Exciting times

Yesterday I handed in notice of my resignation. Well, technically I can't really resign because I’m only currently contracted until the end of November, but I let them know that I wouldn’t be begging for a renewal come the next month. Because I’ve been offered a job, also in media but not online – which actually pays! What a novel idea.

I told my three-tiered managerial tiger one at a time. The first guy didn’t say much, other than he was ‘bummed’. Expressive. The second one had just got back from a London conference and I think was still getting over her sleeping pills so didn’t do much more than grin at me. Not sure how much she remembers. The third, main-man, said ‘fuck’ about seven times. Always good to know you’re loved. Of course, his reaction could be directly related to me being the fourth person in the last month to leave… but you pay peanuts, even monkeys don’t stick around.

Sooo… I start a new job from Dec 1. Scary and exciting.

Last night I guested (it’s a word; deal) for another hockey team and had a good run around until the biggest hairest and lesbianest of the opposition told me to sit-the-fuck-down with a hand planted in the middle of my back. Seriously, this chick is big and scary, and if she’s not lesbian then she single. Or married to a Limpopo farmer.

She had the ball (did I mention she has a reach like a full grown orangutan?) and I was buzzing around her like a half-pint fly trying to get the ball back when it got ahead of both of us… we both dashed for the ball, but as my team mates know, once I’m going in one direction that’s it, boy. I turn like the titanic. So as I ran in front of Big Hairy Lesbo, she gave me a little shove – which was all the encouragement I needed to dive nosefirst into the astro turf. Arms flailing, superman-style, I hit the turf and skidded for a good few metres, my feet flipped over the back of my head and I somehow managed to slide for a bit on my back before rolling with the momentum, jumping to my feet and running on. What a hero.

Fortunately, my right knee took the full brunt of the fall so I was relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, it’s the same knee that I’d finally decided to let the doc look at this afternoon. So the somewhat problematic knee is now somewhat problematic, pussy and squishy to touch. Awesome.

Hmmm, just thinking about it, I’ve had a similar fall a few years ago, but instead of landing on my right knee, I landed solely on my right breast (which explains why there’s nothing left) and popped my shoulder out. I jumped up after that one too – but not to carry on playing… rather because I was fully aware that I had landed at the feet of the sports photographer.

“Please tell me you didn’t get that,” I begged.
“Wrong lense,” he sighed.

Talk about missed photo opps. His bad

Unstable element

Warning: this post contains reference to menstruation and other girly things. Do not read if you do not wish to know this about me. (Yes, rumour has it that despite my best efforts to avoid admitting it, I’m a girl. Deal with it. I am... dealing with it, and a girl.

[As I’m typing, I’m trying to keep my nose down my shirt in an attempt to avoid the revolting, nauseating stench of a colleague’s early morning mince and chicken livers from the canteen. I think that’s what they called it – it smells more like rotting sewer rat, but that could just be my sensitive nasal passages so early on a Monday morning. How is this day not over yet?]

Okay, so on with this weekend. On Friday, Beloved Boyfriend joined the massive throngs of enthusiastic teenagers at the Live concert. I’m not a fan of being shoved around, staring into sweaty armpits while trying to catch a glimpse of the stage and spending most of the evening (a few hundred’s rand worth) in the queue for either a portable cubicle or a sheltered bush – when I can jump around and sing along to songs I like in the comfort and space of my own home. But enough about Boyfriend. I cunningly turned down an invitation to Turtle Crack – which got rained out anyway – and spent the evening at home. Alone. With no power. Not the highlight of my weekend, but I survived. I put candles into glass jars, rather than easily meltable plastic tubs (fire safety 101) and ran a bath (AFTER the lightning had died down) with rubber gloves and rubber soled flipflops on, just to be sure…

A quick revelation about power outages on the roads: people hoot with enthusiasm. Does this make the lights come back on?

