AfricanKelli

Hello, my name is Kelli and I am a drunk, obnoxious girlfriend (DOG). This is probably the only time I’ll describe myself wittingly as a dog, so enjoy it.

Last night we went out for Rob’s birthday. Five bottles of red wine was shared among 11 people over a lengthy Italian dinner. It was 9:30 when the meal ended and I was looking forward to getting out of my khakis and taking a hot shower. My head was already swimming. Thanks to Stoney, our overly affectionate waiter, my glass was refilled more than I realized and I was a bit tipsy.

I went to the restroom before we left the restaurant and by the time I rejoined the group waiting outside, we were all headed for a local Mexican bar for margaritas. Yay! There were rolly polly girls dancing on the bar with their bellies jiggling outside of their pants. There were frat boys in pressed button down shirts looking to show off their new $30,000 a year job and leased BMWs outside. There were margaritas galore, an open bar tab, a deceptively inviting dance floor and a cadre of ol’ school music that I hadn’t boogied to in quite a while.

Fun was being had by all. We were “Humpty Humping” it all over the tiny bar when suddenly my mood soured. Alcohol, the depressant that it is, has this great way of bumming me out just when I’ve got my party mojo moving. There I am, in the middle of a circle of friends, ready to spit fire and walk out. Good thing I hadn’t driven.

Of course Rob was the target of my frustration. I demanded his cell phone and began questioning him about every name in the directory that could in anyway be used by a woman. We got to the “Rs” before he took his phone back and one of his more obnoxious friends jumped in to make fun of me. [He should be glad I hadn't had one more drink, or I would have punched him in the face right then and there. This friend has been like sandpaper on my bare feet since Rob and I started seeing each other. He loves to make it very clear that I am not good enough for his friend. He is a lovely human being.] I deleted multiple records of women who Rob had “hooked up with,” “wouldn’t put out,” and “I don’t remember.”  To the land of the digital dump went their numbers.

When I woke up this morning, I remembered how exactly obnoxious and drunk I had been. Luckily, Rob was in even worse shape. He’s still in bed, five hours after we woke up. I haven’t seen him look this jaundice since the weekend we met, when our mutual friend Jose Cuervo played matchmaker.

He tried nicely to say I was never to take his cell phone again. Deal, honey. My bad.

~Africankelli

When I bought my home a little more than a year ago, it seemed too good to be true. It is airy, has a nice patio with a tiny strip of land perfect for growing spring sunflowers and two full bedrooms and bathrooms. It is a cute little place and I love it dearly.

I’ve made the most of a non-existent furniture fund by having gracious friends donate a worn couch, table and chairs. Rob gave me a new mattress and I purchased a tiny bureau from Target that houses the television I was given in 8th grade. It is approximately 12 inches wide and the remote still works thanks to a little Scotch tape jerry rigging.

It isn’t that I don’t have money, but graduate school on a credit card isn’t the best financial decision. Before I figured out what a poor choice this truly was, I raked up thousands of dollars on a “prime plus 12″ credit card. Ouch. Soon enough, I qualified for large student loans at a much more practical 3.3%. I’ve worked three extra jobs this year to diligently defeat the credit card monsters in my wallet. Thankfully, this has worked. I am so close to the finish line (even after all the Christmas spending dangers) that the sudden self-destruction of my little home is devastating.

Well, it isn’t actually self-destruction, but the roof is failing, causing extensive water damage in two of the four rooms. It is like your heart stopping and everything else suddenly failing in consequence. (Okay, okay, it isn’t ACTUALLY like your heart stopping.) I noticed this about six months ago and attempted to make basic repairs with my father. At first, we were sure they worked. We thought we were so handy and smart. How wrong we were. Now, I have a urine colored ring around a light switch in my bedroom where water has pooled. I have panic-stricken nightmares of the emerald green mold growing behind the walls. I’ll have to wear Payless Shoes and carry Target purses for the rest of my life to pay for the damage!

Today began the roof estimate parade; obese men with giant ladders and sticky, stinky T-shirts climbed on to the pitiful surface above. Sitting below in the living room, I prayed they wouldn’t fall through. After their prying and stomping and calculating, it will cost me no less than $1900. I haven’t yet begun the scraping and repainting estimate parade or the replacing the bedroom wall that is currently soggy estimate parade. Yay! I am going to be in credit card hell forever.

Somehow the $50 gift certificate from Home Depot isn’t looking so rosy anymore. (Although this is slated for even more needed repair in the kitchen. Don’t get me started.)

Luckily, Santa did provide a copy of “Bathroom Repair for Dummies” in my stocking, so at least I have that going for me.

Too bad no one provided a copy of “Don’t Buy that Purse and Shoes When You Really Need a Roof, You Dummy.”

~Africankelli

P.S. But my God! How cute are these? And this!!

P.P.S. It also means I really shouldn’t be bidding on this.

