tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-345527362024-03-08T00:46:16.788+02:00Twisted Koeksuster 2.0My (sporadic) rant(s) on lifeKoekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.comBlogger467125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-41617651250657502152017-09-12T12:34:00.003+02:002017-09-12T12:34:45.398+02:00Squirmalicious<br />
That moment when you're eating lunch, look down on your plate and see a squirming worm making a break for it.<br />
<br />
First thought. Where did that come from.. everything on my plate has either been in a sealed wrapper, the fridge, or the microwave.<br />
<br />
Second thought. At least it's still whole, so I know I don't have the other half in my mouth.<br />
<br />
Third, fourth and fifth thoughts. Is he alone? Are there others? Have I already eaten them?<br />
<br />
Oh god. He <i>(I don't know why or when he became male, but there it is) </i>is still desperately trying to escape my plate. What do I do with him? Squish him? Tip him outside? Cook him? Would he taste better with butter, or coconut? Hmmm....<br />
<br />
And thus ended lunch.<br />
<br />
<br />Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-39752357118913675382017-09-11T13:26:00.001+02:002017-09-11T13:27:51.216+02:00Testing... testing... is this thing on?<br />
It's been a while.<br />
<br />
I've been offline, figuring out life, staying under the radar.<br />
<br />
I did a handstand the other day; it was the highlight of my day.<br />
<br />
I took that as a sign that perhaps I should start at least thinking about being a functional adult again.<br />
<br />
So, today is my first day back at work, after being completely offline for weeks. Inbox = zero. I'm rebooted and ready to go.<br />
<br />
I got ready, paraphrasing Roald Dahl's lyrics to Red Riding Hood (because... this is my sound track in life apparently). Chanting merrily to myself... <br />
<br />
<i>I dressed myself in coat & hat, </i><br />
<i>I put on shoes, and after that, </i><br />
<i>I even brushed & curled my hair... </i><br />
<i>then sat myself down in a chair. </i><br />
<br />
Well, tried to anyway.<br />
<br />
In my best heels and donning lipstick, I got to the office, took a seat next to my colleague... and swiftly and efficiently, completely missed the chair.<br />
<br />
Throwing bags and flailing limbs, I collapsed on the floor.<br />
<br />
It's been so long, I've forgotten how to sit at a desk.<br />
<br />
Ladies and gentlemen... I'm back.<br />
<br />Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-32849276449691804252013-09-02T19:35:00.002+02:002013-09-02T20:38:29.434+02:00Gearing upKnuckles are creaking. Fingers are cracking. What is this contraption in front of me. A keyboard?<br />
<br />
OMG, who blogs these days? That's like, sooooo circa 2005.<br />
<br />
Here goes.<br />
<br />
After a year of bumbling my way around <a href="http://alloverdar.blogspot.com/">Swahili in Dar</a>, Mills and I returned to Jozi.<br />
<br />
"For good..?" Friends and family ask us, with a lilt of hopefulness.<br />
"For now." I always reply.<br />
<br />
Is this the epitome of commitment-phobe?<br />
I can't even settle in my own home town.<br />
<br />
It's kinda weird being back - it's home, but it's strange. I grew up here, but I haven't lived in Joburg for over ten years. How many locals travel via Melville when trying to get from Greenside to Illovo, doing a round-route which looks more like a drunk earthworm than a plotted path.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="300" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="https://maps.google.de/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Greenway,+Greenside,+Randburg,+Gauteng,+South+Africa&daddr=Emmarentia+Primary+School,+Randburg,+Gauteng,+South+Africa+to:Melville+Koppies+Nature+Reserve,+Judith+Road,+Emmarentia,+Gauteng,+South+Africa+to:-26.1734567,28.0178848+to:-26.1680957,28.0242438+to:-26.1587899,28.0276197+to:-26.1563092,28.0345188+to:-26.1430521,28.0435986+to:-26.1325368,28.0574963+to:Corlett+Drive,+Illovo,+Sandton,+Gauteng,+South+Africa&hl=en&geocode=FS32cP4djHurASmpQi71fAuVHjFDYq56JOHQhg%3BFYTBcP4dmGqrASFoym-IeN4JJiljKgeugwuVHjFoym-IeN4JJg%3BFUq6cP4dLVCrASGBCVUbipdgXylt4WaDgwuVHjGBCVUbipdgXw%3BFfCfcP4d3ISrASktA6cTiAuVHjFxKnYAKE7-GA%3BFeG0cP4ds52rASlnjmOUeQyVHjGbyUwjNyi40g%3BFTvZcP4d46qrASljAUhwfQyVHjFRUdTMmjxgeA%3BFevicP4d1sWrASl7NRnciQyVHjHB_6SuwLLqSA%3BFbQWcf4dTumrASn5cWhm7QyVHjEOFymT-jSMyw%3BFcg_cf4dmB-sASm1JwGw5wyVHjF1oVsUqVMbPg%3BFao_cf4d8CCsASkvUqpUFg2VHjEaTLY09-J15w&aq=2&oq=melville&sll=-26.137717,28.063717&sspn=0.108183,0.181789&mra=dpe&mrsp=5&sz=13&via=3,4,5,6,7,8&ie=UTF8&t=m&ll=-26.145268,28.030586&spn=0.092458,0.102997&z=12&output=embed" width="300"></iframe><br />
<small><a href="https://maps.google.de/maps?f=d&source=embed&saddr=Greenway,+Greenside,+Randburg,+Gauteng,+South+Africa&daddr=Emmarentia+Primary+School,+Randburg,+Gauteng,+South+Africa+to:Melville+Koppies+Nature+Reserve,+Judith+Road,+Emmarentia,+Gauteng,+South+Africa+to:-26.1734567,28.0178848+to:-26.1680957,28.0242438+to:-26.1587899,28.0276197+to:-26.1563092,28.0345188+to:-26.1430521,28.0435986+to:-26.1325368,28.0574963+to:Corlett+Drive,+Illovo,+Sandton,+Gauteng,+South+Africa&hl=en&geocode=FS32cP4djHurASmpQi71fAuVHjFDYq56JOHQhg%3BFYTBcP4dmGqrASFoym-IeN4JJiljKgeugwuVHjFoym-IeN4JJg%3BFUq6cP4dLVCrASGBCVUbipdgXylt4WaDgwuVHjGBCVUbipdgXw%3BFfCfcP4d3ISrASktA6cTiAuVHjFxKnYAKE7-GA%3BFeG0cP4ds52rASlnjmOUeQyVHjGbyUwjNyi40g%3BFTvZcP4d46qrASljAUhwfQyVHjFRUdTMmjxgeA%3BFevicP4d1sWrASl7NRnciQyVHjHB_6SuwLLqSA%3BFbQWcf4dTumrASn5cWhm7QyVHjEOFymT-jSMyw%3BFcg_cf4dmB-sASm1JwGw5wyVHjF1oVsUqVMbPg%3BFao_cf4d8CCsASkvUqpUFg2VHjEaTLY09-J15w&aq=2&oq=melville&sll=-26.137717,28.063717&sspn=0.108183,0.181789&mra=dpe&mrsp=5&sz=13&via=3,4,5,6,7,8&ie=UTF8&t=m&ll=-26.145268,28.030586&spn=0.092458,0.102997&z=12" style="color: blue; text-align: left;">View Larger Map</a></small><br />
<br />
But hey, much like the rest of my life decisions, I get there in the end. Usually. And after seeing quite a few things on the way - sometimes more than once and from multiple angles.<br />
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It's good to be back - discovering my old city. As soon as I can remember road names, I think I'll get on just fine.<br />
<br />
*Interestingly, when I opened up a new tab to Google map my route home, the search engine returned all my results in German. Wonder what that was all about?<br />
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<br />Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-61832122114939757122012-08-10T08:15:00.001+02:002013-09-02T20:39:16.794+02:00GOP* before my timeI hate themed days. I hate the expectation that I need to congratulate birthdays, and birth days, especially with something more creative than "Happy Birthday" or "Congratulations on being a mammal" (these cards are particularly hard to find).<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I like me a good birthday ice-cream face-cake. Who doesn't? And I love getting (and sometimes even, giving... I'm that generous) Christmas prezzies, sharing a special day with loved ones. But when people feel the need to publicly shout across Facebook or send out group messages to anyone who happens to be on their mailing list, I want to give them a cyber-slap and tell them to go back indoors and appreciate their family.<br />
<br />
And I especially hate having it forced down my throat en mass. A day when I'm expected to dramatically demonstrate that I love someone, a day to publicly declare that I have a mother. Another one a few months later to make sure no one forgets that they have a father. Womens' Day. Where everyone kindly feels the need to recognise that I have lady-parts and therefore must somehow be congratulated and have an extra special day accordingly.<br />
<br />
I think we may have lost the point somewhere. I love my parents and I certainly will thank them on Mother and Fathers Day - I do get that point. But I don't know why everyone needs to know that I have told my parents that I appreciate them.<br />
<br />
Similarly, Womens' Day is not meant to acknowledge the fact that I happen to have a vagina, it's meant to acknowledge a day in history when largely-unheard members of the public (who remain largely-unheard and unrepresented to this day), made their Apartheid objections known in an eerily silent demonstration. Womens' Day recognises the danger that these women put themselves and their children in. Wishing me Happy Womens' Day via Facebook or email means nothing. I understand the gesture, but I struggle to fight down the rage to refrain from replying in a tirade as to how patronising the sender sounds.<br />
<br />
There is one birthday I do support - Nelson Mandela Day. Rather than just posting messages (which will happen anyway.. in this case I understand, a personal message isn't really an option), people arrange to be involved in their communities. It's only an hour, but something is actually done. Small though the gesture might be in the big scheme of problems, awareness is raised for various community needs.<br />
<br />
Maybe National Womens' Day should have a similar call to action. Instead of just saying "Happy Womens' Day!", we should be called to volunteer for women who still need assistance. It doesn't even have to be physical help, even something as simple as a small donation, like <a href="http://rapecrisis.org.za/support-us/donate/">this</a>. Then you can go back to your day off of slothing on the couch and congratulating female friends for having bajingoes.<br />
<br />
