#can you tell my type is dark haired smart ambitious women

[venusaturns]

for @haticehurrem

[trivialqueen]

Chess

Here’s the next section of that original story. Still currently, and creatively called, Hospital Romance Drama. As always, I’m neither a doctor, nor British.  I’m just a girl who fancies herself a writer and likes slow burns, smart women, and tall men.

“Did you sanction this?” Ms. Hale didn’t knock when she entered his office, but the click-click of her heels had announced her.

“Knocking is common curtesy when entering another’s abode, is it not Ms. Hale?” He capped his pen without thinking about it. His muscle memory could tell she wasn’t going to be leaving his office any time soon.

“If you wanted people to knock you shouldn’t have left your door off the latch.” It’s not a hill he’s willing to die on. He can see she’s spoiling for a fight; it sparks in her dark eyes. They’re not blazing hellfire at him, for once, but they’re quick and sharp all the same. A bee in her bonnet for sure, and while he has a board meeting later today, he knows it would be worse than futile to try and rush her out of his office before she was ready to go. So instead he inclines his head, acquiescing to her point and waiting for her to get back to her original point.

“I’m told you’re getting rid of the – -- machines.” He didn’t have to wait long.

The DOS’s office was on the 4th floor, amidst a maze of corridors that led to conference rooms, HR, and the records department. She’d visited it several times during Charlotte’s tenure as Director of Surgery. She’d not been back since Magnusson took over. The bones were the same. Same double doors framed by wave patterned glass blocks that provided both privacy and a vague sense of who was outside the door. Across from the door was a wall of windows with a beautiful view of the car park, along the ledge which ran under the windows he had kept with Charlotte’s tradition of keeping plants. His looked markedly more alive than hers ever did. It was perhaps a terrifying or a very fitting fact that despite being a talented surgeon and a devoted mother she couldn’t keep a plant – even a cactus – alive for longer than a month. The walls were the same warm shade of ecru and the floors the same industrial beige Berber. Beyond that the room was completely different, as distinct as the two people. Charlotte’s office had been an eclectic mash of overstuffed seating and bohemian rugs, ornate lighting and a big vintage desk. Magnusson’s office was in a, predictable, curated Scandinavian design. He sat behind a sleek, teak L shaped desk, filing cabinets and bookshelves anchored on the wall behind him. At the other end of the narrow, rectangular office there was a small meeting table, in matching sleek, teak design and a very square, grey sofa. Tossed over the back of the seats was the only source of color, a blue ikat blanket, which looked delightfully soft. Even the pictures on the wall were in black and white. If the – -- weren’t on the line she might be tempted to take a closer look at the objects d’art around his office. The sculptures on his shelves, the photo sitting on his desk – the only non-practical item on the tidy worktop. But the – -- machines were, apparently, at stake. Short notice as well. Probably hoping to avoid protest. She thought bitterly, Jokes on you!

Hale paced in front of his desk, hands slashing through the air as she spoke – making a passionate case for two old CT machines the hospital board had decided were surplus. Only used a handful of times a year, tops, the space could be better utilized. Without them the south Harvey bay would be entirely open for new, hopefully more lucrative, or at least ambitious projects. He’d been apathetic about the idea before but seeing her agitation he was willing reconsider his position. Ms. Hale had good instincts, even if she also had a distaste for rules and a self-righteous streak wider than a football pitch.

“If you have strong opinions about those machines.” He cut off the third verse of her rant about what a mistake they were making. She stopped pacing and stared at him. “I have a board meeting in an hour. Write up a proposal for me to give them.”

“What?”

“Write a proposal for the board regarding the machines and I’ll present it to the board in,” he checked his watch, “fifty-five minutes.”

“It’s not a done deal? There’s a guy here to take the machines away now! He might have already taken them if he’d not hurt himself.”

“He what!?” Visions of lawsuits danced in his head. What happened? Why hadn’t he been informed?

“Not important.” She waved the question away. “He’s fine. You won’t let him take the machines?”

“Let is a strong word, he has his orders. The board had decided already. I am offering you a second chance.” She studied him eyes pinning him like a bug under glass. The spark was still there, as was a wariness as if she was deciding if she trusted him. He stared right back. For a long moment they just stared at one another. Then, she seemed to realize what she was doing, and her gaze dropped. He could see her cheeks flush before he looked elsewhere himself.