I called a girlfriend a couple of weeks ago and begged her to attend a local writing group with me. She reluctantly agreed — it was at
8 pm on a work night and she is the mother of two young children. Her precious evening time would be consumed by a long drive downtown and a meeting with no promise of the event being time well spent. I assured her that if nothing else, we would have fun together. And if we hated it, we’d leave.

In fact, we wanted to stay longer. The group leaned over a dark wood table in the corner of a Phoenician café as small tea lights flickered dancing shadows on our notebooks and ideas. It was a good mélange of people — both published and novice. Everyone seemed kind and genuinely interested in participating, which I’ve never been able to say about a class.

I dream of living in a city like San Francisco, where cultural outings and literary savants seem to ooze from the street covers, they are so plethoric. I think about Dave Eggers and his McSweeney writing group. I imagine this avant-guarde cache of young somethings discussing everything from politics to punctuation while sipping warm cappuccinos and wearing perfectly indented and worn Birkenstocks. Their book awards, nominations and best sellers are immaterial. I wonder if the Beatniks wrote in the same café, if Hemmingway really needed a stiff mojito to get his writing mojo going and whether or not Barbara Kingsolver still relies on the view of her Tucson mountains to become inspired?

When living in Cameroon, one of the more frustrating elements of society was everyone’s urge to be American. Desperately, people pleaded with me to bring them home to the US, to marry them, to adopt them, to smuggle them. Whatever it took, they wanted to come to my country. I urged them to stay put and make theirs a better place.

Rather than move to Los Angeles, or Aspen or Santa Fe to join an already developed and prospering writing community, I’m electing to take my own advice. Phoenix may be hot and taupe, but we have pen and paper potential.

~Africankelli

“We are making enemies faster than we can kill them.”

Two years ago this week I was relaxing with a group of expats on a tropical Southeast Asian beach. I can’t help but think of the crystal clear blue water, the tall, bowing palms, the grilled fish and sweet wine we feasted on while the burning sun sunk beneath the iridescent horizon.

It was as close to “The Beach” as I’ve ever been. I’d just met and fallen passionately head over feet for an Australian, who I still hold a special place in my heart for today. It was as relaxed as I’ve ever been. Aging Asian women would massage us head to toe in the mornings as we sprawled on the creamy beach. Young boys would ferry us around the mile-wide island on their passenger bikes. Burly men carried us from boats to shore when we needed to go to one of the other islands.

Today, the photos of the earthquake and tsunami disasters bring this sweet vacation sailing back to thought. I can imagine those beaches, with travelers and natives enjoying the perennially warm sun, bountiful sea and tranquility of the serene environment. I cannot imagine the terror, the wall of water, or the panic.

I have a good friend from
Sri Lanka. She immigrated to the United States in high school and came from an important family. We half-joke that she is royalty. Knowing her humility, she very well may be. When I heard of the disaster, I immediately sent her email and double checked her large family was safe. Of course, they weren’t living on the shore. They were fine. But her country will take decades to recover.

Her mind was elsewhere. She will deliver her first child this week. A baby princess with a full head of thick, shiny, black Sri Lankan locks, will scream her first cry in the comfort of a Minnesota hospital, far from the death and destruction in her kingdom.

The circle of life continues.

For those whose lives hang in the balance, here is how we can help:

UNICEF

International Committee of the Red Cross

~Africankelli

It is the time to give and receive. To enjoy the company of family and friends. To take time to think about what is going on outside of our homes, communities, and culture.

This Christmas, I wish the following could come true:

1. President Bush, Secretary Rumsfeld and Koffi Annan could have a tête-à-tête for how to make lasting improvements in
   Iraq with minimal involvement while restoring respect for the United States among the international community.
2. China, Russia, Pakistan and Algeria will cancel their arms agreements with the government of Sudan, therefore limiting the violence in the Darfur region. And the 1.6 million refugees living on the Chad/Sudan border have fully bellies, healthy babies and a safe home to return to soon.
3. Randy Johnson will stop his belly-aching about being an Arizona Diamondback and remember the glory days of 2001 when we won the World Series. Seriously, no one is paying any attention to you anymore, you big baby. And if you end up with the Yankees, don’t let Jason Giambi rub any “performance creams” on you. You big fat traitor. (I love you Kirby Puckett. Thank you again for being loyal in a culture of greed.)
4. Barbara Kingsolver will release a new fiction novel this year that is fun, light-hearted with a touch less of liberal propaganda. (See “Small Wonder” for example.)
5. Generation X will stand up for their pro-peace beliefs and say no more to the ridiculous recruitment tactics of the U.S. military. Take that, Rummy.
6. El Niño will dump loads of snow in northern Arizona, easing our drought conditions and making summer camping with a camp fire a possibility.
7. Martha Stewart will be released and will regain her title as the numero uno domestic diva.
8. Tabloids will become bored and will refuse coverage to anything named: Brit, Bit Bit, Kevin Fugerline, Jenny on the Marital Block, BAffleck, Coco or Apple. Who cares what Britney is wearing? She could be in couture Dior and she’d still have a half-chewed stick of Juicy Fruit hanging out of her mouth and tattoos covering the majority of her feet. Not to mention the furry companion. Not the dog, her hubbie. She was so 2000.

