You're Not Getting Younger ... Anymore

That's something I have heard more times than I wish to remember.  It has become more prevalent now that I have ceased to get younger. And that's exactly my point. At what point does one cease to get younger? I used to think that one never gets younger anyway. Unfortunately, that's not a universal belief. 

I cannot count how many times I have been told (by my family and even by people I don't care for) that I am not getting younger anymore. Is this in comparison to the time that I was in fact getting younger?  "You're not getting younger anymore," they say, "When are you going to get married?" They want to know. Of course, this entire thing is all about marriage.  It never stops until you get married. And then, a new issue arises: when are you going to have children? And after that: when are you going to have more children?

When, oh, when, will Miss Vera Ezimora acquire the almighty sought after, most prestigious degree, the MRS degree?  When, oh, when will she stop being Miss Vera Ezimora and become Mrs. Vera Somebody?  I'm not sure what all the hurry is about. I'm still a kid at heart. Besides, I don't exactly have a man knocking my door down, begging for my yellow hand in marriage.

When Miss Vera Ezimora's husband realizes that somewhere in this world, there is one Miss Vera Ezimora who has been predestined to be his wife, when Miss Vera Ezimora's husband realizes that both our names have been etched in the sands of time, and of course, when Miss Vera Ezimora's husband realizes that unlike before, he, too, is not getting younger anymore, and then, he decides that he will ask for me to have his back for the rest of what will be his very fruitful, very happy, very satisfying, very healthy, and very wealthy life (because of me, of course), I, in turn, will accept his proposal.

And together, we shall not get younger --- anymore.  Like that other time that we used to get younger.

Mr. Shoes And I Are Getting Married --- Today

And this time, it's not an April Fool's trick - like that other time.  I'm sorry you had to find out this way.  And I'm sorry I kept it away from you, but if it makes you feel any better, I also kept it away from Mr. Shoes.  You see, this isn't exactly how I planned to get married, but as they say, when the going gets tough, the tough gets going.

I'll make this as short and as simple as possible: from Friday, February 5th to Sunday, February 7th, we experienced suffered a snow storm.  It took me five hours to shovel the sidewalk and dig Fotunatus [my car] out of 26 inches of snow.  School was out for over a week.  Less than a week later, we received another 12 inches of snow.  More shoveling and digging ensued.  By the end, I was sure I would need a chiropractor to fix my back, shoulders, waist, and arms.Since then, it has snowed about three or four more times, albeit very lightly.  This week and next week, we're expecting snow; I don't know the amount.  

So, where does Mr. Shoes come in, you ask?  Well, you see, while we were shoveling, my male neighbors shoveled and shoveled and shoveled --- while their wives stood by the door and directed them, "Honey, you didn't get that little part there," and occasionally, their wives brought them soup, sandwiches, and warm beverages.

I want to be a wife, darn it!  Shoveling isn't fun.  I'd rather be giving directions and offering warm beverages.  So, yes, Mr. Shoes and I will be getting married today.  I have to make sure that I marry him before the next snow storm.  Wouldn't want him thinking that I married him just because of the snow storm.  I mean, what kind of wife would that make me?

In Preparation For Marriage (2)

"When a woman puts too much salt in her food, it is a sign that she is in love..."

- Spoken by Vera Ezimora's mom - day and date, forgotten.

While everyone else was baking, dissecting, and eventually, digesting a turkey for Thanksgiving Day, I was busy cooking, and then, eating okra soup.  First of all, I don't eat turkey.  Secondly, I love okra soup - when I cook it.  Lastly, I had been craving okra soup for so long, and Thanksgiving Day seemed like the perfect time to have some.

Dare I say that the soup was oh-so-good!  It was finger-licking, head-spinning, orgasm-causing good.  Yes, it was that good.  I don't know what I put in it, but if any man had dared to eat it, he would have begged me to let him pay quadruple on my bride price.  I did, naturally, consider getting several men to eat it, but the soup was just so darn good.  I could not get myself to share it.  Not to worry, the hands that cooked the soup are neither weary nor limp.  Forget about juju (black magic), this soup, littered with mouth-watering pieces of oxtail, tripe, and goat meat, is the best, safest, most assured way to get that proposal those proposals.