Maybe every themed-day should have a similar call to action. A general rubbish collection clean up on Heritage Day, you know... to protect our heritage going forward.<br />
<br />
Volunteering at orphanages for mother and fathers' day - giving those who don't have parents (to take advantage of every other day) a day of love. Speaking of love, Valentines Day. Urgh. But maybe it would be fitting to volunteer at a shelter on or around this day - I'm guessing not much would make you appreciate a true loved one more than seeing how other people are treated by those who they think love them.<br />
<br />
Wouldn't it be awesome if, instead of seeing a leery middle-aged drunkard stumbling around a pub at 4pm in the afternoon, his friends apologetically shrugging and excusing him with, "what you gonna do, it's his 40th, a man's gotta celebrate"... if, instead, we got used to the sight of groups of families and friends doing something together in the community. You can still have your drinks and party afterwards, but you can also say that for one or two hours, you picked up rubbish, or you handed out food packages, or you re-painted a jungle gym. I think I quite like the idea.<br />
<br />
Not everyone would participate, and certainly not many people would give up every public holiday for manual labour, but I would love to see the general expectation become an hour of community involvement (of your own choice), rather than a general Facebook shout-out recognising the day followed by "... and now, back to the couch" subtext.<br />
<br />
<br />
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*Grumpy Old Person, way before my time.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-15998594038368944232012-06-01T13:48:00.002+02:002013-09-02T20:39:46.135+02:00All Over Dar...This is what I'm up to these days... <a href="http://alloverdar.blogspot.com/">Trying to make sense of Dar Es Salaam</a>Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-88679607707626672452012-05-22T07:43:00.003+02:002013-09-02T20:40:52.433+02:00Gautrain - a bonding experienceSouth Africa is not known for its public transport. There's a bus here and there, which may or may not run around the time that it says it will arrive on any given day. There are private minibus drivers that fling themselves from one side of the road to the other, cramming more bum cheeks than conceivably possible into the back of their vehicles.<br />
<br />
But even these run on very limited routes, and during work hours (I only recently learnt that taxis stop running to Soweto after 8pm. This is shocking on two parts - first, that I never knew that simple fact about my own city and second, unless you have your own car, it is incredibly difficult for most people to travel between suburbs overnight in Joburg). But that's not supposed to be my point here. Sadly the Gautrain also runs on - what I think to be - far too limited hours during the day, but... it's an attempt at first-world public transport. And from what I have seen so far, it is working.<br />
<br />
I know my enthusiasm stems from the fact that I am lucky enough to live in one of the very few areas that the Gautrain buses already service, which means that I can use this novel creation to its full extent. Walking just four blocks from my house, I can catch one of the buses that come past every 10 - 12 minutes on week days to Sandton and from that station, I can get to Central Johannesburg (one train to Rosebank followed by another bus, which is always on time), or to the Airport, or to Hatfield in Pretoria... all in 40 minutes or less, easily and comfortably.<br />
<br />
There are complaints that it is expensive, which it probably is, compared to what South Africans are used to. But we are also used to not paying much and not getting much. I don't think the price I paid yesterday from Randburg to Hatfield was unreasonable at all - a R49 total journey. Getting to the airport is twice that (and then a bit), but airport transport always comes with a surcharge. Always.<br />
<br />
I've only used the Gautrain out of peak hours, and don't know if I have a particularly approachable face, or a neon sign on my forehead and incessantly flashes "Talk To Me!", but that's exactly what happens on every trip. People strike up conversation with me. I don't know why, but I am almost always entertained. This whole accessible, functioning, public transport thing is still a novel and exciting experience for most of us in the third-world.<br />
<br />
We usually discuss, with great enthusiasm, the marvel of the high-speed train, or the marvel of regular buses that arrive when indicated on the timetable, whether the costs are worth the trip (they are). More often than not, the little fact that no food or liquids are allowed to be consumed on the train or in the station is mentioned. Where else, aside from Singapore, is the public transport so posh that you're not even allowed to chew gum..?<br />
<br />
But yesterday was my favourite experience to date. On the train back from Hatfield, two <i>gogos</i> hobbled on and sat at the window opposite me. They were elderly black ladies, I can't imagine they were much younger than 65. Winter has arrived in Gauteng, the one lady had a thick dark green coat on, the other had a more traditional blanket wrapped snugly around her torso. They both had sensible, well-used shoes on, and respectable hats. One was relying heavily on a crutch.<br />
<br />
And they were giggling like two naughty teenage girls bunking school.<br />
<br />
The lady with the coat was taking pictures of her friend on her cellphone, clearly documenting their train journey. Then she asked me to take a picture of the two of them and - of course - started telling me about their trip. They were going from Pretoria, to Joburg, catching a bus around Jozi and coming back again. A big day out - the <i>gogos'</i> first, and I think I can safely guess only, time on first-world transportation.<br />
<br />
Soon, they were calling one of the (many) train guards over, to include me in their train trip memories. So I sat squished between two large-bottomed grannies on a two-seater Gautrain seat, excitedly sharing their enthusiasm with me.<br />
<br />
These two women lived through Apartheid. And there they were, sitting on a high-speed train, overflowing with exuberance... doing the trip simply because they could. It was a wonderful experience just to be with them in their adventure.<br />
<br />
I suppose I better get up now. I need to catch a bus, to catch a train, to catch another bus to get work in Braamfontein. Viva Public Transport!Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-17048149219211398382011-11-14T12:28:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:41:52.388+02:00Curried KoekieEvery office has them. The people you just don't get on with, prefer not to interact with, just can't connect.<br />
<br />
So there's Whacko in my office. He refuses to use his work email (has no personal email either), which I think in this day and age, should set off alarm bells for NOT hiring. But unfortunately, he has a job and it's in our office. He's a classic conspiracy theorist (hence the "I will not have an email address because then THEY can follow me online" attitude), which does lead to some marvelous behind-his-back discussions.<br />
<br />
One of my favourite conversations with him was on my birthday last year. I bought cake, then everyone gathered around for the devouring thereof, as is the <a href="http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com/2010/04/if-there-was-one-thing-i-could-do.html">horrible tradition</a>. Whacko doesn't have email, so of course, he didn't receive the group "It's my birthday, please have some cake" message that got sent around so I had to tell him in person.<br />
<br />
Koekie : "Hi Whacko, it's my birthday, we're having cake if you'd like some."<br />
Whacko : "Cake? What for?"<br />
Koekie : "My birthday"<br />
Whacko : "Your what?"<br />
Koekie : "My birthday. Celebration. Happens about once a year for some of us."<br />
<br />
I chose not to add... <i>I know you've been to these sort of gathering before, and yet you never seem to have a birthday yourself. </i>Whacko-the-cake-scoffer, who apparently doesn't believe in hosting events, but has no objections to partaking in free food if it's there.<br />
<br />
By this stage, we'd move to the colleagues gathering around the cake table.<br />
Yet his confusion persisted.<br />
<br />
Whacko : "You had a birth? Where's the baby?"<br />
Koekie : "No. No babies. Happy birthday to me. I really don't know how to make this any clearer."<br />
<br />
We now had everyone's attention, as tends to happen when Whacko lets us into his psychedelic world.<br />
Finally, comprehension seemed to settle in.<br />
<br />
Whacko : "Oooooooh, it's your... birth... day."<br />
Koekie : "Yes.. Birthday. Today. Well done."<br />
Whacko : "So you're a virgin!"<br />
Koekie : "No, but thanks for checking. I think you mean Virgo."<br />
<br />
And that was the last time I ever bothered with conversation. That and, 18 months after I joined the company, he could never remember my name. Which actually suited me, because I had a legitimate reason to ignore any attempts at conversation.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately sometimes our paths do have to cross, like when we find ourselves in the kitchen together. Most days I manage to limit the interaction to simple grunted greetings, and we ignore each other for the rest.<br />
<br />
Just recently, I was heating up some leftover Tikka Masala from Indian take-out the night before. It had a few more seconds to go and I was slavering over the microwave in anticipation when Whacko walked in. Great.<br />