“How many copies do you need?” She asked, picking up one of the pawns from his chess set. Chess was one of his few hobbies. Playing against a computer was convenient, and challenging, but it felt so hollow clicking around on a screen. Even when he was playing the computer, he wanted to be able to see and move the pieces in the real world. The set had been a gift from his mother, the pieces carved from wood, based on the Lewis chessmen. The set was one of his most cherished possessions.  

“Hmm?”

“For the board, how many copies do I need to run you off for this proposal?”

“Seven.” She had forty-five minutes to pull this off. But at least she seemed to be willing to follow the procedures in this instance. He was almost tempted to ask if she was feeling well. He resisted. Just.

“well tempus volat, hora fugit.” She placed the piece back on the board.

“I’ll get you the proposal before you meet. Seven copies.”

“The meeting is in forty minutes.” She paused at the door, looking over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you in thirty-five then.” She smiled. “Thank you.” The door closed behind her with a soft click. It was the second time she’d smiled at him…

Felix, as a general rule, eschewed violence. However, in that moment he could happily throttle Sofia Grace. Things had been going so well. She’d gotten him her proposal five minutes before the meeting started, seven copies as he’d asked. There was only one type-o betraying the haste with which he’d written the document. Her prose had been clear, concise, and pitched toward her audience – emphasizing the PR/image those machines could generate since they were particularly effective in diagnosing issue with small, adorable children. Not that it mattered now.

Ms. Hale sat on the tailgate of the truck, as primly as if she was taking tea with the queen, except for the chains wrapped around her waist and the truck. Beside her, sitting as regally as if she was the queen was a striking older woman. Her hair the color of pure snow falling over her shoulders, wrapped in a lavender silk robe. She was, mercifully, not chained to the truck. Both were chatting amiably with Oliver Anderson, who for his part seemed to be trying and failing to coax the patient away from Ms. Hale.

“Come on, Colleen.” Anderson wheedled. “I really need you to come back to the ward with me.”

“And as your Doctor, I must insist.” She patted her knee, “Go with Dr. Anderson, darling. I’ve got it from here.”

“Do you? I know a thing or two about protests you know.” The woman preened. Across the parking she caught his eye.

“Oh, I know. And after you’re in recovery I’d like to hear all about it. But for now, please let Ollie take you to bed. My audience is here.” The woman was not subtle in how she looked at young Dr. Anderson.

“He’s got eyes like Fonda.” Ms. Hale’s gaze slid from his, slowly, turning to look at Anderson, her expression softening to a wry smile.

“Doesn’t he just.”

“Come on Vanessa Redgrave.” In the time that he had been at St. Sebastian’s Felix had been rather underwhelmed by the young foundation doctor’s medical skills, but he was exceedingly popular with the patients. And his eyes really were almost an unnatural shade of blue. The old patient turned from Anderson and took Hale’s hand.

“You call if you need me, dear.”

“I was about to put your proposal to the board when I was called down here.” Magnusson crossed the parking, one hand in his pocket. He ambled over to her; his tone conversational. He might have been chatting with her about the recent Bundesliga game. It was an impressive performance considering the grinding of his jaw and the flint in his eyes. He was so angry he was calm. When she was angry, she knew she burned hot. Could taste the blood in the back of her throat, felt her hands shake, her stomach swoop. It felt like rage crackled from her fingertips. His fury was not fire. It was all ice.

“Circumstances changed.”

“I’ll say. You’ve hardly furthered your cause with this stunt.” He crossed his arms over his chest. At a glance it seemed passively displeased but standing next to her she could see the way his fingers dug into his arms, the wrinkles in his suit jacket under his nails.

“Other options weren’t producing necessary results.”

“So, you chained yourself to the truck?!”

“It got attention, didn’t it?”

“Do you ever think ahead? Or even care about your reputation?” He looked down his straight nose with an imperious eye. God Almighty he could be condescending.

I don’t give a damn about my bad reputation! Joan Jett immediately got stuck in her head.

“Compared to what’s at stake, not really.”

“Perhaps you should, considering this is the definition of insubordination and gross misconduct. You could be fired.” There was a hardness in his eyes as he stared down at her.

Fired.

It was admittedly not an ideal situation. And yet it did not scare her like it might have. Not anymore. There were worse things in this world.

