Now I feel really bad, I've been so selfish! I was going to spend the morning trying to rent a baby from a daycare center. You told me a woman couldn't resist a man toting a baby, so I plan to test that theory out on Sin. How much do those places charge to rent one for half a day? And am I expected to feed it before returning it? I guess I'll call around the local daycare centers and compare rates.

But before I do that I want to apologize to you. You scare me! You are successful, independent and awful smart. I don't think I am capable of having a two-way correspondence with you! What piece of wisdom can I possibly come up with that would add meaning to your life?! So I opted for a one-way conversation in an attempt to hide my imperfection. Believe it or not, I was glad to read you are on Prozac. That somehow makes you more real to me. More sexy! (Damn! When I write I could charm the pants off any babe; it's when I talk that I come off as a goober).

Well, this is our last correspondence so it'll be stupid to pretend to start a two-way conversation. I've gone back and reread all your e-mail. In any case, here is my two cents' worth. There is nothing wrong with being successful, and rich is a definite plus. But show more vulnerability. Nothing says sexy like the "I might be successful but I'm still not as smart as a man" attitude. We Ethiopian men like to know we are essential in a woman's life. So love and shower us with money. If you do we will never publicly cheat on you!

This has been fun,
Siraw

From:  Kokeb
To:      Siraw
Subj:   Parting is such sweet sorrow...

You'll be most happy to know that I am currently medicated. After my last verbal apoplexy (ugh! I still cringe at that), I put my personal assistant in charge of tracking my dosage hours and to make sure I pop them like clockwork. So far, so good.

But I have to confess, right after I read your message, I had to turn on the aroma therapy machine. You do get under my skin. I don't know what it is about you. I mean, you sound harmless enough. Okay, a neurosis or two, but nothing that a slew of sessions with a good therapist wouldn't cure. I swear by them, therapists, that is. (They do, after all, write my Prozac prescription.)

Rent a baby? Ha, ha, ha. You're joking, right? I'm sure one day you'll find one of those dork-immune women who will salivate all over you much like a hungry dog might, and you can take her home, marry her and produce your own rug-rats. Hmm, maybe that's not something I should recommend to you. Be that as it may, I'm sure she'll find you or you'll find her and you'll do the I do's and Que sera, sera...yadda, yadda, yadda...

Now I, on the other hand, do not plan on going through the labor of childbirth (pun fully intended). I would rather endure endless loops of State-of-the-Union speeches by Dan Quayle than put my body through that particular kind of renting at the seams. Imagine: you start out with a slow inflation, quickly followed by stretch marks, punctuated by inexplicable cravings for pickles dipped in vanilla ice cream, swelling of the feet, hands, face...you name it, all to culminate in a 35-hour labor to produce a slithering being that leeches onto your nipples right after they slap and suction it. Yuk! I'll adopt them, thank you - colic-free and toilet trained.

Many of the women I see come in for breast lifts (what gravity has started on, the ravages of childbirth finish). Okay, okay, I do my fair bit of augmentations (this is LA, after all), but it's the pre-lift cases that leave me hands clasped to breasts, thanking my maker that I have not allowed alleged biological imperatives to ruin my physique. As I've always said, children grow up and go away, but your breasts are here to stay. So, which do you think you should pamper?

Your parting bit of wisdom (the primary reason I had to turn to aromatherapy) has me reevaluating my value system. I mean, have I, in the happy,unchecked pursuit of money, money, money, missed out on something far more important: the esteem of Ethiopian men? To be frank with you (and let's face it, with you, I can't seem to be anything but!) I have dated the rainbow and I do sense that Ethiopian men somehow tend to find my ability to generate income (and so much of it, at that!) fairly daunting. None, until you, however, have found my Prozac addiction even remotely attractive. So, I figure, if my mate is to be Ethiopian, I'm going to meet him either on my way in to my therapy sessions or on my way out of my Yoga class. (I do seem to remember meeting one at a Houka house near me, but I had to write him off as he seemed reluctant or unable - neither prospect overly attractive - to lift his eyes above my collar bones.)

For the record, I have never claimed to be as smart as a man. Smarter, yes. But as smart? I have yet to come across this indeed rare animal.

Well, Siraw, I did enjoy our electronic tete-a-tete. It's not often I'm given the privilege of such a no-holds-barred discussion forum. Again, I wish you all the luck with Min and, as a parting gift to you, I say get rid of your hair-in-a-can. If any woman is going to love you, she's going to have to overlook much, much more than a paltry missing patch of hair on top of your head.