<br />
We grunted at each other and I turned my attention back to the microwave. Next thing, his head was right next to mine.<br />
<br />
"Kerry," he barked into my ear.<br />
<br />
I stood upright, faced him directly, deciding to make a point of correcting him once and for all.<br />
"No," I said firmly, stabbing myself in the chest with my finger. "Koekie. My name is KOE-KIE."<br />
<br />
He looked at me with a scowl and said, "I know that, Koekie. You're having curry for lunch.. I say it in Dutch: <i>kerrie?</i>"<br />
<br />
So on the one occasion that he appeared to actually be lucid and was attempting have normal every-day conversation, I managed to make myself look like the crazy one. Oh well, now at least the feeling is mutual.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-22171354676242054412011-10-14T16:32:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:42:12.758+02:00iPee<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I love my cycle in to the office, head phones pumping, my iPhone Kumquat tuning my favourite mango-grooves. Once at work, I generally take headphones out, but forget Kumquat in my back pocket, until I have a reason to use it. </span></span>Sometimes she stays there all day, until I need to plug in again for my cycle home.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So imagine my shock and horror today, when after making a wee li'l wee, I pulled up my jean-pant and heard a very heavy, very solid, <i><b>SPLOSH</b></i>. </span>I whipped around, trying to figure out what the hell could've made that noise. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">What was that solid, dark object in the..? </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">O sacred mother of all things porcelain, say it isn't...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">It was. A string of swear words escaped my lips that would've turned the water foul, even if it hadn't just come out of a used toilet bowl. My lovely blue-covered Kumquat had become a forlorn, water-logged iTurd*. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">With immense displeasure, I reclaimed my iPhone, followed by frantic researching to figure out the best means of emergency rescue. </span>It was interesting to note that a frenzied Google search for "iPhone water submersion" turned up <span style="background-color: white;">"How to save your iPhone or iPod from a fall into a toilet [tutorial]" as the second result. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I may not be the only one, but it doesn't make me any less of an iDiot.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">And so it came to be that Kumquat found her way into a bag full of dry rice, in a desperate attempt to draw excess toilet water from her nooks and crannies. Shortly after, GBM came flying in on his bike (I like to think he wore a blue and red flashing light on this head, and shouted "wee-waaah, weee-waaah" as he sprinted in), tiny screwdrivers in hand, to perform exploratory surgery on my poor Kumquat's internal organs. </span></div>
</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The prognosis is not good. Even if the water hadn't voided the warranty, the damage is not going to be covered by insurance seeing as we've now ripped off explicit "DO NOT REMOVE" tags in her gut and unscrewed every fitting. She has been violated in every way possible. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm praying to the iGods, but don't hold out much hope.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">* iTurd : actual hashtag tweeted by fellow toilet-dropping iTwits.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-68665961900024358912011-09-29T12:51:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:45:45.777+02:00Snot shower<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Cycling to work at the moment is glorious. It's nippy... but that early-morning pre-warmth chill, rather than this-is-as-good-as-it's-gonna-<wbr></wbr>get winter chill. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The sun is coming up later, so now I find myself cycling to work just after sunrise. Which, while somewhat depressing (long days are over), is beautiful as the low rays strike through the trees and settle and shimmer on the still canals. We deserve it, after the rotten, sodden summer that we were subjected too. </span>It's so good that even GBM is prepared to take a gentle cycle into town with me, just to enjoy the decent-ish weather while it lasts. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So there we were, cycling together this morning along a particularly tranquil patch of unkempt grass, looking beautiful in its unmanicured state. The dew was still fresh and sparkly on the leaves, warmed with a slight orange hue from the early morning rays that were just starting to kiss the ground. Everything in front of us was in golden silhouette, as we topped a small bridge, heading directly towards the rising sun. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We were behind a slower cyclist, and GBM had just made to pass him when the guy turned his head in the same direction, put his right hand up to his face - and without-hesitation, explosively blew out the contents of his left nostril. I was close enough behind the nasal expulsion to get a beautiful demonstration of just how far snot can fly when backlit by early morning sun. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The fact that the two of us were directly in his mucous-trajectory did not perturb the snotter in the slightest. He turned his head the other way, raised left hand and loudly expelled the remains from his other nostril, complete with the same spectacular splay of visual mucousity. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm fairly confident I caught both angles directly in the face. </span>I'm so glad we could share that moment with him, and will shortly be sharing his cold and flu germs too. It was awesome. </div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-52207225627539680382011-09-22T17:57:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:44:19.926+02:00Making cents<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I hate that stores still insist on quoting stupid sodding prices, a few cents below a nice round number, because we're all too stupid to realise that 0.99 is NOT the same difference as paying 1euro. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I understand the psychology that it looks less, but surely this only works on larger amounts - like 900 versus 1000euros. A difference of 100 bucks is worth considering... if you're looking at spending that much anyway.</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But "Now just 9.99 euro!"...? </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Call it a tenner and forget the sodding coins. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">At least supermarkets have taken the liberty of rounding up or down to the nearest 5c. So now, when your bill comes to 34.44, they'll give you 1x 5cent piece instead of 3x 2c coins. Woo-frikken-hoo. </span></div>
</div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But there are still a lot of 1c and 2c pieces in circulation. It irritates me, but for the most part I don't care. I take the nitty-gritty coppers and generally just chuck them in a pile, to be ignored or thrown away. </span>GBM on the other hand, actually uses them. He will, on principle, stand and count out the exact amount. It's a running joke between us, and I kinda love him for his old-man crotchetiness about it. </div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, who is more right or more wrong, when GBM wanted to pay the exact amount... but the Albert Heijn supermarkt would not accept it?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The total on the till, said 34.44. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The cashier quoted 34.45, as is company policy. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">GBM wanted - and had exact coins - to pay the 44 cents precisely. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Neither would budge. Managers were summoned.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">GBM's POV: "It's just one cent."</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">AH staff's POV: "It's just one cent."</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually GBM had to cave - he paid the up-scaled version. I'm pretty sure (okay VERY sure) that I would've stormed off without paying, stomping on the groceries and spitting on their flower display on the way out.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But it would be nothing more than a hissy-fit. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">We would have to go back anyway - it's our local supermarket, and the Dirk v/d Broek chain across the way has exactly the same policy. So we can't exactly vote with our feet. You don't need to be a maths genius to know that "rounding up" means that the supermarkets are making more than just a few cents here and there with this system. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Still, I don't understand why you can't be allowed to pay exact amount when you actually have it. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Either that, or please can we all stop pretending that 99c is any different to 1 euro? </span></div>