It was steely determination, rather than incandescent rage, that shown out of those coffee brown eyes. It was in contrast to her wry smile which twisted across her cayenne colored lips without any humor. She patted the tailgate next to her, and he felt compelled to take the seat.

“I died once; you know.” She said softly. He recalled that from her file. More than once if one counted both the episode in the ambulance, her flatlining on the table during surgery, and an incident with a shard of glass after her initial procedure. There was a sadness around the edges of her gaze, in the undercurrent of her voice. And despite sitting on the filthy tailgate of a truck in the loading bay of the hospital the moment felt intimate.

“After being good and quiet and rule following my entire life.” She continued. “And I died. I got better and since then all I can think is like, what’s the worst that can happen when you’ve already died once? What can you do to me? Fire me? By the grace of God and these hands, I’ve got savings, I’ve got skills, I’ve got a support system. I can find another job. I got second chance and I’m not going to waste it being ‘good’ when I can spend it saving lives. Go ahead, fire me over this. I don’t think I’m wrong though. These machines are worth saving.”

Well then.

“And I almost had, without any of this fanfare. If you’d just waited.” The proposal she had written had been a good one, and it was late enough in the meeting that most of the members cared about calling it a day. Twenty minutes and the machines would have been free and clear. It was almost as if she didn’t want the process to work.

“Circumstances changed.”

“What? What circumstances?” He looked around, the machines weren’t even on the truck yet and as far as he could tell the only people around were drawn by her protest. There was no maintenance men around, no laborers hauling away the machines yet. Nothing. She opened her mouth to speak.

“No.” He cut her off. “I was in the middle of presenting your proposal. The middle. If you waited ten minutes this would have been taken care of. What circumstances changed? I see no change. Those machines aren’t out here. No one is out here except the people this stunt has attracted. It’s like you don’t want this to work.”

“Of course I want this to work! I want to save those machines!” He hopped up from the gate. He wanted to throttle her. Rather than wrap his hands around her lovely throat he ran a hand through his hair.

“You. You want to save those machines. Be the martyr. Be the savior. And you won’t let anyone take that from you. Even if someone else can help. If someone else could have succeeded.” It was possible for someone to look more insulted than Sofia Grace did in that moment, but only just. The hot, spice of her anger rolled off of her in a wave. Her eyes blazed.

“How dare you!” She was incandescently angry. It was terrifying. Beautiful. And he found that he didn’t care.

“Why didn’t you trust me?” His voice was so low she almost didn’t hear him over the rush of blood in her ears. FLACHWICHSER! He stood over her, back ramrod straight, his jaw clenched, teeth visibly grinding.

“Why didn’t you trust me to take care of this. I told you I would. I was literally in the meeting doing this work when you stepped in with this self-righteous grandstanding.” He didn’t raise his voice. The accusation landed as heavy as a slap.

“Because to you these machines are just numbers on a balance sheet. Dead space clogging up one of the bays.”

“Really.” He crossed his arms, suit jacket wrinkling under his fingers, the white knuckles the only thing betraying his state of mind.

“But to me I see children with heart problems, a chance to make a difference in a family’s life.” Her throat felt raw; tears were threatening. Sofia Grace hated the fact that she was an easy crier. Any strong emotion could send her into tears – anger, pain, joy, sadness. It completely undermined her, and she could never stop it once it started.

“Do you have any evidence for this allegation?” He challenged. “Is it because you believe that you have a monopoly on compassion, or do you truly think that I can’t feel?”

Had she not been so far gone, in a berserker rage, she would have better noted his tone. Hurt. However, she was gone. So gone there was white around the edges of her vision.

“If you cared about these machines, you’d not have let it come to his in the first place!”

His nostrils flared and the grinding of his jaw became more pronounced.

“I am but one man on a seven-member board that is ruled by majority vote.”

“SG! SG!” Oliver Anderson’s voice was like a bucket of cold water on his anger. “It’s Colleen!” The junior doctor came skittering to a stop, nearly bowling him over.

“Sheiße!”

“Helvetes jävla fanskap!” Ms. Hale had chained herself to the truck and tossed the padlock key toward the dumpster. Maintenance might have bolt cutters, but it was a gamble on if finding the key (provided she hadn’t actually hit the dumpster) or finding the cutters would be the faster solution. “Fan out, we have to find that key!” All of his rage, his displeasure, the coil at the base of his spine disappeared and was replaced by clear purpose. “Do you ever think ahead?” He snapped. Alright, perhaps not all of his anger had dissipated. But really, what was she thinking? She was a CT consultant, on duty and just decided to not only chain herself to a truck in an act of pious protest, but also throw away the only key!