      Give me more Norah, Joss, Diana Krall, Sheryl and Ani. They are 2005.

9. Teenage girls everywhere will toss their tube tops, low-rider jeans and three-inch tall flip flops in lieu of The Stepford Wives wear. Pretty dresses, pearls and matching pocketbooks for all!
10. An article will be written about Tiger Woods in which the author references that he shares the same birthday as R.

A Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

~Africankelli

I am in search of a new backpack. It should be small enough to be comfortable when walking a golf course and large enough to carry sunscreen, a small water bottle and a book.

These are the top two contenders.

1.

2.

What do you think?

~Africankelli@gmail.com

P.S. Said purchase will not be made until I have written at least 13 more pages of the novel. I am not above bribery, especially when it comes to self-motivation.

P.P.S. Apparently I am also not above eshopping (ebrowsing?) at work.

Thank goodness that Christmas is just three days away. I am like a child this time of year. I pace. I wake up in the middle of the night, wondering what Santa is doing. Right. Now. And I starting giving gifts early because I simply cannot wait. And then I begin pacing some more.

Working this time of year is the worst. Yes, I know I should be thankful for having a job. And I am. But who wants to work when there are Christmas cookies to be baked? Carols to be sung? Mistletoe to be hung? Eeek, I’m a starting to rhyme.

I find myself sitting at my desk, contemplating starting a huge project that I know won’t be finished before the New Year, and then procrastinating by scanning BananaRepublic.com, Coach.com, Heiferproject.com and thinking about the glit
tering packages beneath the tree in just three days!

What adds to my lack of focus and anxiety is the news this time of year. I simply cannot listen to another story about soldiers being killed in Iraq without losing my lunch. It makes me sick to think of the 1400 American families who will have an empty place at their holiday table this week. Much less the countless Iraqi families who celebrated Ramadan without their loved ones. Loss seems so much more tragic this time of year. This reminds me of an essay I’ve been meaning to post about my true wishes for Christmas and 2005.

Perhaps tomorrow.

Today I cannot sit still.

~Africankelli

My mom and I regularly play Trivial Pursuit on Sunday afternoons. Playing board games has always been a part of our family life. Several weeks ago, in the middle of the game, she quizzed me: “What country lost 800,000 in civil war in 1994?”

It took me a while to answer. I thought about it and finally answered erroneously, “Cambodia?”

“No. Rwanda.”

I knew that answer and was surprised I couldn’t come up with it at the moment. I’d recently read Gil Courtemarche’s, “A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali.” If I’d had this website in 2003, this would have won book of the year. Courtemarche was a French Canadian journalist in Rwanda in 1994 when the Hutus and Tutsi’s opened up old wounds and began one of the most brutal civil wars of mankind. He based this fictional tale on is experience — hiding in a hotel in the capital and watching the violence below. Finally, the violence catches up with him. The machete-wielding maniacs enter the hotel looking for food, rest and water. They end up drinking the pool.

The most vivid scene from the book is when Courtemarche leaves the compound to see what is happening around him. He watches as a woman with a young baby tied on her back murders a pregnant woman lying at her feet. The aggressor swipes at the pregnant woman’s body repeatedly, aiming for the bulging belly. She continues hacking the woman to bits long after life has left her body, twice.

I recommend reading his book because you learn not only about the cause of such hatred between two groups, but what man is capable of doing when pushed beyond sanity.

A new movie on the same topic is coming out this week. “Hotel Rwanda” is receiving critical reviews. While the conflict is just 10 years healed, Rwandan Hutus have been recently reported to be fleeing into neighboring Congo, with their machetes and hunger for violence in tow.

Somedays, I have to shake my head and think I don’t really know Africa at all.

~Africankelli

Yesterday I treated myself to a previously unknown luxury: quality car speakers. One of my speakers had been rattling for a few weeks and I haven’t been able to hear most radio stations clearly for more than a year, since a CD player was installed.

Living 19 miles one-way from my office, I spend a minimum of 1.5 hours in my car each day. The constant rattling was beginning to drive me crazy. So, I splurged. Some $200 later and I can now hear all of my NPR buddies as though they were sitting in the passenger seat and chatting away.

And how I’ve missed them.

I found myself racing from radio station to radio station, listening to each for a few minutes and smiling at the variety and clarity. I couldn’t believe how much it cheered me up, but now I no longer have to keep one hand on the radio while I drive to get reception!

The man who waited on me was an enigma. He wasn’t androgynous, but was both very masculine and very feminine. He wore baggy clothing over bulging muscles that were tattooed. He had a baseball hat on backward and smelled of musky cologne. When he got in my car to test the speakers, I noticed that his eyebrows and goatee were perfectly trimmed. Actually, I think they were waxed. This gave his otherwise intimidating presence a soft and gentle feel.  And then he gave me a discount, “because you listning’ to Shakira.”

Que padre!

~Africankelli