</div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-76712433233867824082011-09-21T09:09:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:44:03.856+02:00Back from hiatus<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I went away with the in-laws last week. Beautiful holiday, with lovely company. Including GBM's two nieces, 2-year-old and a 3-month-old. I love them dearly, they are both sweet, good-natured and will soon be independent happy little girls. Just in case anyone is wondering, spending a week with them did not grow me a maternal bone. Rather, it had the opposite effect. </span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it did give me a renewed appreciation for just how hard it is to be a parent. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can barely get myself out of the house in under an hour. In fact, it's usually closer to two hours, from wake up to closing the front door. There's feeding and burping and at least two potty-breaks. Then there's the usual fight to put on clothes, with the obligatory 10 to 20 minutes of running around in underwear and having a temper tantrum about hair. And that's just me on a normal week day morning. It's three times worse with two kids. There is no ways I would cope on a daily basis. No, thank you ma'am. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And all this palava, after nights of most-likely very disrupted sleep, because the little one needs a feed and the other one has been up because of bad dreams, or insecurity or just generally screaming, "<i>noooooooooooooo</i>!" which is apparently the only word in her vocab at 3am. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nooooooo... thank you.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Again, it's not because of these two girls specifically. I would drop anything for them. </div>
<div>
Speaking of dropping...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, I didn't actually drop her. It was more a topple. Out of her rocking chair. Which thank god, was already on the floor when I tipped her out. And she was strapped into it, so she didn't have far to go. But, the fact remains, that I was the supposed-adult responsible for looking after the 3-month-old. And I knocked her chair on its side, sending the little one sprawling. And that's all it took to give the kid a black eye. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They call me Aunty Bruiser. </div>
<div>
At least, I think that's what they would call me. If they were talking to me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank god, it was the second child. As it was, I was not left unsupervised for the rest of the week. Which is fair enough. Thank god, both mom and dad have been parents for long enough to know that these things happen. If it had been the first child, or if - god forbid - I had been the very first adult to drop either of their kids, I doubt I would've been let back into the house. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The poor baby had a slightly swollen cheek below her eye, which was visible for less than a day. But I still felt sick to the stomach every time I saw it. I honestly wanted to cry, and was nauseous with guilt. Is this what it would feel like every time your child gets hurt? Or just when you feel responsible for letting it happen, or worse, are the accidental cause of the injury? Or do you get over it, does it become easier to see a scraped knee or hear your child screaming from fright and pain? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No thank you, ma'am. I'll not be signing up for that emotional trauma, exhaustion and under-appreciation. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Gimme a puppy any day. </div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-16104254875525822932011-09-09T16:35:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:44:49.752+02:00Overheard in AmsterdamAs I was walking back from the shops yesterday, I heard a lady talking to a guy, in impeccable English... beautifully enunciated... which made the following all the more surprisingly...<br />
<br />
"When we get home, I'm going to spank your bottom. And then..."<br />
<br />
Unfortunately they moved out of ear shot very quickly. But because it was so clear, and in perfect English, I have no doubt about what was being said. I know what I heard, but I do wonder what else was in store for the poor (or lucky) bugger.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-45155044088908410832011-09-06T17:29:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:45:48.719+02:00My first day at 30<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Last night, I was literally blown into my thirties as I cycled home - at least, that's what it felt like the wind was trying to do. But, what'd you know... it wasn't so bad. I've survived my first day as a working thirty-something. </span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To celebrate my big day, I put in an extra effort this morning - I decided to let my hair curl (with the wind and rain, there was no point in doing otherwise), I put on snazzy patterned stockings, a snappy purple collared shirt tucked into my grey skirt. A little business, a little fun. I combined it with a trendy neckerchief-scarf and my outfit was complete. I arrived at work, in heels, in style.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I totally ROCKED my first day as a 30 year old. You know what was the best part of my day? </div>
<div>
When I realised that I had my shirt on inside out. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fortunately the tucked-in shirt hid the side label and the lucky little neckerchief did a good job of covering the tags at the neckline. And you know, these days, modern fashion dictates that the seams should look tatty and a bit rough cut. People pay a lot of money for that look. Sometimes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yup, same old. I might be wiser and maybe slightly more wrinkled (although GBM assured me this was not the case), but I'm still me. What a relief.</div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-14692162427581328962011-09-05T14:34:00.001+02:002013-09-02T20:46:19.576+02:00Poo updates<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">This morning I had a great poo. It was fairly loose in consistency but was spot on time for my normal motion-hours, so I am pleased to report that movements are nice and routine. I failed to get a look at the colour, but from previous movements over the last few days, I'm fairly confident that it would be a standard brown. </span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">How do you feel about this update? Did you pull a face as you read it, was it too much of an over-share? If someone were to give you a breakdown on their cat or dog's most recent feces, would you be enraptured by the update and pleased when they concluded that the little pet's poop has sufficiently progressed from liquid squits to solid plops?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know about you, but I don't want to hear about poo. If you're sick, tell me that you're sick and you'll get sympathy and best wishes. But please, don't tell me in gross detail about your excremental suffering. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I think most people feel this way. We all poo, but no one really needs to know about it. Why then is it socially-acceptable the moment you have a baby to discuss their shit in such massive detail? </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">On Saturday, we were joined by a couple who have an 8 week old baby. The little tyke had just had a poo before they joined us. It was fairly solid, about 2cm in length and an adult-finger in width. It was dark brown. It was his first defecation for the day. Overnight he filled two diapers with liquid shit. That was light brown. Some of it went up his back and ran down his legs. It was when she started talking about sucking snot out of her son's nose, that I completely switched off from the conversation and fell asleep. I woke up when the adults are allowed to talk again. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"></span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I can understand that knowing the contents of your child's nappy is very important. To you. Whether he has, or has not, shat pure gold or strings of spagetti is not of any consequence to me - other than putting me off the lunch that I was inevitably enjoying up until this topic domination. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"></span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I realise this will sound very unsympathetic to the plight of parents. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I really do understand that your baby becomes your world - and this is how it should damn-well be. If you're not putting your child as number one (and therefore top talking point), then you probably shouldn't be a parent in the first place. But this is also one of the multitude of reasons why I don't want kids. I don't want to be that person that repulses and/or bores non-family members about their offspring's puke, snot and poop. I don't want to be that panicking parent, rushing my toddler to the ER because he has a streak of suspicious-looking maroon running through his turd, only to learn that he has developed a taste for multi-coloured wax crayons. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">The only people who are interested in a particular baby's kak-updates are family members and very close friends. No one else cares, unless it makes for a funny anecdote, and those don't happen as often as some parents might like to think. Statistical updates on the diameter of anyone's shit never used to be appropriate dinner conversation, so I don't see why it should be when you have kids. