Saturday, April 26, 2008

Klote haarkapper

Goddamn useless woman.

I went to the hairdresser today. This is always a bold move, because it means going to someone who has not earned my trust - and then allowing them full power over my fragile hair's self-esteem. Mills does not understand this. To men, a hairdresser is a hairdresser is a hairdresser. To woman a hairdresser is selected carefully, generally by process of trial-and-error elimination. They can make or break you emotionally. My beloved hairdresser is unfortunately in South Africa, and I can't afford the flight home for her to restyle my hair every three months.

Anyway, it had to be done so I went an booked an appointment. Awesome. They led me to a chair in front of the mirror. What do you want done, the young blonde kapper asked me. Just a trim and a thin, I replied - not wanting to allow room for too much drastic change.

She loosened my hair, picked up the scissors and seemed ready to chop.

Um, aren't you going to wash it first..? I quickly enquired.
Oh - do you want it washed too? She asked wide-eyed.

I don't know, is it just me, or is the wetting of the hair not standard before cutting it? I thought it was. Anyway, after the brusquest of washes (She even asked if I wanted conditioner too... yes, I want fucking conditioner... where the heck did you learn your trade? Are you kidding me? Needless to say, there was no gentle scalp massage included), I was back in the chair in front of the mirror.

She was clearly struggling with my thick curly locks. I know this because a) I could see it and b) she told me so a few times.

Very thick hair... very, very thick hair...
Yes, I know, I'm fairly accustomed to it; it growing on my head on a daily basis and all.

By this stage, I was damn sure she was going to do nothing to my hair but cut the dead-ends off and dry it straight. Not much room for error there. Even this turned out to be a mistake. First she had to clarify if I wanted it dried with a hairdryer and a hairbrush, or just with a towel and her blessed hands.

Are a towel and your hands likely to get my hair straight? No. Then I'll go for option A, please dearie.

The woman insisted that my hair was too thick to blow dry straight. This is crap because other hairdressers in the past have managed... and on much tighter curls than my own. Blondie (with her limp, thin hair) should be made to do community service in an African hair salon. Then she'd know all about challenging hair.

She tried to convince me that she should curl instead of trying to straighten. I figured I'd give her a break and agreed. Mistake number 2. Her attempt at curling my CURLY hair turned it into a cross between Medusa and an ambitious rabbi (minus the beard), with ringlets snaking out of control at 90 degrees from each other.


Now will you please blowdry my hair, possibly professionally, but if you can't manage that, at least just calm it down to below hurricane-inflicted, which is how it looks at the moment.

So, she did half a job and I left the salon with my hair half-wet, having had enough of her incompetent attempts. At least she only charged me half-price for doing more to stuff up my hair than repair it.

I stomped home, got out my brush and hairdryer and wouldn't you know it... straightened my hair.

To my true hairdresser back home, who also has curly "unstraightenable" hair (which she surprisingly can get perfectly straight)... I miss you!

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Lesson learnt today:

Never tell a pregnant woman that she's "packing extra weight".

Even if it is funny (which I still maintain it was), expect staplers to fly in your general direction.
ps. I don't know what's with the stupid cartoon obsession at the moment. Bear with me, I think it's just a phase and I'm hoping to grow out of it soon.

Monday, April 21, 2008


I feel rejuvenated. Yesterday, I spent the majority of my afternoon just lying in the sun. Yes. The Sun.

And it was WARM.

Apparently, it was 16, maybe 17 degrees, and I celebrated by getting out a summer dress and lying in the sun on our balcony. The irony is not lost on me. Back home, if the forecast was 16 degrees, I wouldn't have gotten out of bed - other than to refill my hot water bottle.

Yesterday was the first time that the thermometre has gone past 11 degrees this year, and they've predicted similar temps for the week. I feel like a solar panel - recharged.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Look, don't touch.

Hello? Can I have a great big, WTF?

I can't stop thinking about this story, which was brought to my attention via

A six-year-old gets hauled before the police because he smacked a female classmate on the butt. Said six-year-old now has sexual offender branded across his school (criminal) record. Een beetje overdreven, toch? Is this indicative of a school that has lost touch of reality, or are the school officials completely powerless to do any disciplining without justifying it by courts and cops?

Flashback to Koekie in Grade One... [vision goes wishy-washy and magical harp music indicates change of scene]

Shaun Cotton (or something) was my crush back then. He had everything a girl dreamed of - pisspot hairstyle and a full set of milk teeth. I was his crush. We were a hot item.

One day, during our much-needed playbreak, Shaun tried to convince me to go behind the bushes with him.

Why? I demanded, although I had a fairly good idea.
Um, because I want to tell you a secret, he replied - with the decency to look sheepish.
So? Tell me the secret here, I challenged. We were sitting on top of the jungle gym, no one was paying us attention.
Um, okay.. Maybe I want to give you a kiss, he admitted.
I gave him a skeef look, justly deserved. Nah, I don't want one, thanks.