On Saturday I went to collect a garage card that I didn’t order. I got a phonecall last week to tell me that my garage card was ready to be collected. I found this amusing because I’ve been out of the country and haven’t had a garage card for the last year and a half. I told Vusi from Nedbank this. It threw her for a bit, but unperturbed she carried on with her script. “You can collect your card from Randburg branch within 7 days.” I said I didn’t want the renewal. Pause. “You can collect your card from the Randburg…”

So I decided to go fetch it, seeing as it was there. My new friend, Bongi, came back with bad news. “We cannot find any proof of residence or any accounts under your name,” she says, witholding card that I didn’t want and hadn’t ordered.

“I know,” I explained, “I haven’t ever had an account. The card was under my father’s name. I didn’t order for renewal but I got told I had to collect it.”

Bongi explained that she wouldn’t be giving me the card and I explained that she could break it in half and shove a piece up each of her nostrils for all I cared. I didn’t want the damn thing in the first place and I had wasted most of my precious Saturday morning to drive to Randburg to fight with her.

Bear in mind, the last time I went to collect my garage card, the branch manager wouldn’t hand it over because she refused to believe that I was the same person pictured on my driver’s licence. “This is a man,” she informed me with a chuckle. “Where is your ID?”

It was a bad photo from a bad stage, and I prefer not to talk about it. And it clearly states FEMALE on the document anyway. Nedbank get stuffed.

Oh yes, I was going to talk about menstruation, wasn’t I? I got carried away with my hatred for Nedbank. It was also National Arsehole on the Road Day on Saturday. But, after dragging Boyfriend and a few others around the Zoo on Saturday evening (they were open for a Halloween special – lots of monkeys wearing witch’s hats and Scream masks), I was feeling a lot calmer about all things garage and traffic related.

And that’s when it happened... PMS.

NEWS FLASH: Boys, PMS is not in our heads. It is a very real affliction. Do not, if you value your dangly bits, ever suggest that we're making it up or exaggerating.

PMS makes me cry. Buckets. It wreaks havoc with my hormones and emotions and I bawl at just about anything. Dead puppies, cute puppies, weddings, TV ads, computers not working and most famously – because I couldn’t separate eggs. It’s embarrassing and I wish I could control it. I really, truly do.


Short story on Sunday is that Boyfriend and I were having an argument. It was about small differences. Until I started crying… then it became life or death differences.

Bless his cotton socks, my beloved boyfriend knew enough to placate and sooth me - and then took me out for sushi and all was good in the world. But since then, I’ve now done him the favour of circling the calendar dates for future reference. So he now knows to just agree with every thing I say at THAT time of the month. It might be easier and cheaper.



ps. I got choked up to see people handing out pamphlets in the rain this morning. PMS is, quite literally, a curse. Excuse me, I need to cry.

Fukkity Fuk

Shit. Bugger. Bastardbabyborntosatanspawn.

You know that feeling when you're bitching about someone to someone else, and you realise that you've just sent the email to that someone that you were bitching about, not to the someone who you were bitching to... You don't?

I do.

Fukking fukkity fukk-fukk-fukka.

And it's not the first time either. Baboons learn faster than me.

Home Affairs: Part II

Yesterday, Boyfriend and I almost got married.

We had to go to Home Affairs to get proof of our single status (plural - statuses? stati?) for our Dutch visa applications, currently being processed.

Arriving at Home Affairs we walked straight past the row of trailers and caravans, batting off the enthusiastic offers to do our passports “chop-chop”, and made our way down to the ID office – which is not the same place as the passport office, in case you were wondering. Follow the dusty, beaten path past something resembling kennels on the left, (I’m sure I saw a few chickens mulling around under the bushes), past the three donkeys and a few shepherds, head right down to the bottom of the property and into what looks like a shed.

We walked into the tiny, crowded room and sat at the back of what we presumed to be the queue. A gentleman walked up to us to as what we’re there for. Well, technically, he started with, “where are your papers?”

