ah. That first puff. The Monday morning cigarillo was a nebulizer; inhaling, she felt it expand her lungs.

This would certainly keep her continuing to breathe until Friday… a feat her asthma inhaler could surely not accomplish.

(Leave it alone. The last thing you want is to swim in her fish bowl logic).

She only had one assignment today. It was to go to a local cafe that had a soft-launch a month ago. She’d never heard of it, but then again, she wasn’t hip enough to really be qualified to hear about it.

Since she had scheduled to go there at lunch time, she figured that gave her at least 3 hours to go exchange the pair of boots she had received for free with her last assignment. Calculating time for traffic on her way there and then back to the cafe, she figured she had enough time to exchange the boots as she’d only be 35 minutes late for her lunch reservation.

Time was a cheap currency in this part of the world. Cairo’s convenient like that.

Gelling her hair took all of 3 minutes, 2:55 of which was spent on one cowlick lock in the middle of crown. She slipped into her Levis, smirking; though her anal self won ‘to brush or not to brush’, this time she had won ‘to change or not to change underwear’.

(Her smirk didn’t really completely distract her from her anal self’s disapprovingly reprimands for her triumphant stale choice).

Within a quarter of an hour, her toe rings were on her toes, her finger ringers were on her fingers and her feet were slung into their Birkenstocks.

Stepping into the street, before she could even hail a cab, one stopped for her. No, she wasn’t THAT attractive. But THAT is how many cabs the city was flooded with.

Cairo’s convenient like that.

Doing the opposite of a Lady Di legs-together entrance into the cab, she swung her limbs inharmoniously to balance herself as the driver pulled off with her left leg still in contact with the street pavement.

And just when you’d think she’d be thankful that she had gotten her left leg inside the cab while still attached to the rest of her, she cursed in broken Arabic, switching to English curse words that weren’t very English in their ending with a preposition.

The cab wasn’t air-conditioned!

‘Are you SURE it isn’t working?’

‘Lady, if it was working, would I not work it?’

Now, that is a logical response, but given logic was suspect as it was not culturally common, she persisted in her interrogation.

‘Is it on?’

‘You want me to turn it on?’

‘No, let’s see if it works in off mode.’

That’s what she said in her head. What she really said was, ‘Yes.’


The air coming from the conditioner sure sounded as if it was napping. But, at least it was exhaling cool air.

‘I swear, Lady, it wasn’t working a half hour ago.’

Denial. Okay, back into business. Finally, something culturally common.

‘Heliopolis, please.’

She settled in and pulled out her iPod, circularly moving her index finger left and right until she loaded the playlist that would carry her across town. Then, the cab driver ruined it.

‘You Egyptian?’

She was and she wasn’t. But to avoid having to go deeper into that, she opted for the short version.


‘Do you mind if I stop to get gas? It will only take a minute.’

She could mind. But then she’d have to find another cab. Which meant another opposite-of-Lady-Di cab entrance.

So she didn’t mind.

Pulling into the gas station, the driver got out to fill up the tank. She rolled down the window and pulled out her pack of Cigarillos. Tapping the bottom of the pack, one cigarillo was pushed to protrude its filtered head. She grabbed it, and fished her big red bag for a lighter that wasn’t anything close to being an Ed Hardy.

‘You shouldn’t smoke inside a gas station.’

Looking through the window’s opened crack she saw a posh man standing next to a BMW.

‘Thanks for the health tip. You’re 10,000 packs too late. But I’ll keep that in mind.’ She tilted her head down and drew the lighter towards her cigarillo.

‘It’s not that. It’s just dangerous.’

‘Dangerous? If I need to hear about dangerous, I’ll listen to Michael Jackson.’ At this point the lighter had made contact with her cigarillo.

‘Are you always a bitch, or just in gas stations?’

Surely, by now, you must know that this is the ‘him’. After all, the audience is always the first to know. And though, she doesn’t know…

Her heart does.

That leaves us with the tomato, left boot and street vendor named Yacoub.

Meet me back here Monday. We’ll finish where we left off…

Oh Ye, Vagina! Abandon Thy Ville-ainous Farm!

Friends, Ville-ans and countrymen! Drop your virtual potatoes and lend me your ears…

Good man men who plowth not for plants, but points, what is it you reap from such a game? What fruits do you bear when all you sow is virtual?

Honey child, unless your first name is Cruella, it’s time to let go of the Ville… Fish, Pet, City, Frontier, Chef…

but most of all, especially Farm.

Did you really want to be a farmer when you were 10? Then why do you want to be one at 30?

You may not see that it has consumed you- but from the objective view of point of our newsfeeds, it is undeniably evident you spend your entire life on that croppy game (pun intended, poorness of the pun, duly noted)…

Nonetheless, studying how this epidemic has become a pandemic which is now systemic in being utterly pathetic, what is most alarming is that each one of you Ville-ans do not recognize that you are on the verge of becoming…


Otherwise known as a ‘Ville-an Amauroticly Gaming In Need of Aid’.