This past weekend, I decided to cook some efo soup; it was my very first time cooking efo soup.  If I had known it was such an effortless activity, I would have done it sooner.  I cooked a rather small pot of soup because it was my trial soup, and I was not sure how it would turn out.  I'm not sure how well to convey the goodness of this soup.  Well, let me put it this way: my mom literally chased me around the kitchen island.  Yes, she wanted more of my efo soup.

My only regret is that I did not cook a bigger pot of soup.  Oh, the other regret is that I did not have any pounded yam, so I had to eat it with farina.  Sigh. Farina just doesn't have the same effect as pounded yam.  It does not glide.  It just passes through.  You probably don't need me to tell you that this soup, too, is a sure husband getter.  And permanent keeper.  I just need to cook both soups, and then, go to a male-infested, testosterone-breeding ground and serve it to them.  Unfortunately, the male bathroom is not suitable.  Some other time, I guess.

I don't typically eat fufu with a fork, but I was typing, so I needed both hands.  Besides, Nwoke Ocha (my laptop) is white.

The last time I prepped for marriage, I blogged about it - In Preparation For Marriage - and at the end of my prep, which was for onugbu (bitterleaf) soup, mom said I didn't do anything, that all I did was take pictures, and that we need to do it again.  I did not agree then.  But considering that I now do not recall anything I may have learned about the principles and techniques of cooking onugbu soup, it appears that we I need to do it again.

Grandma thought my okra soup was a bit salty, although she was the only one who thought that.  Everyone else, especially me, thought it was okay.  Mom thought it was not salty, but even if it was, she had a perfectly good explanation, and that's the quote up there, at the beginning of this post.

My response to mom's comment: No Comments.

Is It Still Fornication....

...If I imagine my HUSBAND making love to me (as opposed to just plain ol' imagination of some man that has not "made an honest woman out of me")? Walahi, I imagine this thing in my head all the time. I actually make a conscious effort to picture the ring on his finger because I need to convince God - and myself, of course - that I am not just .... what's the word? Fornicating!!! Yeah, isn't this called fornication of the mind?? Well, it's only fornication when you're imagining someone that isn't your husband. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I know what you're thinking: "But Vera, you're not married!" Ehen. If I'm not married nko? How is that one your business?? If you can dream it, you can be it. So I have been imagining myself married. Soon I will be married. As you all know, part of being married includes ehm... ehm... going to Jerusalem all willy nilly, so I have been picturing that also. Honestly, he has a ring in my mind. He's my husband in my mind.

If you're thinking the word I think you're thinking, then please stop it right this minute. I am NOT masturbating. I repeat: I AM NOT MASTURBATING!!!!!!!!! I am simply imagining what will be. What is so wrong about that? Doggone it! He has a wedding band on....and so do I. I need someone to just validate me and tell me that it's okay. Tell me I'm right. It might be in my head, but I think I hear God laughing right now. He just said, "This girl is straight trippin!'"

Lemme tell you how this "married love making" starts. It starts after the wedding, in the limo, on our way to the reception hall. With the bridesmaids in the car, we'll be all up on each other. Then my bridesmaids will get pissed and irritated, step out of the limo, and take a cab to the reception venue. Actually, it's a lot more fun in my imagination when they each mount an okada., hair flying in the air, and then all jacked up by the time they reach the reception hall ... tears in the eyes from the wind... maybe their dresses will get ripped too ..... but I digress. So when they get off the limo, hubby and I go to Jerusalem. Bingo!

Then at the reception hall, we have to change into our traditional outfits. We tell everyone to get the heck out of the room and give us some time to "talk." So yeah, we go to Jerusalem again. Thennnnnn after the reception, we continue wherever we spend the night. But see, the entire time, we're married. We have been pronounced husband and wife. This can't possibly be fornication of the mind, can't it??

Say it isn't so!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. Tune in @ 10 AM U.S. Eastern time (3 PM Naija time) for the Verastically Speakin' Radio Show. www.blogtalkradio.com/verastic Set up reminders if you have to. See you there!!!!!!!!! *wink, wink* Please see the schedule of the show by the top right hand corner and contribute as you can. Thank you, darlings!

I'm off to imagine stuff.

In Preparation For Marriage....

"It will be a very big shame for you to get married to an Igbo man and not know how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup."

- Spoken by Vera Ezimora's mom on Friday, March 20th 2009 10:41 PM

You know, sometimes, I just don't understand my mother. When and where did she see an engagement ring on my finger? To my recollection, I have not told her that any man - let alone an Igbo one - is seeking my hand in marriage. She has not told me that any Igbo man has come to pluck the ripe flower in our garden either - unless they (mom, dad & the Igbo man) are planning to give me a surprise wedding. So where did mom come off telling me it will be a shame to get married to an Igbo man without knowing how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup??? Alright, I'll explain.