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I know it's unavoidable topic in the parental mine-field. Friends have chosen to breed - and they will mention diaper changes, or poo consistency. But it's not ALL they talk about, and that's why we're still friends. I really don't mind hearing a bit about your kid's poo. I know it's important to you and I want to hear how things are going. We all dominate conversations with things that are important to us. But you know what's not cool? Letting me know about every nappy-change. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I think the only way to avoid becoming that person who can talk, non-stop, for an hour about nothing but their child's poop, is to not have kids. </span></div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-12760510621125375632011-09-02T09:01:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:47:39.795+02:00It's my party and I'll whine if I want to<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I am 360 moons old, this month. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I will also shortly be - much as I hate to admit it - entering my third decade. </span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">When my friends gasped and muttered in horror about turning 30 before me, I rolled my eyes and thought, "what's the diff? It's not a big deal..." I kinda always thought that once I got there, I'd be ready. As if turning 30 was an exam that my friends simply hadn't suitably swatted up for.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">But now that I'm teetering on the edge of my... *choke*... thirties (oh god!), I'm having a little minor freak out of my own. People in their thirties aren't allowed to skip and sing to themselves - unless they're on a day out from their asylum. 'Grown ups' are also apparently not supposed to spend hours entertaining themselves by blowing bubbles - and watching the bubbles float off - with delight. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My mild age paranoia may also be slightly due to the fact that for the last 3 years I've been ox-headedly convincing myself (and fooling no one else) that I was still in my mid-twenties. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I've tried to explain this shocked realisation to my friends, with varying response. Those younger than me shrug... because, it's not <i>their </i>problem. They're still in their mid-to-late twenties. When they get there, to where I'm standing, they'll be <i>better prepared</i>. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The older friends, those in their early-to-mid thirties, are surprisingly chipper about the whole adventure on their side of the play-park. They're still pretty cool, and they're fun to hang out with, even if they've wed and bred and all that (not that that's an age thing, but anywho). </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">In general, they seem to exude a "come on in, the water's GREAT!" attitude. </span></div>
<div>
And I don't trust them. </div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, I've decided I'm turning 29.95 and I'm sticking with that until further notice. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*Amendment: it's just been pointed out that I am not in fact entering my third decade, but my fourth. Because apparently some people feel that I'm not having a big enough crisis as it is. I'm ignoring them. If I can stay in my twenties, I can stay in my third decade too.</span></div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-10634359296139554872011-08-30T18:48:00.001+02:002013-09-02T21:13:40.237+02:00Sugar-rushIn our office, we have a gazillion types of tea (I'm not going to bother to count them) and three types of coffee. I asked if we could possibly include hot chocolate as one of the hot drink options. No particular preference, just a bit of cocoa. My request was turned down, because I was the only one asking for it. I didn't mind, I bought my own.<br />
<br />
And it got used. Copiously. And quickly.<br />
<br />
That pissed me the hell off. I only ever found one other staff member helping himself. I don't have a problem with sharing my stuff - as long as I've been asked first. It didn't help his cause that I do not like him at all. Massive creep.<br />
<br />
There subsequently followed a fair-sized hissy fit to the inventory powers that be - with a strongly worded argument that I clearly was not the only one who wanted a cocoa-fix. We got communal hot chocolate shortly afterwards. I felt mildly vindicated in my cause.<br />
<br />
I recently discovered a great version of jelly-sweets, which is effectively chewy sugar dipped in crystal sugar powder, shaped like pieces of fruit. Yummo. I buy a packet for myself every now and again. I offer the sweets around and plonk them next to me on my desk. Any and all are free to help themselves. I really don't mind - and it makes me feel slightly better to know that I've not eaten the whole bag single-mouthedly.<br />
<br />
But it grates me the wrong side up, more than a little bit, when Mento helps herself - a lot - and throws in a sarky quip at the same time.<br />
<br />
"Oh goodie, don't mind if I do." While she merrily mashes three or four sweets into her sweaty palms.<br />
"More sweets? You're getting quite addicted to your sugar, aren't you?" Gulped through chubby-bunny-filled-cheeks.<br />
<br />
And it especially riles me when she saunters over, only to discover that I have not in fact supplied her afternoon glucose fix for the day (or if I've seen her coming and spitefully hidden them from view). It's her reaction that irks me the most. Because she is honest to god completely taken back - she can't understand where the magic supply of sweets have gone. How are they not here?<br />
<br />
She'll blink in disbelief, as if I've assaulted her with a glass of ice cold water, "OH! ...no sweets today? Are you going later? Are you getting more tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
The look of surprise is that of a crazy cat lady who's just found her prized pet puking directly into her breakfast bowl (probably its revenge for a lifetime of being dressed in <a href="http://www.thesophisticatedcat.com/cat_clothes/dresses/for_girls_dress.html">kitten-clothing</a>). Why would her subject do this to her?<br />
<br />
It's really, honestly, not the issue of sharing. I'll admit, I'm not always gracious about sharing food (and GBM has the fork-pronged scars in his hand to back this up), but this particular gripe is about reciprocity.<br />
<br />
If you're eating my sweets, or my hot chocolate, or drinking my milk, or using my butter on a regular basis... How about a little contribution? Just buy it once. Even just acknowledging that you're aware your consuming my goods. Anything. Instead of just assuming that I'm your supplier, or that I won't notice your dull-witted leeching nature. Just a gesture. And don't act so annoyingly, inanely surprised when the source dries up.<br />
<br />
If you want sweets every day, if you know you're going to use milk every day, go buy your own (so that I have someone to steal from when I'm too lazy to walk in the rain).Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-12280224896497625442011-08-29T23:13:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:49:48.482+02:00OfflineWell, almost. But not quite.<br />
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After a merry weekend filled with extreme frisbee, extreme one-touch soccer, extreme hedge-barging and extreme catering, I checked in online for my flight yesterday. We didn't have a printer, so I chose the marvelous option of sending a scan/barcode to my email on my Kumquat (iPhone).<br />
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Two hours (and multiple GBP worth of downloaded data) later, I was still eagerly hoping to receive my electronic boarding pass. I tried again, this time requesting the confirmation by SMS. Download refresh. Download refresh. Download refresh. Nothing.<br />
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Every time I checked my phone, the battery dropped another notch, so about half an hour before I due to get a lift to the station, to catch a train, to catch a bus, to catch a plane, I quickly put my phone on the charger. You know, just a quick top-up to make sure I had enough juice to give me a few hours worth of audiobooks and iTunes and preloaded TV shows.<br />
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And that was the last time I thought of my phone before I was dropped off an hour later at the station. <i>Sans </i>Kumquat.<br />
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And oddly enough, I didn't actually care. I was pissed off with myself for being stupid enough not to pick it up before leaving, but on the other hand... it was one less thing to care about. I currently have two passports - one old and almost completely fill, but with functioning EU and US visas attached to it, the other new and almost untouched, but with one very important 5-year UK visa in it. I've got my work crackberry and usually have my Kumquat that contains pretty much my entire life.<br />
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I didn't panic because I knew exactly where it was and I knew that GBM could pick it up and bring it back home at some stage. And I usually ignore my phone when it rings anyway - I hate talking on the phone. I wasn't completely devoid of entertainment as I refuse to go paperless and had a magazine and a novel to keep me busy at the airport. So the only thing that bothered me, really, was that I was forced to listen to my surroundings again. Old school.<br />