Us: What papers? We don’t know what we need.
Him: What do you need?
Us: We need proof of marital status.
Him: Where is your marriage certificate.
Us: No, we need proof that we’re not married.
Him: So you want to get married?
Us: No. No marrying anybody. We need to proof that we’re both single.
Him, nodding with comprehension: So then you can get married.
Us: No… we need to proof that we’re NOT married.
Silence.
Him: Why?
Us: In order to get our Dutch visas.
Him: Wait here.

We waited. I had a quiet chuckle and tried to keep Boyfriend at a simmering level of calm. We got directed to another lady at Home Affairs. Repeat conversation above, replacing ‘him’ with ‘her’.

I have to say, through all this, and despite the lack of order or system, they were all very polite and friendly, if a little bemused at why we would want to proof that we are NOT married. We couldn’t even help them with an explanation because we’re not sure either. I don’t know why we have to prove it in order to get into the country. We began to think that maybe it would just be easier to get married.

Eventually, we found someone who seemed to know what we needed (although he did try to register us for marriage first) and we were finally able to fill out the correct forms. The forms asked for postal addresses, which we duly filled in – to be told that we had to come back to fetch these blessed documents. Much confusion when we asked what our postal address was in aid of?

Paying was another issue altogether as the man and woman behind the counter (who had by now lost interest in uniting us through better or worse) had a fairly expressive argument about how much we had paid and which of them had lost the money… until they saw me staring in wide-eyed amusement, cash still in my hand. I don’t think they get many requests for proof of single marital status.

Fighting our way back through all the passport-peddlers and picture-pushers, we decided to celebrate our success at avoiding matrimonial heaven… and the Beast needed feeding, of course.

If you’ve been to the KFC near Randburg astro, you might know that the drive-thru has a nifty little speaker with a great big sign that reads: PLACE ORDER HERE. Boyfriend and I completely missed that clever notice and in our excitement drove straight up to the food window, where they patiently pointed out the speaker.

We didn’t feel like idiots at all. Deciding not to get ahead of ourselves and attempt the drive-thru again, we parked and ventured past the speaker that was now screaming, “HELLO!” to the next drive-in customer.

How the hell did we miss that?

Last night, Boyfriend’s hockey team hosted a fundraising dinner for their 2008 drinking, I mean, hockey tour to Australia.

The two guest speakers were Mark Andrews and the ever-stylish Kobus Wiese. The latter couldn’t quite figure why he was speaking at a hockey dinner, but I was impressed with their eloquence (you heard me) and snappy comments. One anecdote from Mark included, “I may be a tight forward, but I’m not that stupid…” The big man also seems to have a somewhat unhealthy obsession with mentioning which flanks he thinks are ugly or good looking. They were surprisingly charismatic.

Before he met me, Boyfriend’s lifelong love was rugby. He didn’t realise that shops stayed open and the country did not come to a grinding halt during international tests between SA and Australia and that, in fact, some citizens didn’t even know the game was on. So this dinner was an opportunity to bond, but in honesty, I was there for the free food. It was a bonus to find myself captivated by tales of tour antics, setting fireworks off in hotel rooms, on-field analytics and most memorable punching moments.

And the food was damn good too.

The BEAST

That is what I call the creature that insists that I eat all day everyday. Probably one of my most said phrases is “Are you going to finish that?” I drive my beloved boyfriend along, around and up the wall because I eat my meals and then finish his (without asking). We’ve almost had divorces over this - it could be our most argued topic of all time, followed closely by his severe lack of sense of direction. He would be lost without me. Literally.

I have been called a human garbage disposal, a pig, and on one occasion a hummingbird, because I eat my own body weight every day. I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment, but I thought that was quite sweet nonetheless.

I’m not overweight by any means. Some tell me I’m too skinny. Barring the average female self-esteem insecurities, I think I’m okayish. But I also think that deep down inside me, there’s a very, very fat woman dying to eat her way out.