Prior to that verbal assault you read up there, I did not know how to cook onugbu (bitterleaf) soup. I was curious enough to ask mom to teach me. Remember that I said I asked her. She did not tell me I had to learn it. I
asked
begged her on my own to show me. We have been attempting to do this mother-daughter cooking for the longest time - I'm talking years now - but you know how time is exactly what we don't have enough of. Finally, we agreed to do it on Thursday (March 19th), but mom was too tired. I guess that meant it was automatically postponed to Friday, March 20th, but I didn't know. So off I went to hang out with Funmi #1 and Funmi #2 (Yes, there are two Funmis, but Funmi #1 is the one who comments on my blog).

I decided to call mom at 10:41 PM to check up on her... as per good daughter and all, and that verbal assault up there was what I heard. And after speaking, she hung up on me ooo! LOL. Couldn't stop laughing walahi. I finally got home more than an hour later to realize the woman had not even started cooking the soup - even though prior to hanging up she said, "Don't worry, I'm cooking my soup myself" ... you know one of those things they say to make you feel guilty. Anyway, I ended up joining her in cooking.

I was required to
wash
scrub the bitterleaves till they were no more bitter. I wanted to wear my rubber gloves because I didn't want the finger nails I had been growing to turn green after washing the leaves, but I was chastised by my mom, "How can you wear gloves to wash what someone will eat?" After two minutes of washing, I became tired, but I had to keep going; apparently, the leaves were still bitter. By the end of it, I came to one conclusion: I must have a house-help! I am not cut out for this. I refuse to bend over the sink to wash bitterleaves. My mom laughed @ me. She asked, "So you'll have a house help as soon as you enter your husband's house?" I said, "Yeap. She'll be my hand luggage."

Mom: What if your house help is not Igbo? Or what if your house help is not a female?

Me: I don't even want a female anyway. Too many house-girl/husband casualties. But if he/she isn't Igbo, he/she will be trained on how to wash bitterleaves.

Mom: Who will train them?

Me: Obviously not me.

Mom: *Shaking head.* You're not serious.

Me: Very serious, mom.

Soooo after about an hour in the hot kitchen, a pot of yummy onugbu soup emerged. It is safe to say that I am now ready to be given away to an Igbo man. I took pictures to show you my soup. Oh, but you know what my mom said after we finished cooking? She said, "You know you didn't learn anything. All you did was walk around here and take pictures; we have to do this again." Lai lai! We don't have to do anything again. I have learnt. I'm good.

The bitterleaves I was washing...


After I washed them...


You know what that is? Blended cocoayam. It makes the soup thicker. In Naija, we woulda pounded it, but as per Yankee, we had to blend it instead.

"Assorted meat" but no "roundabouts" lol

Stockfish

Ogili (stinky Igbo spice. It stinks! But darn it, it makes the food yummy)

Voila... the result!

Dear Igbo man, I am now ripe to become your wife. When is the wedding gonna be??? :-)

Vacations End Wayyyyyyy Too Quickly!

Considering the amount of time that goes into planning a vacation - no matter how short - it is appalling that it ends so swiftly. Why does time fly by so fast when you're having fun? It's never the same thing when that teacher is talking about all the different ways to dissect the brain. I have barely traveled in the last few several years. I hope to make 2009 a traveling year. AMEN!!!

But when I get married - here she comes with her future marriage plans again! - my husband and I must travel to all places travelable. Of course, I can travel now, but I think the traveling will be a lot more fun if you have the opportunity of being naughty with someone @ odd times of the day and/or night. You know what I mean now! Don't make me say it; I'm shy. *blushing*

So when I get married, my husband and I might just wake up one morning and decide to go have breakfast in Germany, lunch in Peru, and dinner in India. The next day, we'll go bake ourselves under the Australian sun. We might even hunt a few crocodiles - just like Steve, the Crocodile Hunter used to do before his unfortunate demise. Then we'll go to Senegal - just to visit those huge flies I saw there several years ago. I wonder if their flies are still so huge. Another day, we'll go to Puerto Rico to look for J'Lo's people. When we find them, we'll wave to them and keep it moving.