“Hang on, hang on.” She snapped back, scooting to the edge of the tailgate, her hands tugging at the chain around her slim waist.

“What are you doing?” It was strange and uncomfortable looking as she slithered inch by inch down from her seat. The chain moving up her body inch by inch, bringing her claret colored blouse further up her abdomen. He didn’t want to stare but he couldn’t look away as more and more of her smooth, pale stomach came into view. The scar was long, bisecting her down a center line, almost perfectly, save for the slight jog it took around her navel. It was nearly twenty years old, healed and faded from the once angry, jagged line it had been but still pinker than her natural skin tone and slightly puckered. It continued down below the waistband of her slacks and up into her chest (not that it was visible yet, the shirt was bunched under her breasts as she kept wiggling through the loop). The upper half of the open surgery scar was slightly more faded, almost impossible to discern from her cleavage if she wore a blouse that revealed any (not that he’d ever admit to looking).

“Just a second.” She grunted, flattening her own breasts until the chain slipped over them, which it did eventually. She raised her arms above her head and finished slipping through. She found herself free of her chains, on her hands and knees in the car park. She quickly popped up, straightening her blouse and dusting her hands, her cayenne colored smile cocky and broad.

“I am not as dumb as I look!” She said brightly before rushing toward the door.

“Ms. Hale, my office as soon as!” He called. She acknowledged him with a wave of her hand and disappeared into the hospital.

“What should we do with this?” At his elbow the junkman appeared, hobbling on crutches, answering that question more than Dr. Hale did.

“Hold off, plans have changed.” The board hadn’t formally voted, but enough members had told him they didn’t care what he did with the machines if it mattered so much.

Three decisive knocks took his attention from the file he was only half-heartedly reading. It was past the hour people generally headed home for the day, but he had never been most people. More than that, he and Ms. Hale had a conversation they needed to have and she only now had gotten out of surgery.

Word on the ward was that it had not gone well.

Ms. Hale did not sweep in has she had before, proud and pugnacious. She was tired, faded. She’d dressed after surgery, but not reapplied her lipstick. He could not think of a better metaphor for how she looked than that faded cayenne.

“She had been a long-term patient of yours I’m told.” And quite the character too by all accounts. Sofia Grace ran a hand through her curls.

“Yes.”

“Your proposal passed, with amendment. We will keep the equipment but move it out of the bay and downstairs with the less frequently used machines.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a small nod before turning her attention to his chessboard once again, slim fingers brushing over the pieces. “I was out of line today. I’m sorry.” The apology was so unexpected he wouldn’t even complain about the way her eyes failed to meet his. Or even look at him.

“Yes. You were.”

“I should have trusted your word when you said you were bringing the matter to the board. I certainly jumped the gun in the most dramatic way possible.” He couldn’t help the dark chuckle. That was putting it mildly. “More than that, I crossed a line. I should have never even remotely suggested that I have a monopoly on compassion or that you do not care for your patients or the wellbeing of the hospital more broadly. And for that I am sorry.”

He was not expecting that.

Apologies were not natural for him. He did not give them easily nor did he know how to accept them.

“Yes, well.” Awkwardly he cleared his throat. “If you are going to continue to work here, Ms. Hale, you’re going to have to learn to trust me.  I am not the enemy.”

“I guess we shall see then.” She picked up a white knight from the board, turning the piece over and over in her fingers. It was not the response he expected.

“See what?”

“If I’m still working here for one.” She raised her eyes to his, slowly. “If I’ll trust you. If you’re not the enemy.”

“Everything I have done and everything I will do is for the good of this hospital.” Her dark eyes twinkled at him.

“You certainly believe that.”

“I do.” He replied firmly. “Have some faith in me, Ms. Hale, if only a little.”

“I will try.” She said firmly and then placed the knight back on the chessboard, not in its original place but out into the field. “It’s your move.”

[we-pay-for-everything]

Okay, so, I was tagged by @mrsgordo84 and later by @buffy-angel-and-co (who reminded me I had been tagged in the first place) to name 10 favorite female characters from 10 different fandoms! Thank you for remembering me!