Eating is a big issue in my life and not for the above-mentioned average female insecurities. My problem is that as much as I like to eat, my body tends to not like what I eat. While in res, I was diagnosed with malnutrition because apparently my daily diet of at least one egg; 4-6 pieces of toast either covered in melted cheese or coated in peanut butter and syrup; one or two helpings of whatever grease-laden carcinogenic attempt at meat was being served in the dining hall topped with generous lashings of mayonnaise, chutney and tomato sauce; one large packet of chips (generally chipniks) with one tub of cream-based dip; and one take-out meal at about 10pm at night… was not healthy. (remember I started that sentence a few lines back? End sentence.) Not vegetables or fruit, unless they were being used to lob at fellow students.

And, just this once, I will swear that I’m not exaggerating. Ask any former resmate you can find. I put on 10kg that year, which took me from looking anorexic to looking a little chubby around the cheeks - I even delighted in naming my tummy fat roll, Fred. It also had the delayed reaction of just about killing my digestive system. Okay, I might be exaggerating a bit there.

But this is what it boils down to – I’m not supposed to eat or drink: dairy products, garlic, onion, mayonnaise, citrus fruit, wheat, refined foods, fatty foods, fizzy drinks, alcoholic drinks – especially cider, blah blah blah blah blah. All said and done, I’m left with a diet of bananas, dry provitas and water. So I largely ignore the dietary suggestions and deal with the consequences later.

This brings me back to the Beast. The Beast must eat. When the Beast doesn’t eat, it gets grumpy.

Yesterday, during one of the many power outages, I went in search of a chicken mayo sarmie. None to be found in the canteen downstairs, so I asked for a toasted chicken mayo to be made up. Sorry, all out of chicken mayo. The Beast raised its head groggily from slumber and forced me to seek further afield for the elusive chicen mayo.

I got to my favourite hole-in-the-wall shop in Rosebank. No sarmies to be seen at all. What’s up with this – it’s not even midday!? Okay, I’ll just have one of those yummy home-made chicken pies. The Beast nodded its head in confirmation. That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.

Sorry, we’re all out of home-made chicken pies. The Beast roared, making me have a mild temper tantrum in front of the shop counter. What DO you have?

Settling for a spinach and feta pie, the Beast was placated for at least another few hours. I’ve given up trying to fight it. The Beast must eat. And heaven help anyone who fails to move out of the way fast enough…

A quote from a colleague with one wicked sense of humour:

"I don't like eating vegetables. I find the wheelchairs get stuck in my teeth."

It's sick, I know, but I had a guilty chuckle.

Fire Hazard

Remember the talks we got on fire safety as kids? I clearly don't.

I'm a part-time pyromaniac. When we're on the farm or anywhere near a braai, I MUST light the fire. People get shoulder-charged out the way. I get kinda caveman about it. Koekie make fire, gooood...

That's all well and jolly under controlled circumstances, like say, outdoors. But I also have a tendency to set fire to things indoors - unintentionally. This hobby is slightly more perturbing, especially for the people who share habitation with me.

Once upon a not-so-distant time, I managed to set fire to a butternut I was attempting to roast in the oven. Note to self: wax-wrap is highly flammable.

There was also the time that I fell asleep with a towel draped over free standing heater in my room. See previous mentioned comment about not paying attention during primary school safety talks (I was the kid burning matches in the corner). In my defense, the heater was off when I went to bed, but as I feel asleep while reading, I knocked the heater on.

Half an hour later, I woke up to an acrid smell and somewhat blurry vision. Fortunately, the towel was only (only!?) smouldering and hadn't actually caught alight yet. My housemate was muchos-happy with me when I explained the caustic aroma the next morning.

"He he... well, funny story, actually... heh, I... um, almost killed us and possibly took a few other tenants with... funny, hey?"