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I think I'm getting tired of technology. I love that I can use it, but the moment I didn't have the choice, I was actually quite okay with it. That said, I don't know if I can last for a whole week (when GBM is due to return). Which is why I've asked him to drop it off at our London office tomorrow. I don't know if I can last a weekend <i>sans </i>Kumquat. That might be too much of an ask.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-42793562330788096832011-08-25T23:17:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:49:00.779+02:00Different strokesGBM and I are going to the UK this weekend. He flew out today, at 1pm. I'm following him a day later (tomorrow) at 1pm.<br />
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He started packing at 9.30 this morning. He got to the airport at midday.<br />
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I started packing at 9pm today. I am still packing and will still be (re)packing by 9.30 tomorrow morning. I can turn preparing for a weekend away into a full day of billable hours. Time mismanagement at its best.<br />
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I will be at the airport at 11am. Possibly earlier. For someone who's flown a lot and should be very blase about air travels (like GBM), I find airports very <a href="http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com/2010/07/warning-this-post-may-contain-traces-of.html">stressful</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com/2007/11/weighing-in.html">Very</a> stressful.<br />
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Very <a href="http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com/2009/10/here-comes-another-airline-rant.html">stressful</a>.<br />
<br />Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-58729516140883949942011-08-24T22:59:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:48:27.027+02:00Just a couple of couponsSo on Saturday, we went swinging through the trees thanks to a deal voucher. The week before, GBM and I went for an 8-dish tapas meal for the price of one main meal.<br />
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This evening, we enjoyed a three course meal at a fancy-shmancy restaurant for 40% off. Next week, I'm going with a friend for a "wellness day" of facials, head massage and general niceties - also at half the usual price. And I still need to figure out when I'm going to make use of my '10 Zumba classes for the price of four' vouchers.<br />
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Cycling home today, I realised that I might be developing a bit of a problem with this. GBM is also suffering from the affliction, eagerly signing up for regular mailing lists that announce discounts on work shirts and similar.<br />
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I think we've got it under control so far. We've been able to refrain from the seriously silly deals - like lazer eye-surgery and teeth whitening services.<br />
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But still... we're becoming a couponing couple. Which means one of two things for me...<br />
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a) we're getting old. I don't know why, but I associate coupons with old people dragging shopping carts on wheels. And blocking supermarket queues while they pay with every five cent piece in their position. GBM already does that, but without the cart.<br />
b) we're becoming Dutch. The cloggies love a money-saver.<br />
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Neither option is good, in my eyes.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-91469640205830976172011-08-23T22:49:00.000+02:002013-09-02T21:42:18.836+02:00Wind Goddess<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I've recently become a bit addicted to yoga. I can't say I buy into the whole philosophy though. My yoga instructor is a full-on vegan/fasting for a week at a time on nothing but liquids/choosing to ignore a bladder infection, and attempting self-healing until she got herself admitted to ER with full-blown kidney infection/kinda yogini. I don't buy into that wholesome lifestyle, no matter how hard she tries to sell it.</span><br />
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But I do love her calming classes, and the quiet meditation at the end - which usually results in the best sleep I have all week. </div>
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I'm not very good at the twisty positions, but counter-intuitive to my completely clumsy nature, I am particularly adept at the balancing and inverted positions. Nothing clears your head like having to concentrate on standing on one foot, while grasping your other foot pulled in front of your hip by the opposite arm, which is in turn wrapped around your back. </div>
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And the inversions... I feel like I was born to be upside down. I particularly love the converted stand or shoulder stand. We always end our classes with it, and it entails lying flat on your back and then heaving your legs up above your head and just holding them there, finding balance without straining your shoulders or back. Then we slowly drop our toes down to touch the floor behind our heads and gently roll our spines out again, bringing knees past our faces and then back down to the floor. </div>
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The only problem with this position (for me anyway) is it kinda opens passages which don't usually get to see that much air time. And as a long-term IBS sufferer, my gut doesn't need much of a push - so to speak - to get the gasses moving. So the one day as we were rolling out, I was unfortunate to let out a not-at-all-discreet "ppphhhwaaaarp". It came as much of a surprise to me as it did to the rest of the class.</div>
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The class remained silent in an attempt to stay in the peaceful moment (which I'd already ruined), but I could see the companion closest to me going puce in the face from withholding her response. "Oh for gods' sake," I sighed "just laugh."</div>
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And she did. The rest didn't take much encouragement to follow her example. But the instructor was kind to point out, through her giggles, that "these things happen" and that there is even an exercise/pose which is apparently called "The god of the wind". </div>
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Clearly I won't be needing much practice at that one. Can't wait. </div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-56511591404009926672011-08-22T23:58:00.000+02:002013-09-02T21:42:40.850+02:00For monkeys, big and small<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">On Saturday, GBM and I took ourselves around a <a href="http://www.funforest.nl/en/home">little forest adventure</a>. I'd seen the course before, but it didn't look like much - more like team-building activities or kids' parties. But, ever the sucker(s) for a good online deal, we thought we'd have a bash when we saw a three-hour session advertised at 40% discount. It's not like we had anything better to do on a Saturday morning anyway. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">So off we went, signed the indemnity form, listened to the standard do's and dont's and got our special helmuts with the tag on it, indicating that we were English. And as much as I'm interested in learning new words in Dutch, I really want to understand the safety intricacies that will entail me securely attaching myself to a platform several metres up in a tree. We took the special helmuts without shame.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">A few short minutes later, I had fully earned my 'special' status. GBM had stepped into his safety harness and was securing the buckles, while I was still trying to figure out which legs went where and why it was all so uncomfortable. I couldn't reach any of the buckles, I couldn't get them tight enough, it was just a silly design. Fortunately GBM saved me from public humiliation by quietly pointing out each leg strap was actually labelled "left" and "right" (clear as mud, in English). Not only that, but the lettering was upside down. So I had it on the wrong way round, AND upside down. Superb. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Once we had that sorted out, we were ready for our private (English-Only) instruction course. They ran us through the safety procedures of ensuring that at least one of your two safety lines were connected at all times, proper placement of carabines on the safety cables and where and when it was safe to follow behind the person in front of you. Standard stuff. We passed the demonstration quickly enough and then (this is what I love about the lackadaisical H&S attitude in the Netherlands)... we were free to run loose in the trees.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">There are <a href="http://www.funforest.nl/en/courses">8 adventure courses</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;"> with various degrees of difficulty. We started on course 3... thought we wouldn't get too cocky straight away. It was fun, just a few metres above ground, wonkly platforms and a bit of balance required.