Okay, so the first 5 are part of what I call my “fictional girl squad” because I don’t have an actual rl girl squad :( They are basically characters that I fucking admire or want to be like. 

1. Lara Croft (Tomb Raider games - not the fucking awful movies or even the comics I never read but think exist).

So, Lara means a lot to me. I grew up with her because my dad has been playing TR since the first game came out when I was born. I used to make my Barbies be archaeologists because Lara is one. 

Lara’s physical appearance might be catered to the male gaze but the writers really respect her as a person. Regardless of how good or so so the games are, Lara is always such a fucking hero. She’s intelligent, dedicates her life to the pursuit of knowledge, to the separation of myth and reality, to following her dad’s footsteps and honoring his work. She’s always the smartest, most knowledgeable person is the room. And that never happens with women. No matter how smart the heroin is there’s always the guy she goes to for advice or who is wiser: the Giles to Buffy, the Dumbledore to Hermione, etc. And although Lara had some brainy dudes and even a couple of mentors, she was always the smartest one to me. Particularly in the games after PS1. Lara can speak almost any language (dead or not), she’s daring, an explorer, ambitious, determined to the point of ruthlessness, warm, moral, brave, isolated, sad, traumatized (by her parents’ deaths). She’s essentially everything men are allowed to be except she’s a woman and she’s always been like a friend and a role model. I love her so much. I also adore how she doesn’t have love interests and how her love or sex life is a non issue - no one cares. 

2. Trinity (The Matrix)

I’ve said before that Trinity is probably the reason I love black leather, but it’s so much more than that. Trinity is, in many ways, the badass sidekick/love interest, but she’s written and played with such integrity and respect that it doesn’t even bother me. She first appears as Morpheus’s favorite, as one of FBI’s most wanted. She finds herself in a tight position and gets out of it alone. She’s intelligent, resourceful, patient, caring, loyal, trusting and trustworthy. She also becomes a loving partner but maintains always her own beliefs (like when she tells Neo he can go to hell if he doesn’t want her to help him get Morpheus back). Trinity, like Lara, is someone I want to be. Mature, strong, kind. 

3. Carrie Hopewell (Banshee) 

Banshee is like a show most people don’t know and it’s one of the reasons why I love it so much. It’s intimate, loving something most people don’t love. I watched two seasons of Banshee while they were airing (which always makes me fonder of a show that I already like) and I bonded with the characters. Carrie is like this beautiful badass woman. She wears black jeans, a black tank top and black boots. She wears smoky, dark eye shadow. She’s the type of woman I want to be and look like. There was obviously an attraction there. She’s not particularly moral, she’s the clichéd daughter of an Ukrainian mob boss, but the more I think about her, the more I like her.

Carrie is a fake persona created when Carrie’s boyfriend went to prison because the two of them betrayed Carrie’s father (the mob guy). Carrie was pregnant and needed a place to hide, so she found Banshee (the typical small town with a dangerous story). She had a good life becoming the perfect women society forces us to be: a mom of two, perfect wife to the town’s prosecutor, arm candy when she needs to be, owns a family house, has an easy, respectable job. And it’s not like she didn’t like being a mom or a wife but she chose it because she had no choice and because it was easy and convenient. It’s difficult to juggle all of these things and when the ex returns, he brings back memories of the life she used to have and was born in to. She used to be Anna, an expert safe cracker (the task she performed during robberies), driver of the getaway car, rule breaker, dutiful daughter. Carrie finds an escape from her perfect life in Anna. She makes a living doing something she’s good at and loves (crime) and indulges in the lack of perfection and rebellion offered by that side of her. No one can be perfect all the time and trying to achieve this normalcy and perfection often leads people to search for less than healthy outlets. I relate to this and also sympathize with Carrie’s identity issues and struggle to be a good mom and wife. 

4. Lilah Morgan (Angel the Series)

It’s hard not to love Lilah. Intelligent, ambitious, confident, glamorous, witty. She’s the perfect femme fatale. She finds freedom in the fact that she knows she’s not a good person and doesn’t care. She’s not hypocritical or confused. She’s genuine and sincere even in her manipulations. Yet, she can also reveal a tender side. She’s full of bravado and sadness - again, the perfect femme fatale, but she lives her life unapologetic and unafraid which is more than I can say about myself and almost everyone. 