You know the question of: what would you grab if your house caught fire? People who live with me not only know the answer, but also have a list of priorities and an emergency bag packed in case of such an event.

Our bathroom light isn't working at home – as in electrics, not faulty lightbulb. So our amateur solution has been to balance a candle in an empty marg tub on the toilet cistern. Problem solved.

Last night, we kinda… might've... left it burning. All night. Fire hazard 101. I came through this morning to find 1 x very melted, very plastic covered toilet.

Oops. Good thing porcelain isn't known for its combustible nature.

Fire hazard 102 is my hair. I didn't have time or the inclination (too busy cleaning melted goo off the cistern) to straighten it this morning so it is as Mother Nature intended. Very big and very curly. Colleagues have been greeting me with shocked, but slightly amused, grins. I'm so glad I can entertain.

Must remember to stay away from smokers today. In such dry, hot weather this straw thatch would go up before you could say "igni..."

I'm choking up. Really.

I promised myself I wouldn't post more than once a day. I'm taking tablets for it and yes, I am one of the 35,6 million people addicted to blogging.* But there's just so much out there. I can’t stop.

When the Kiwis aren't swinging handbags, they’re promoting flower markets: All Blacks to honour fallen soldiers.

Okay, first: New Zealand was involved in wars? I was so intrigued I had to go and check, and waddya know... The British colony of New Zealand supported the UK militarily in both World Wars, when they weren't too busy defeating the native peoples, of course. But really, how much of a difference could the islands of long, white clouds have made in the big scheme of things.

Call me callous, but I get an overwhelming sense of boo-frigging-hoo.

"The All Blacks have used the valour of New Zealand servicemen as a motivational factor for previous Tests in France. On the 2004 tour, hooker Anton Oliver gave a poignant pre-match talk on the feats of legendary 1905 All Blacks captain Dave Gallaher, who was killed in World War I and is buried in a Belgian cemetery. The team then went out and thrashed France 45-6."

Ra ra ra. The dude died over a hundred years ago and they would've thumped France anyway. Get over it already, you big bunch of pansies.



*96,7% of stats made up.

Unplayable

This.

Poland's far-right League of Polish Families (LPR), which is part of the coalition government, claims Darwin's theory of evolution is all wrong, that humans lived alongside dinosaurs and that Neanderthal man is still among us.

"Neanderthal man still roams the planet, notably in the United States where examples can be spotted in a boxing ring..."

I love it. I've seen examples of not only Neanderthal characterisations but also Neanderthal behaviour in the traffic. Now I have scientists on my side. So there.

There's also this, where a Scottish judge admits that "all black people look the same at first glance and the same can be said that all Chinese people can look the same to a native Scot". It must be confusing being him. Wonder if he can tell his kids apart?

And closer to cyber-home, there's this: China intends to require its millions of internet bloggers to register under their real names in a move that is raising privacy concerns... The real name requirement is an "unavoidable choice" if China wants to properly develop its blogging community, according to state media.

Glad I'm not Chinese. Even their own government can't tell them apart.

I laugh in the face of chaos

Sigh. Born into the wrong family.

Some dads by their daughters jewellery, some buy them a car. Others get a chunk of the most expensive real estate in Africa… She is only 22 and has a stake in the V&A Waterfront worth about R420-million, bought for her by daddy.

Instead of having that life, I have this…

Three days in the life of Calamity Koekie:

Having survived Friday’s ‘launch’ - which was pushed back a week and a half when advised to give the gimps more time to learn the system – I headed off to join friends for sushi in Parkhurst. Yum. Love sushi.

When the meal EVENTUALLY arrived (could they taunt me for any longer?) the girl sitting next to me leaned across to grab some ginger – which she dropped directly in my lap. Assuring her that if she hadn’t done it I definitely would’ve, we carried on with our meal.

That’s when I dropped a clump of wasabi in my lap. I’m not sure how, as I was aiming 30cm to the right of where it landed and it shouldn’t have come anywhere near my lap, but these things happen. Much hilarity as I joke about only needing to add soy sauce and I would be good enough to eat!