</span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Course 5 followed shortly, which entailed a bit more muscle-control and core balance. But by now, we had the hang of the safety harness technique and could get a bit more playful. I had a particularly good laugh watching GBM trying to negotiate across an uneven level of individually-strung stepping stones. He started on his left foot and as soon as he lifted his right to step forward, his entire body shot to the left, which meant that had to take an <i>eeeeextra</i> big step (as if moon-walking) to reach the next foot hold on the right. Now it was all he could do to stop from doing the splits (well, technically, the harness at his waist was doing the most to stop that - but at the same time, giving him a superb wedgie effect, all the more entertaining to watch from the back). Left foot up... body weight all on right... <i>beeeeg </i>moon-step to reach the next one on the left. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Watching his progress in slow-motion brought to mind the stomp-precarious-totter style that toddlers often have as they learn to walk by not falling over. Of course, I then had to follow suit, which was not helped by the fact that I now had the giggles. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Course 6 was the best - lots of nice long ziplines. Which was awesome, once I figured out how to launch myself without twisting my body in the process. Roaring uncontrollably up to a tree, arse-first, is not as much fun as some might like to think. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The final course required extra instruction and is for "experienced climbers only". GBM and I were high on the success from our previous courses and decided to give it a shot. One of the obstacles was a tarzan-like swing, from one platform to the next. Being no fool myself, I made GBM go first. He secured his safety harness and launched himself forward, swung and landed on the platform. But, before he could get his balance enough to step forward, the weight of his body and the momentum of the rope pulled him backwards. Frantically he grabbed for anything on the tree to hold himself there, and failed. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I supported his efforts by doubling over with laughter. When I realised that he was now officially stuck, I did try (genuinely) to help him back to the platform I was on, but it was quite a steep incline and I frankly did not have the strength to pull him back up. Assistance was hailed, much to GBM's embarrassment (and my amusement) as he clung to the rope like an uncertain newborn monkey. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Once he was rescued, we could move on and complete the course, but after almost three hours of core and upper body strength we were absolutely shattered. We took a very slow cycle home and collapsed on the couch for the rest of the day. I cannot recommend it enough - childish fun in the treetops. </span></div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-47125795993791964802011-08-19T16:53:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:50:54.213+02:00Parking etiquetteIt's easy to become arrogant on the bike paths around Amsterdam, cyclists have right of way and for the most part people respect this. So it's easy to fly around and race through intersections when... if something, god forbid, were to actually happen... you know that you are protected from liability.<br />
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Occasionally I get a sharp reminder that I'm not untouchable. Like this morning, when - even though I was on the main road, and it was most definitely my right of way - a delivery van reversed out of a side street, completely oblivious to the fact that I was right in his path. I screeched to a halt on my brakes, because I realised if I didn't, I was going under his back wheel. Even then, he was turning out of the side street and turning into the place where I had now become stationary. So I smacked the back of his van with the flat of my palm.<br />
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I saw the driver put his head out the window with a quizzical raise of his eyebrows. Then he smiled and waved, like I'd just told him to have a nice day. Which is pretty much the opposite of what I was feeling.<br />
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He roared off on his merry oblivious way and I got to my office without further incident... until I got into our small allocated parking area where once again, it was demonstrated that four-wheeled or two, <a href="http://twistedkoeksuster.blogspot.com/2009/11/meet-priscilla.html">people park like dicks</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLGME-qsh1e9tbuvcyW8jBQqTHbntguCUjr99uYeqf77aGI9NbOz1GcpPnc-ewCkS98v5RnCm5j9zhiE-Z3sz1AZ9FqzkPcbxlcm4n4peLLxqnY5DnT1qn-_9h-EITsjZcGKe0Q/s1600/photo+%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLGME-qsh1e9tbuvcyW8jBQqTHbntguCUjr99uYeqf77aGI9NbOz1GcpPnc-ewCkS98v5RnCm5j9zhiE-Z3sz1AZ9FqzkPcbxlcm4n4peLLxqnY5DnT1qn-_9h-EITsjZcGKe0Q/s320/photo+%25284%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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For the uninitiated in bike parking etiquette, this wanker is taking up not one, not two, but three spots. Supreme dickmanship.<br />
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He's parked his bike on the other side from where I took the pic, from where I thought I would park my bike until closer inspection. But instead of locking his giant chain to either (or any of the other three) metal frames on his side, he's chosen to place the lock directly across 'my' side of the rack.<br />
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So no one can park between him and the bike to his right (our left). No one can use the rack next to his left (our right) because he's between those two. And no one can use the rack opposite, that he's locked across on the other side. Three bike spots. For one very special, inconsiderate cyclist.<br />
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Kinda makes me wanna stab a front tyre. But I know Karma doesn't like it when I do that. So instead, I just wished compacted constipation on the recipient bike owner for the rest of the month. Karma owes me one for good behaviour, restraining from vandalising other people's property.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-14263694060886370052011-08-18T11:47:00.001+02:002013-09-02T20:51:19.161+02:00SWAG<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa9msa8tUrzRMUIn9okzkmjPRU1hqnDzqifhyFyVlvTAHZ62NWEg0qbJLwmEEi1nSX8m1vBcP0XEkbGsNNLrJxMq2JbnXeY8DySPxczOC1FP6NekdorIyXpCY9JwJ2YwGO7HFmA/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRa9msa8tUrzRMUIn9okzkmjPRU1hqnDzqifhyFyVlvTAHZ62NWEg0qbJLwmEEi1nSX8m1vBcP0XEkbGsNNLrJxMq2JbnXeY8DySPxczOC1FP6NekdorIyXpCY9JwJ2YwGO7HFmA/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Shit We All Get. </div>
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I went to a Ladies Night at the movies yesterday. The highlight of the evening (for me) is never the movie, but rather the drinks and snacks before hand (champagne and macarons last night) and the free goodies bags.<br />
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Yeah! 'Cos who doesn't love free shit?<br />
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Of course, as with all marketing ploys, you have to plough through a plethora of pamphlets and printed adverts. Blah blah blah blah, chuck that shit in the bin. Thanks for trying to get my attention, but you have been disqualified for laziness and lack of imagination.<br />
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Moving swiftly onto the actual marketing awards in this week's bag of SWAG. First, the winners, the one's who have a budget (or the savvy to realise that marketing actually requires expense).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjfNkwYZ1ABl9wS6Qi8eNwVk0ARzsBzeCr6BLhRraKoJGYJbOPxGM4Esf5NjQVe6NY_u4VMUP7nGInQh8NBme8K2Ss970li6EbgqRrUX2X0wRHboKES_DLjNj1VTQ869f5fqI6w/s1600/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjfNkwYZ1ABl9wS6Qi8eNwVk0ARzsBzeCr6BLhRraKoJGYJbOPxGM4Esf5NjQVe6NY_u4VMUP7nGInQh8NBme8K2Ss970li6EbgqRrUX2X0wRHboKES_DLjNj1VTQ869f5fqI6w/s320/photo+%25281%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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A new product launch (hand cream sample) from Body Shop. Score!<br />
John Frieda Frizz Ease hair shampoo sample. Score!<br />
Bike bell from a shop that I hadn't heard about, but now want to see what other hip trendy stuff they can add to my bike. Well done, Chopperdome, give yourselves a gold star.<br />
And two points for the movie house, who handed out packets of sweet and salty Jimmy's popcorn and diet Coco-Cola (not pictured, due to previous consumption). Well played, m'lords.<br />