We'll vacation to Leningrad, Russia - the land of my birth. We'll see if we can actually see Alaska. If we can, we might just ski dive into Alaska. That should be fun. We'll go to Italy to have real pizza. And I'll buy an expensive pair of shoes. We'll go to Israel to visit the garden of Eden. There, I will get down on my knee and feed my husband an apple. He will eat it and we will know the difference between good and evil. [I wonder if we'll get banned from returning to Israel if we get caught procreating under one of the trees. I guess we'll just have to find out]

We'll go to Nigeria to eat from one of those Mama Put joints. And we'll give her a big fat tip. We're gonna wash our own dishes and stand in line to wait for our food just like everyone else. That's all part of the fun. We'll go to Paris - the City of love & romance and we'll fall in love all over again....and of course, we'll 'romance' each other. He'll whisper sweet nothings in my ear in the language I wish I could speak - French.

Okay, enough of the imaginations. This has become a self-induced hypnosis. I'm finding it hard to snap out of it. Goodness, that French part was really good. So what was I saying anyway? Oh yeah, vacations end too quickly. I know this sounds like a random post. It sounds like I have no reason to be talking about vacations, but you know there is no smoke without fire. *wink*

P.S. Category B of the Naija Blogger Awards is up and running. Please go & vote (FOR ME!!!!) immediately. Click HERE to go to the Naija Blogger Awards blog. I woulda given the link directly to the voting site, but Geisha (even from her blogger grave....sebi she stopped blogging??) has been threatening me to put the link to the Blogger Awards blog instead. She said my votes will not count if I did not heed her instructions. I'm not afraid oh, but.... anyway, when you go to the blog, the link for Category B is on the right hand side. And please, ignore whatever Afrobabe & Iyabo Opeke says. They're both crazy. Vote 4 me and me alone.

P.P.S. On Thursday, I blogged about the few and very simple things I require of my future bridesmaids, and Lolo Bloggs asked what I had planned for myself as the bride. Now, I feel compelled to tell you all. I just don't know how you're gonna take the news. Should I indulge you?

So It's My Fault???

I found two out of my closest friends in Naija on Facebook the other day. Imagine my pleasant surprise. One of them was my best friend [in Naija] and she got married in August. The other one was also really, really close to me, and she got married before my best friend. Anyway, they're now both married. This wasn't news to me since we talk on the phone quite often. Although not as often as we used to when I was in Naija, of course. Time and distance has put a damper on our relationship.


Anyway, they're both married now, and one that got married first now has a child. I was looking at her pictures on Facebook (kai, thank God for Facebook ooo). I saw pictures of her while she was pregnant and pictures of her with her child. It was so weird looking at this chic and her baby. Silly me. All I could think was "I guess she's no longer a virgin." LOL. Hey, don't blame me. I grew up with this gal! Three of us practically grew up together. We went to the same elementary and high school. We grew breasts together and experienced our menarche (first period) together.


Actually, they grew breasts together and experienced their menarche together. I was a late bloomer on all counts. I don't wanna start thinking about those days that everyone but me had breasts. Oh, the tears I shed! But hey, if they could see me now... hehehehehe *I laugh in Russian* It was traumatizing oh, but don't let me bore you with my tales of former breastlessness.


As I was saying before I digressed, I was looking at my friends' pictures on Facebook. I decided to show my mother the pictures to see if she recognized them. My mother and her blunt sef....you won't believe what she had to say to me.


Mom: *twisting her mouth Naija style* Your friends, aren't they your age or younger?


Me: *wondering what her point was* Rita (the one with the baby) is my age, but Linda is a year younger than me. Why?


Mom: Your friends that you started out with are married and having children and you you're here. What are you doing?


Me: *astonished* You're joking, right?! Mom, please! How can I get a husband when you don't want to let me out of your sight? [Yes, that is my reason. No, not an excuse, but a REASON]. If I say I'm going to see a movie, you'll squeeze your face, so how do you expect me to find a husband under such duress? [Yes, I call it duress]


Mom: You don't go to places where you can find a husband. You go to Funmi's and Busola's house.


Okay, I had to laugh out loud. Darn it. Why does she always have to be right??? Come to think of it, I barely go anywhere else and just like Mama Vera said, man no dey for Funmi & Busola house ooo. I have been going to their house for years, and I am yet to meet one eligible bachelor there. I don't think eligible bachelors live on their street. In fact, I don't think eligible bachelors live in their zip code sef.