A few minutes later, Cl obliged, by nimbly dropping her California roll into her side dish – sending a tsunami of soy sauce into my crotch.

Gods of chaos 1: Koekie ‘call me sushi’: 0

Saturday, Boyfriend and I decided to flip the couch. So easy in theory. We have a metal-framed sleeper couch in our lounge which was looking decidedly ‘sat on’. Flipping it turned into the mission of the weekend.

Right, lay couch flat. Now, grab one end of mattress each and pu… puuu… Okay. So pulling isn’t going to work. That mattress is made of solid lead, lined with concrete. Boyfriend and I take a step back to reassess the situation and I start to get the giggles.

Our next attempt was to try to drag the mattress off the frame. This resulted in moving the couch a quarter inch across the room, mattress still attached. We succeeded in getting the couch airborne, just high enough for it to land on my foot on touch down. Much squealing from me. More giggles (once couch was removed).

And, before you ask, the mattress was in no way attached to the frame. It was just damn heavy. I promise, we checked. Also bear in mind, we were actually on our way out the door when we decided to attempt this workout. So I was dressed to kill in a pretty summer dress and now sweating (and squealing) like a pig – and flashing my ass in our lounge window directly onto the parking lot. What a view.

Another attempt resulted in Boyfriend pinning his hand between mattress and wall. Once he managed to convince me to stop clutching my sides and extract his hand, we paused again to consider our options. Well, Boyfriend paused. I giggled.

We then tried rolling the mattress off the couch. This proved fairly constructive, although it entailed me flinging my full weight on to the mattress while Boyfriend shuffled around the couch to adjust his position.

After a few more attempts (and the couch landing on my other foot) – taking frequent breaks to control my giggling while Boyfriend waited hands-on-hips and rolled his eyes – we eventually succeeded in our mission.

Ah… the sweet, sweaty smell of success.

Koekie and Boyfriend: 1 Couch: 3 (1 hand; 2 feet)

On Sunday, Boyfriend and I went to the driving range for the first time in absolute ages. I was assigned the task of collecting the baskets of balls – at this driving range that means inserting a token into a machine, which then spews forth a predetermined amount of golf balls.

Insert token. Clunk, clunk, clunk clunk, as fifty-odd balls make their way down the machine. Unfortunately, I forgot to place basket underneath chute, so fifty-odd balls made their way out of the birthing canal and continued on to freedom, basketless. Think Sony Bravia bouncing ball ad, but with less colour.

Gods of chaos (channeling through Koekie): 1 Recovered golf balls: about 43

Bureaucratic Bumblings

Written in a mad rage yesterday:

We’re in the process of training for a new system. Learning a new system is good. Change is good. I accept there are going to be glitches and I accept that it’s going to take a while to wrap my head around the new system.

What I don’t accept is that at the (first and only) training session, we - the lowly minions – were informed that we’re to go live with this new system tomorrow. If not today.

This is the first time most of us have even clapped eyes on the software. Never mind used it. And now we must master it by when?

Fuck off.

Generally, a new launch or upgrade is phased in. A few hours of training, a few days if not weeks of testing, then a few more tests before going live.

What’s the rush in this case…? Our managers have just realised that the launch party is tomorrow. Crap. Well we better have something to show at the launch, hey?

So now our managers, who have only recently discovered their belly buttons, are scurrying around like ants under a microscope because – surprise! – time carries on in spite of their best attempts to ignore it.

My list of priorities when introducing a new system:

1. Contemplate feasibility and logistics of new system
2. Design new system
3. Train employees
4. Test new system
5. Organise launch party
6. Go live

Their list of priorities, as far as I can tell:

1. Organise a launch party
2. Design the new system
3. Fret about unseen incompatibilities
4. Go live anyway
5. Oh ja... train employees

Oh, and by the way, the lowly minions are not invited to the launch party proper. We get pizza in our office – possibly placed just out of reach from our ankle shackles. They all need a lesson in efficiency from Randburg bloody Home Affairs. I am not paid enough for this shit.