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And, now, the ones who have tried. And failed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdOP5C6erf_jNIYBAU9pmal2Bk1sW01ZmUFjHzHTBf9bwyLQ8hGteTZhD0ChGhpA8dkCcA8_6tkjXYfopkSPagjvSbad9JPrsCVTX1htF-30tyvjb1wBQJHyB6K10qKikU4V3Og/s1600/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdOP5C6erf_jNIYBAU9pmal2Bk1sW01ZmUFjHzHTBf9bwyLQ8hGteTZhD0ChGhpA8dkCcA8_6tkjXYfopkSPagjvSbad9JPrsCVTX1htF-30tyvjb1wBQJHyB6K10qKikU4V3Og/s320/photo+%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Ice Watch. What is it? I don't know. I'm assuming some sort of attempt at trendy time keepers. There's a website included on the "we wanna start a social revolution" bracelet. This company provided a very nice gift bag, complete with ribbon insert and branding - which I presume would usually be supplied to paying customers once they have actually been into their store and bought a watch. So, minus points for marketing laziness. And they put a rubber/plastic band with their branding on. These bracelets only work as a fashion statement when they are making exactly that - a statement. WWJD or Livestrong. Product placement? Who's going to carry your website around on their wrist without gaining anything from it? Binning that shit. Fail.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NWiPIvu3a3jCoLiGwxS5rdJS1BQxGbWA-Kf7mStqnwH5EzQpW6sk4QFF2Ev7rcTirNtI98rQ-CcWaVmPooZM9R_UtArDC5PHfhXayWJZ36bJ_v1fjNgwtV3j6TC-RcD2nm0biQ/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_NWiPIvu3a3jCoLiGwxS5rdJS1BQxGbWA-Kf7mStqnwH5EzQpW6sk4QFF2Ev7rcTirNtI98rQ-CcWaVmPooZM9R_UtArDC5PHfhXayWJZ36bJ_v1fjNgwtV3j6TC-RcD2nm0biQ/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Hair product. I guess. From Amsterdam with love? Okay, now I'm a bit nervous about the lubricant-looking content. Um, do I put this on my hair? The back has a single line that reads: "softening action with corn flower and aloe flower extract". Softening of what? What are you actually marketing here? Oh wait, in the corner, almost visible, is another line. Hotel V. Okay, so I assume this is some sort of hotel in Amsterdam, one that feels their biggest sell point is their free shampoo. Or some sort of salad dressing. Um... okay. Not so sure about this. Fail.<br />
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True, they've succeeded in the base requirement of marketing - I've learnt about their brand. Both groups of brands have spent money on this marketing. But am I enticed to use Ice Watch and Hotel V brands, visit their website or try their products? Not a chance.<br />
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If I like the John Frieda Frizz Ease or the Body Shop hand cream... will I tell people about it, choose to buy their products? Probably, yes. Win.Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-1134894823154839332011-08-17T14:07:00.000+02:002013-09-02T20:51:45.898+02:00Ja... what he said.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I was 12 when the New South Africa came into being. The Rainbow Nation. <br />
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I often get asked what it was like, living under Apartheid rule, but I honestly don't recall much of the unrest as it was happening. I guess that's because we were still living in segregated communities for the first 10 years of my life. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The strongest memories of "surviving Apartheid" that I can personally recall, are the bomb/attack drills that we had to practise in primary school and the fact that I called every black man I saw "Amos" because that was the name of my gran's gardener.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">The bomb drills are a particularly ludicrous memory - a horrible whooping alarm would go off and we would all have to scramble under our desks, close our eyes, cover our ears and sing "Ol' MacDonald had a farm, ee-eye-ee-eye-oooooh" or something similarly innocous to ourselves. I assume the reasoning was to muffle the sights and sounds of our white classmates supposedly being butchered around us. I like to think of it as the Head in the sand </span>defense<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"> mechanism. Why teach self-defense when they can just blinker themselves and pretend that nothing is happening?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I remember watching Mandela being released on TV, and asking my mother what all the fuss was about. I think I remember her saying it was a good thing for the country, but I had no idea why. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I don't remember much else, really. I had a normal childhood, didn't witness any violence or unrest - other than what was reported on the news (still to a limited extent back in the 80s). But I did, without a doubt in my mind, benefit from it. And surely there aren't many white people in SA who can claim to have not done so. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">My parents could afford to put me through decent schools. We had two cars to our four-person family. We each had our own room. I'm not saying that it was cushy, or that my parents had it easy financially. Not even slightly. But it was better than 90% of the population. Much better. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So, yes I benefited from the system of inequality. Sometimes I feel guilty about it, knowing what other South Africans were subjected to during those years. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Other times I feel angry that I am <i>expected </i>to apologise for the inequality.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #232323; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Peet van Aardt is succinctly refreshing about his feelings on this matter. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #232323; line-height: 19px;">To the point that I felt inclined to comprise this entire post with three simple words and a link: <a href="http://www.news24.com/Columnists/GuestColumn/Whites-and-Apartheid-Really-20110815">What he said</a>.</span></div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34552736.post-70850156954352828442011-08-16T17:17:00.001+02:002013-09-02T20:54:13.270+02:00It's a man's world<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The men's loo is situated right next to the kitchen at the office, the doors are adjacent to each other. So every time I go to the kitchen for a drink, or something to eat, or whenever I leave the kitchen, chances are high that I will see and hear some one peeing. Because apparently men have no compunctions about standing at a urinal, treating us all to The Stance and the acoustic accompaniment of gushing liquid on porcelain. </span><br />
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And for some reason, it really bothers me. I don't actually know why. I can't see anything. It's just that I know what he's doing. I know he's got his penis flopped out in his hands and I can hear it. I also know that most of them don't wash their hands and for this reason I'm loathe to reach in and close the door while they're there, which is how one of my colleagues chooses to handle it... by leaning in and asking in a very sweet, sing-song English accent, "Would you mind closing the door next time? Thank you". It's almost worth it because it always makes them jump. I'm just concerned that she might receive some splash-back one day. </div>
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But that's just the way it is for guys, isn't it? They can like to pee, whenever. Wherever. </div>
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Sure, they might get a fine for public exposure, but I haven't seen many men perturbed by the thought of this. The world is their urinal. I can't imagine, if the roles were reversed, and the ladies loo was right next to the kitchen (rather than on the opposite side of the elevators) whether the door would ever be left open. Even if there was a slight wall to shelter visibility, so that no one could actually see anything, I would want to be able to close doors. I want privacy when I drop my pants and I think most western women prefer this option. It's what we've been socialised to expect. </div>
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Come to think of it, why is okay for men to pee in public, while not for women? If I see a woman openly peeing in the street (which certainly happens in the red light district, the beacon of class), I am horrified and even disgusted. How can a woman debase herself like that? Yet when I see men peeing on the side of the street, I usually roll my eyes and (depending on the mood I'm in) look the other way or make a point of staring. If they can't be bothered to do it somewhere private, then they must accept that people are going to look. Similarly, if I happen to cross paths with a guy peeing without bothering to close the door, I force myself to look into the loo - to look at him. It's all the more effective if he happens to look at the same time. If you want privacy, close the fucking door. </div>
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I've done my fair share of peeing in bushes and I'm not exactly proud of it. But it is always as absolutely the last option and always in nook where I'm pretty sure I'm likely to see someone coming before they see me. I hope. It's a humiliating act, having to squat. And I think that's what it ultimately boils down to - men don't have to submit themselves to the ground, in fact they barely have to change their stance. Further to this, their clothes are designed to facilitate easy of urination. Women's clothes are not. Unless you choose to wear long skirts without any underwear, which is not a common combination (that I'm aware of anyway). </div>
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For most men, if there isn't a toilet within 100m of where they currently stand, they're likely to stroll behind the closest tree. As long as they're sort of sheltered from the front, they don't care who can see them from behind. And so it is in the office place, and I find it incredibly disrespectful to anyone who is unlucky enough to have to witness it. </div>
Koekiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12174544977125170134noreply@blogger.com1