So strategize, I must. Find new friends, I must too. Funmi and Busola are not doing me any good. As soon as I collect my Christmas and birthday gifts, I will ditch them for some new friends. I cannot be friends with people who cannot hook me up with eligible bachelors. *hiss* Wetin sef? Anyway speaking of my birthday, I hope y'll are preparing?? It's Jan 14th, baby!


And uhm, feel free to read up on my former breastlessness HERE

Wedgie Over Here, Wedgie Over There...

Wedgie everywhere....!!! All in favor of comfortable underwear, say "Aye!!"

When it comes to underwears, I usually have only two major criterias: comfortable & colorful. I need it comfortable because my butt cheeks are worth it, darn it!. They deserve to be clothed and adorned in only the most comforable piece of attire, something fit for royalty...in a Hanes package, of course. It has to be colorful because, well, even though my butt cheeks do not have seven colors of the rainbow making their debut on them, they (my butt cheeks) still have the right to feel the rainbow.

I occasionally wear T-strings. Not thongs o! T-strings r the very thin ones. Thongs r too thick, and for me, that is just too much material to be getting stuck between my butt cheeks. The T-strings r much more comfortable. You hardly feel them. But then, that's just me. That being said, I don't wear them everyday or every week. I don't think I even wear them every month. I only wear one when necessary. You know there are some outfits that just look better without panty lines abeg...like those extra tight skirts, yes? *wink, wink*

I used to wear "regular underwears" with bikini strings by their sides. I can't remember what they were called. I stopped wearing them because I couldn't find them anymore. Well, I found them, but just not the ones I liked. I switched to the sporty bikini ones. They have ropes by their sides too, but the ropes are thicker, and not quite as fascinating. They were just too.... errrr.

I recently switched to boy shorts. My people, that was where my trouble started oh. Those boy shorts are big enough to be confused as booty shorts. In fact, they are sometimes called booty shorts, but of course, I wouldn't wear them outside. I wouldn't even wear a booty short outside anyway, so whatever. But why did I switch to boy shorts? The ones I found were coloful, and they looked comfy. But as I later came to find out, those underwears were just fine for nothing. They succeeded in giving me a wedgie every time. Do you know how uncomfortable it is to have a wedgie from an underwear that is almost as big as a booty short? Do you know? Oh, the horror!! Several times, I found myself standing in public places and wiggling around like I had something crawling on me. They were never the kind of wedgies that I could discretely pull out. They were always the kinds I had to stand in a corner where no one was looking, put my hand in the back of my pants (trousers) and pull the darn underwear down. Sometimes, I even said, "Forget who is looking. I can't take this anymore!!" and yes, I dug in. It didn't matter where I was...Walmart...on the street, church, bank, Best Buy...whatever!! Desperate situationes call for desperate measures, right? All this suffering for the sake of wearing a colorful underwear???

This didn't happen like once or twice a day. It happened several times a day. The wedgies I got were just phenomenal. They could not be ignored. They were the wedgies from hell. Two weeks ago, I went out with my ever outspoken mom. I was wearing a tight khaki-colored capri, and I had a serious wedgie, as usual. Being @ a public place, I pretended it wasn't there. However...

Mom asked, "What kind of underwear are you wearing? I can see everything. It's giving you pafinga." So 'pafinga' is mom's word for wedgie. That was it! That did it! If mom who wears glasses and sometimes doesn't even recognize people could see that I had a chronic wedgie, then that meant that the rest of the world could see it too. So it was with a broken heart that I came to terms with the harsh reality of my love-hate affair: Boy shorts had to go!

I went shopping on Monday, and I am now the proud wearer of hipsters underwears. No wedgies. No pafinga. They sit on my hips, so they don't show when I bend over (which was another problem I had with the boy shorts. They were pretty, but I didn't care for everyone else to see them when I bent over). The hipsters underwears are pretty too. They're comfy. I have to admit that I am a bit psychologically bruised from having my butt cheeks hang out everywhere but inside the underwear they were intended to hang out in. Thank goodness for hipsters. I may need a Shrink to get over this one.

The real problem now is....what to do with all those boy shorts??? I really wish I had a husband. I would have put him to good use. My good ol' hubby woulda been modeling around for me in the boy shorts by now. He mighta even worn my heels and thrown on a pink scarf around his neck. Boy, I can't wait to be married. Sooooo many ideas!!