End text.

Then I went off in a blind rage and played a hockey match. That we lost. I also managed to break a team mate’s finger – not directly, but she was kinda in the way of a ball that I cleared… at hip height. Lose cannon. Not sure if the finger’s broken, but her three middle fingers sure were a pretty shade of blue.

I’m going to hell.

Is it over yet?

When I’m home alone and there’s no one around to see me do it… I watch Egoli. That’s my dirty little secret. And lately, I’ve taken to watching Temptation SA as well. I’m hooked. It might actually be more unhealthy than just hooked, because I talk to, nay I coach, the contestants.

“Ernie Els… say it… Ernie Els! You know the answer… coooome ooooon!” I encourage, knowing full well that not only can’t they hear me, but it’s also pre-recorded. I can’t help it. I’m a trivia junkie. I’m hooked.

Wednesday evenings rock: (Egoli), Temptation SA, War at home (okayish – has moments), My Name is Earl (reminds me so much of two ‘special’ friends) and Scrubs. Now that’s some funny shit.

What is NOT funny is Laugh Out Loud. Please tell me no one out there who has access to M-Net watches it. If you do, stop reading. I’m sorry, but this relationship is not going to work. Jeremy Mansfield is vaguely funny on the Rude Awakening, largely due to the spontaneity and the group interaction. But making celebrities so upset that they are - most times - almost reduced to tears is not funny.

‘We made you believe your proud acquisition of a lovely new car was mangled underneath a ton of bricks before you had a chance to insure it! SUCKER!’ How is that funny? Am I missing something?

Back to today: as I opened the door to leave the house this morning, the neighbour’s cat came scurrying in. So I had to dump all the stuff I was carrying (handbag, cellphone, keys, lunch and hockey kit) and chase cat out from under couch. Then cat climbed into car with me. Dump stuff, chase cat out from behind driver’s seat…

Finally on my way to work when the Highveld DJ chose to play a song with these lyrics:

“You’re turning more than… my radio on.
You’re turning more than… my radio on.
You’re turning more than… my radio on.
My radio… my radio… my radio… my radio on.”

I shit you not. Word for word. I know cos I made a point of memorising the catchy and witty lyrics. By the M Fame People, or something. I think those words deserve a great big WTF?

Then Mlo and I decided to go to Fournos for an early morning cholesterol run. This entailed turning our quiet, productive open-plan office into a fish market.

“Okay, who wants what from Fournos? Choc croissant… how many? Who else? What muffins? Okay… money up front, peeps. Right… something creamy and pastry… got it… No raisins. Cool…”

On the way to Fournos, Mlo and I separated to draw money, but still managed to both step in the same puddle of sticky something. And I almost got taken out by a boom – and when I recounted my story to Mlo, her nonchalant reply was, “Oh that happened to me yesterday.”

We are one and the same.

At Fournos we managed to piss off about 7 different patrons, as we held up the bakery queue with calls back to the office: “Hi Bongi, I was trying to get through to Kerry, ja, just stand up and shout this message to her won’t you? No blueberry muffins. There’s banana, walnut, poppyseed and… what’s the one with the green bits in it? Spinach. Poppyseed? Okay.”

Then again at the check out till: “Okay, this order is on its own. But the choc croissant goes with the bran muffin. No, that change goes with the chocolate coated crunchie… wait, wait, that’s gotta be paid with this R10. And the R8 is for the chelsea bun…”

They hate us.

And then we got to sit in almost three hours of training for a new computer system that’s not quite finished but that we’re expected to grasp and be competently using by about 3pm this afternoon.

And yet I still have time to post. Priorities are sorted.