5. Nymphadora Tonks (Harry Potter)

She’s my latest addition to the squad. Tonks is this delightful, vibrant girl. Her favorite hair color is bubblegum pink. She can change her body at will but she’s confident enough to only change her hair! She’s brave, a rebel (part of the Order), patient, kind, hard working (she’s a Hufflepuff). She found joy in the middle of a war. She married and had a baby - and she was so excited about both of those things. She wanted to stay at home during the Hogwarts Battle but her love for Remus and her responsibility as an Auror and a member of the Order got in the way. She treated everyone like a friend and died a hero... *sobs*

Non squad members (without lengthy descriptions) are as follows:

6. Faith Lehane (Buffy the Vampire Slayer) 

7. Paris Gellar (Gilmore Girls)

8. Lucille Bluth (Arrested Development)

9. Gina Linetti (Brooklyn Nine-Nine)

10. Rebecca Bunch (Crazy Ex-Girlfriend) 

I’m sorry for the lengthy reasoning. I tag whoever wants to answer! 

[mcmgblogs-blog]

The Mindset of a Materialistic and Realistic

"Brainless" Diva Doesn't Comprehend the Magnitude of  Unwarranted Assertion.

Daphne is Far from Being Romantic

The Kamer Diva is a talent no doubt, but when it comes to brains or making use of one in public she is a charade. The "diva" recently had an interview with team237mag. She didn't only reveal the qualities of her ideal man, she revealed a cross section of her mindset and personality; the real Daphne—not the loving and romantic Daphne in Calee. Before I delve further into revealing her personality and mindset based on her choice of words during the interview, we will like to define these three types of women: Materialistic, Romantic and Realistic. To all my ladies and wannabe diva(s), which are you? If you don't know the difference, don't worry we got you! Materialistic Woman: Guys, if you aren't well loaded, do not go for a materialistic woman! A materialistic woman is simply all about the human hair, the bling, the latest and trending fashion and designer wears. She needs to change her eyelashes, synthetic nails on a weekly basis, she never repeats a dress to a date—you got to buy her a new dress per dating session—in fact, she's all about the materials which is the complicated name or word for money. There's little or no difference between a prostitute and a materialistic woman. They always dream of finding super rich, but stupid men, they do not care if the guy is married, single, a teen, old—I mean really old—they also don't care if the guy got six packs, a cute face, all they care about is the size of his wallet and his spending power. Fellas, avoid Materialistic women, unless it's a give and take relationship, never take her seriously as she will quickly jump into the embrace of the next big Mugu money spender. : :evil: Romantic Woman: The best kind of woman out there! For a romantic woman, it's all about her prince charming, she's parallel to a materialistic woman. Romantic women care more about the personality of their princes and not their wallets. Very simple things take them to the moon and bring them back to earth. All you need to do to win a romantic woman over is: drop love notes in the kitchen, bathroom, under her pillow etc..., Pluck some natural roses for her, treat her to a candle light dinner, take her out on a simple date and don't spend all you got to impress her because if she wasn't already impressed, she wouldn't be with you in the first place. When you find this kind of woman, my brother hollam tight, she's gold! The only problem with Romantic women is that unromantic men will find them boring, abuse them and leave them heartbroken. These type of women are all about love—they are always by their guys when things are tough: no decent house to live in, no food, they sometimes steal from their parents to make their guys happy. The ones that are rich enough do not mind ending up with a poor man in as much as he touches her heart. These are the type of women who always say "love is blind", "love makes you stupid". When a romantic woman meets a romantic guy, the combination is a bomb, 'cause none takes the other for granted. Thank goodness after having passed through the hands of materialistic and realistic women, I now have my Romantic Woman. :lol:  Realistic Woman: A realistic woman is neither a Romantic woman nor a materialistic woman, she never agrees with her friends who are romantic and materialistic. A realistic woman knows money can't buy her happiness and at the same time, she has at the back of her mind that love can't put food on the table—she's always in for a balance—you must be at the same level with her, not more than her and not below her. If she pays the bills this month, she expects her guy to be able to pay the bills for the subsequent month. You take a realistic woman out for a date and you pay for the food, she will definitely pay for the drinks and vice versa. A realistic woman will never date a mugu money spender like a materialistic woman, not even for a second, but they can tolerate romantic and loving guy in as much as he is hard working and smart, but unlike Romantic women who get stuck irrespective of the guys status, a realistic woman will leave him the moment she finds out he is doing nothing to