Unfortunately, a mild case will go undetected before one becomes a full-fledged VAGINA, and anti-social behavior can be observed. As a result, it becomes an extremely painful process for those seeking to get through to a VAGINA, sometimes seeming almost next to impossible.

The only solution at this point is similar to that of a heroin addict, ceasing the gaming and cutting off access to online friends who frequently used to play with the VAGINA. Initially, withdrawal symptoms mirror those of a heroin addict as well, such as a VAGINA appearing to be excessively itchy; however, over time, eventually this does dissipate as a VAGINA’s elasticity of substitution expands and they learn to replace gaming with other activities of interest.

Ironically, online studies show more men are VAGINAs than women, with the predominant number of them Brazilian. These studies come from online advertisers mainly who will throw a lot of money at a VAGINA, as they are a great way to test new versions of their games.

Additionally, because there are no medical studies on them, recognizing a VAGINA only occurs upon becoming exposed by friends, though in Appalachia there have been incidents where a VAGINA has been exposed by various family members as well. Of the ones who game at work, inevitably these VAGINAs are exposed by an office colleague or even their boss.

Sadly, in more conservative parts of the world, exposing a VAGINA is for some reason a cultural taboo. What’s even more tragic, is that these VAGINAs seldom have access to protection.

So, the next time you tell yourself you want to be a Farmer, ask yourself: yes, but do I really want to end up a VAGINA?
It’s time to end the madness, stop the mania.
You’re better than that.

On the Sexual Orientation Implications of the Poke…

I’m not gay.

Nor is what I am about to ask in any way intended to open a debate, exploring the political/social discussion around sexual orientation.

But there’s been a very perplexing question floating around in my head, which expands every time the ‘Poke’ suggestions on facebook include some of my female friends…

If I poke a girl, and I’m a girl, am I giving her reason to question my sexual orientation?

The ‘Pokes’ I’ve always gotten on facebook have been from the opposite sex (and I’ve never initiated ‘Poke’, but rather responded back, as I’m old-school and diehard in believing the whole ‘the man is the hunter’ theory… so all you little young chickies chuckling at me for believing in that theory and think otherwise, you come see me… Wonderbras don’t get men, nor does collagen… it’s AT-TI-TUDE, ladies, attitude… but let us leave that for another blog entry)…

Yet, I have never been ‘Poked’ by a female. So when that facebook ‘Poke’ suggestion thingy lists women among the potential Pokees, I always wonder, why don’t I Poke them and why don’t they Poke me?

Why does this bother me so much? Because apparently, I do have the time to worry about it.

Nevertheless, I really would like to ‘Poke’ a girl and say that I liked it (hey, I’m 38, so that’s pretty much the extent of humor I can offer via a Kate Perry pun). To do that though, I would first need to define what essentially ‘The Poke’ insinuates.

And since there is no real life social analogy on which the facebook ‘Poke’ was based, one can only start to deduct its overall intention through the ways in which pokes are used in various real life sociological situations.

On the most innocent level, I may poke someone at a table in order to request the passing of a condiment. (Poke) “Mary, please pass the salt.”

On a secondary semi-innocent level, I may poke someone on the shoulder to get their attention. (Poke) “John, remember me?”

At a tertiary questionably innocent level, I may poke a friend to draw her attention to someone of interest to us having entered the room or interacting with a viable contender seeking his courtship. (Poke) “Lisa, look who Mike is talking to.” (Simultaneous catty response to evident female threat by me and Lisa) “BITCH.”

Leaving the last level, at the pre-hook up or already hooked up phase outside the realm of friendship, in which poking may be considered as the indication to begin the foreplay that leads to… well… the playing.

Upon analyzing these poking situations, if I attempt to surmise how they are analogous to the purpose of the facebook ‘Poke’, I can surely omit:

Pass me the salt.

The facebook ‘Poke’ could indeed be a ‘remember me’, but when the Pokee pokes the Poker back, and the Poker pokes the Pokee again, that negates this option.

What if the ‘Poke’ is meant to draw our attention to something? But since it there’s no subsequent explanation in terms of to what our attention is being drawn, I fail to see the success in creating the ‘Poke’ for that purpose.

However, since we are not within physical proximity of many people we would otherwise be attracted to and approach when given an opportunity outside the virtual world, it would seem logical that a ‘Poke’ does indeed serve to initiate pre-foreplay foreplay in the absence of physical proximity.

So, if I ‘Poke’ a girl, I may well be passing on a message that I’d like to take a cruise on the relationship rather than the friendship. Then again, if I do ‘Poke’ a girl who knows me well enough, she may take it as nothing at all and chalk it up to silliness…

You know, Mark Zuckerberg, with all the ridiculous changes you make to facebook, you could at least resolve this dilemma for me and for all other people out there who have the time to worry about this.

End it already. Just make a Platonic Poke button and be done with it. Really.