Shortly after that that Shaun and I lost interest in each other's attentions. Maybe it was because I didn't put out. Maybe my attention span didn't last past art class. The point is that I survived this attempt at sexual harrassment, and I'm hoping that Shaun didn't go on to be a sexual predator (well, no more so than any other hormonal 18-year-old).

[Wishy vision and harp music]
And we're back.

I wonder what would've changed if I had taken young Shaun up on his suggestion. I am 99.99% sure he had nothing more risky in mind than a peck on the lips. It was almost 10 years later before I finally gave in to my first 'real' kiss (god, it was disgusting... what is the point of all that tongue and slobber? Urgh. So unnecessarily messy). And I did 'give in' to find out what the big deal was about smooching/snogging/pulling. I really didn't think I was missing out on anything, and I still maintain I was right... especially at that stage. But, if I had acquiesced to Shaun's early advances, would I have put out sooner in my highschool years? Somehow I doubt it.

I'm losing track here. My point (I think there's one somewhere), is that Shaun's request sounds far more calculated than poor aptly-named Randy from Virginia. If he had smacked his classmate on the arm, he might have been suspended for aggression. And I doubt that Shaun (or I) grew up any worse for wear from our overtly sexual conversation on top of the jungle gym all those years ago.

If (IF!) I did have children, would I be forced to place them in schools where they are not allowed to touch other kids, for fear of legal/criminal reprisals. Not allowed to share the same facilities, utensils or breathing space, for fear of contaminating each other with their icky kiddie germs? I thought the point of school was to teach children social skills. What are they learning now? Besides how to waste police resources.

The same article mentions a four-year-old in Texas who has a similar record to Randy... except this toddler harrassed a grown woman, by pressing his face into the bosom of the lady (carer/teacher?) who was carrying him at the time.

I thought this counted as 'seeking physical contact' or 'snuggling', but apparently the 37-year-old carrying him called it sexual harrassment. I just hope this school official has the decency (if she has any left) to squirm when she explains that she was the victim of sexual abuse... from a four-year-old.

How empowering, for a toddler who probably still sucks his thumb.
And how embarrassing for the woman who picked him up, unwittingly play straight into his evil mastery.

What... the... Fuck?

Friday, April 11, 2008

I'd make my mom proud

This is what a pot should look like...

This is what a pot looks like, after I have gotten hold of it...

Last night, I invited friends around for dinner, which I catered for with great care. I didn't break anything. I didn't spill a drop of red wine on anything (although there were very close calls). I did, however, manage to put an end to pot that has belonged to Mills since the days of Rhodes-long-gone.

Short story: steamed veggies, too much talking, not enough water. Cracking pot, lots of steam (okay, maybe slight traces of smoke), cries of awe and shock and wonder at my cooking prowess from the guests. A pat on the back from my boyfriend, congratulating me on never letting him down.

My cooking extravaganza was slightly interrupted by NC putting her foot in her mouth spectacularly, with a rant about "those anal policemen wankers" (I paraphrase). I quickly stepped in before she could go further.

"Um, NC... I know you've only just met the man sitting to your left, but can I take this opportunity to point out that he is a policeman by profession? Just thought I'd throw that out there."

That was a good icebreaker - followed shortly by my pyrotechnics. I like to keep my dinners interactive.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

My opinion R better than urs

On a daily basis I read a number of online columns, mostly on news websites or at least current affairs websites. And every single day I get worked up - sometimes with the original piece, but most times with the idiots responding in the comments section.

Every day there is at least one column of comments ranting about how some 'reporter/journalist' has gotten the facts wrong or hasn't done enough research into the art of knitting farmyard animals (to pick a randomly obscure subject). To be honest, the topic usually holds more gravity, such as nationality, race or gender issues, but it's not the subject matter that irks me. It's the response that crawls under my eyeballs and straight into my bloodstream...

"I dont no how u can cal urself an reporter when u dont evn get the fact strate u r so biassed"

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating the spelling/grammar pet peeve (not really, more on that later), but please can we get one thing straight - columns and editorials are NOT news, they are not factual, they are often not even an attempt at The Truth. They are opinion-pieces and are meant to be one-sided. They are the point of view of one, very subjective and, yes... opinionated person.

So the piece that chick wrote, on how she feels about affirmative action, is indeed biased. It's a column and it's her opinion. Just the same as that guy who wrote that he would never like to live in America. His column is not the result of an extensive research project. His column might as well be based on the fact that he doesn't like prime-time viewing. That's the point. You don't have to agree with it, and the editors actually prefer that you don't. By all means, argue your own case, but please don't waste time focusing all your coordination on typing an angry (illiterate) comment pointing out the fact that he has written his opinion. Assume it is so.

Right, now that we've cleared up the difference between 'news article' and 'opinion piece' (and without even beginning to delve into the issues of why there can never be just one journalistic truth. Why do you think there is a conspiracy theory to counter every history textbook? Where was I going with this... time to end parenthesis), and we're back... now that we've cleared up that definition, let's focus a bit on the comments themselves.