change the status quo. The problem with realistic women is that: they are of double standards, the moment the guy makes more money, more fame and popularity, they start feeling inferior and because they are for an equilibrium, they call they relationship quit at such points. Some materialistic women do change after some point in their lives when they meet with guys that can format their mindsets and install a brand new program known as "Love". We have established the difference between these 3 types of women, now let's get to Daphne's interview, using her own words to decipher her real personality and mindset. She's the 4th type of woman and the worst type; for any man! Below is an excerpt of her interview with Team235mag, key points are highlighted in red:  “Well from my encounter, I know Cameroonian guys are really smart and cute in their own way but the bad thing I hate about Cameroonian guys is that they are very unromantic.” For the must have qualities, her dream man should possess the following; 1) He must be super smart. 2) He must be very ambitious, though I like the money part but to me the money comes with your level of ambition and intelligence as well as smartness. So you could actually start from nothing to something. I don’t want starters (giggles.) 3) He has to be God fearing. 4) He has to be very romantic. 5) He has to be well spoken, like that’s what I love the most. A guy with good diction. Adding that he should have a dark skin tone, Daphne is yet to meet that guy who possesses all the above qualities. So is there any 237 celebrity that can steal her heart and make her “calee”? Most 237 artists are really good looking though I’m not sure if whether or not they possess the 5 qualities I talked about considering I haven’t gotten that close with them. But for Numerica (laughs) he is dark, not really my major 5 though but he used to be Says Daphne. Don’t go thinking that is her celebrity crush just yet, although there have been rumors about the diva and him, she denies ever being romantically involved with Numerica. Rather, the ‘Calee’ diva revealed she used to have a huge crush on singer Ambe back when he dropped his single ‘stole my heart away’ while she was in lower sixths, way before she imagined they would meet and even do a music collabo together. A woman who is both Materialistic and Realistic, uses men as bridges laid right in front of her to cross to the other side. How many Cameroonian men could Daphne have met to make such generalised statement? She doesn't want starters, which implies despite a guy's ambition and focus, Daphne being partly a Realistic woman will never date him. She said, "Though I like the money part"—she loves money and this explains why she's partly Materialistic. why did I say women who are partly Realistic and partly Materialistic are the worst type of women to date? Daphne had a huge crush on Ambe when she could not fathom being a star, now she's a star even bigger than Ambe, but she will never date him eventhough Ambe can be a better friend. Numerica is dark and used to meet her top 5 qualities she expects from her ideal man, but right now he does not!!! :evil:  Qualities don't change, but our realistic and materialistic Daphne easily sets new priorities and objectives for herself and perhaps after the Collabo with Numerica—again, he was used as a bridge. Salatiel is dark, super ambitious and meets almost all the qualities although I doubt if he is God fearing, hahaha :lol: . Mr Salatiel Produced Calee thinking Daphnee would calee with him, but he's wrong! With his wit and mastering of French Cameroun market, Calee is topping charts in Africa, obviously, it will open and pave new ways for Daphne—again a realistic and materialistic woman who will pull the bridge once she crosses to the other side. Maybe Daphne will like to tell us how unromantic Heissend Achu was; the guy with whom she walked from UB junction into the studio, the guy who stood by her when she wasn't a star. The dark guy, ambitious Heissend who got good diction and also God fearing. Heissend was with Daphne all through and even featured in a few of her work including "Rastafari", but was subsided along the way when Miss Realistic and Materialistic shoulders' grew bigger than his.

A diva is a female version of a hustler. Talent is a stepping stone and to achieve success, every diva must understand the rules of the game. My guess is that our diva understood this principle along the line of duty and decided to set high standards for herself in a bit to kickout all the low class dudes who have been there for her. If such generalization is to be made about how unromantic almost 10 Million men are in Cameroon, then imagine how much she has fucked her way through the crowd in order to put forth such a statistical fallacy. Except otherwise stated; maybe her educational background is half-baked or she's just 'brainless' not to comprehend the magnitude of her unwarranted assertion. In any case, she did same things to get certificates as well. Daphne is a talented Artist, but as a materialistic woman, she has fucked her way into fame—as a realistic woman she will not date guys who are below her. Her Journey continues! Let's watch and see! Visit our forums: www.meetcameroonians.com    Click to Post