First, if you publish a column on a public forum with commenting facilities, you open yourself up to the deluge of responses. Fair enough. Similarly, if you comment on such a public forum, you have to accept that people are probably going to respond to your comment. Especially if it is idiotic and ill-written. And those are generally the most aggressive responses, also generally the ones that miss the point of the article in the first place.

Someone who writes a column about how apartheid affected their life, is not necessarily racist. And writing about crime does not make someone pro-Australia (hey, I said not necessarily. And besides, that's just MY opinion). But badly-spelt comments that instruct the author to, 'just go die in a pool of blud,' and such-like are really not adding much to the debate, are they?

Okay, I can't base this rant on anything substantial. It's just something that I've noticed time and time again during my quiet reading time and it really gets my blood up. One day, when I'm president, I'm going to institute these laws:

1) Eligibility to vote will be determined by an IQ test.
2) Eligibility to breed will be determined by a similar test, and probably subject to license.

It's a long shot, but I'm hoping this would eventually result in intelligent posting on comment forums.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Conflicting messages

This morning I got up and blearily turned on the TV. It was 6:55am and the channel was still on RTL5, one of the local senders. The visuals showed naked ladies with naked boobies, and a number enticing any early-morning commuters to give them ladies a ding before hopping on their bikes to work.

I'm still only really used to seeing that kind of content after midnight, (on e-tv at The Colony on a Saturday), but jawellnofine. We're in the Netherlands. Land of the liberal and all and all.

Then I listened to the audio track running over the nekkid noombies. A squeaky voice was asking viewers to call in if they wanted to buy 'this' Disney toy.

I trust this was a broadcast mistake, because appealing to pester-power is more in line with 7am midweek TV viewing. But showing nip-nips while appealing to the ears of hyperactive 5-year-olds? That's a bit weird, even for the cloggies.

Sunday, April 06, 2008

Define normal

First she was she, then she decided to be a he, but kept the she-bits in case she wanted to use them in the future.

So now she's a he, with a uterus, no boobs and a beard.
And he's having a baby.

Pregnant man hails 'miracle'

First, how can the pregancy be normal? The wo/man has been pumping her/himself full of testosterone - to aid facial hair development and pectoral regression. How is the child going to turn out? Besides possibly amazonian.

Pregnancy surviving, how is the child going to turn out on the playing ground? Your dad gave birth to you... are you kidding?

What chance does the kid actually have?

Thursday, April 03, 2008

The whole truth and nothing but the truth

In the spirit of DBAWIW's recent post (and the spirit of a bottle of wine), I've decided to spake in truth...

1) I'm not meeting my targets at work. This is frustrating the crap out of me. It's my first commercial role, and I'm not used to underachieving. I think I made my target this quarter, but only just.
2) I hate anything to do with finances. I hate doing tax. Especially when I have to do tax in Dutch. Which is why I'm ignoring it, hoping it'll get done while I'm not looking.
3) I've had a bottle of wine and I'm a lightweight these days.
4) My hockey team sucks at the moment. Not just the team, the team mates. There's a whole lot of internal bitching and no gezelligheid. It's the first time where I've been contemplating not playing for the rest of the season.
5) My stomach is flabby and my butt sags. It's not fat, but it's just not 18 anymore. That realisation sucks.
6) Despite this, I'm still hot.
7) Pregnancy repulses me. I think there is something wrong with me, because I look at pregnant women, including my own beloved friends, and I feel repulsed at the distorted stomach. Look at what that 'thing' is doing to your body. URGH... *Shudder*. I don't think my reaction is normal for a 26-year-old woman.
8) Sometimes I do fantasise about 'my' wedding. But only one aspect - not about the venue, the dress or the flower arrangements... instead I choreograph the opening dance... then I feel silly and give myself a swift slap.
9) I adore my boyfriend for putting up with my bag full of psychosises... psychoses... bag full of crazy.
10) I just burped. Twice.

Wednesday, April 02, 2008

Come on summer... please

God, I am sick of this grey weather. And it's set to storm, hail and snow again this weekend. Apparently. Just in time for the weekend hockey games, of course.

On the upside, we did have almost a whole day of sunshine on Monday. Woo hoo. I came home practically bouncing off the walls... "the sun's shining, the sun's shining! Let's go for a run, anywhere, somewhere, outside, come oooooon... let's go go go..." Making hay while the sun shines took on a literal meaning.

Back on the Wilder's front (my latest rant), the Dutch MP has told the Prime Minister that he should apologise to Geert, for creating a "crisis situation". The rule of thumb with most of Dutch associates is that if you follow, or take, Geert Wilders seriously, you're an idiot.

Sticking with the Islamic argument (or non-argument), while pottering around in yet another hail/rain storm the other day, I decided to wrap my scarf around my head in an attempt to a) keep the hair dry and b) keep the hair under control. I decided there is something to be said for wearing a hijab on a daily basis. Are you allowed to wear one for convenience, not religious beliefs? I don't see why not.

Amendment: SA Blog Awards were out last night. Congrats to the winners - and thanks to any readers (mostly my family), for voting for me. I dig you guys :-)