Ps. I hope Boyfriend finally finds it in him to wash the dishes I asked him to do last night, and then again this morning. 5am-ish is a good time to pounce on him, because I could ask him pretty much anything and he would agree, hug me, roll over and go straight back to sleep. Must keep that in mind…

Bureaucratic Beauty

7am and I am so SO not in the mood for work.

"It is a rare occasion when a president can sign a bill he knows will save American lives. I have that privilege this morning," Bush said at a White House signing ceremony, flanked by top US military and intelligence officials. "The bill I sign today helps secure this country, and it sends a clear message: This nation is patient and decent and fair, and we will never back down from the threats to our freedom."

I’m not even going to start.

Moving swiftly on, yesterday I get the passport/visa process on the roll. I’ve been dreading the visit to the home affairs office, so when I overheard a colleague talking about her passport renewal that needed to be collected I offered her a lift for my trip… misery loves company.

This turned out to be a very good plan, as without her my home affairs experience could’ve been very different. I always need organisation. I try, I do… but as we were leaving the office she mentioned that I need my ID book. What? Oh crap. Okay, so we’re going past my home to pick that up. And then she mentioned money. Oh crap - need that too! She rolled her eyes and patiently escorted me to the ATM.

We arrived at Randburg Home Affairs and I braced myself. But, despite my best efforts, my passport renewal was nothing but efficiency. (Touch wood… I haven’t got the new one back yet). Within half an hour, I had taken new passport pics, got the correct documentation, been helped at information, sat in the right and fast moving queue (I hate queuing in Africa where people have no need for personal space), and was ready to go home.

In fact, the thing that took the longest, was waiting to do my thumb print – because the guy was helping another citizen with their passport renewal. People were friendly and helpful – and this was at lunchtime on a random Tuesday, not first thing on a Friday morning or pay day.

I think the thing that struck me the most was the row of trailer/caravan services provided outside the Home Affairs proper. Last time I was there, it consisted of one caravan for passport pics. Now there must be at least a dozen offering anything from food and drinks to help with ‘emergency’ passports; pics; photocopying; and even an agency or two that will ‘Q 4 U’ – at a price of course.

I would describe it as painless, and I never thought I’d say that.

Then, last night, Boyfriend and I went out for dinner with Boyfriend’s dad. I like to scrub up pretty every now and again so I donned one of my favourite skirts for the occasion, to be informed by Boyfriend that there was, um, a hole right on my bum.

Oops. Further examination revealed there was another hole, and another… and another one there… This skirt is literally falling apart at the seams and I’ve never noticed. Wonder how long it’s been like that? It’s a favourite so I wear it quite a lot. How many work colleagues have I inadvertently flashed?

It wouldn’t be the first time either… I once managed to buy a pair of dud jeans with badly stitched pockets. A co-worker took great delight in pointing out (as I tripped up a flight of stairs and saw my arse, so to speak) that my pocket was tearing away from the jean-pant and he could, in every sense of the literal phrase, see my ass.

ps. The sunrise was beautiful this morning. Just thought I'd share.

Pistachio peckings

Munch munch munch... Pause. Fumble... Furtive glance.
Coast clear. Rummage...

I'm a pistachio Nut. I eat them all day every day. My wastebin next to my desk bears the tell-tale signs of many a shelled pistachio.

In the urgent process of getting nut from hand to mouth, I just dropped one down my top. Fortunately no one was around to witness it, besides the guy in the office behind me. But he either didn't notice or was polite enough to pretend not to see me groping myself.

Allow me a moment

I don’t know where to start. I was going to put up a soppy post, but then this story came up.

“Fried Coke has become the latest artery-clogging hit at US state fairs. The gooey Coke-battered nuggets topped with cola syrup won the ‘most creative’ title at the Texas state fair in Dallas last month.”

I try not to dislike Yanks as a rule, and I know a few very friendly, and very educated Americans who are probably more healthy than me (okay, that’s not hard) but let’s be honest, Americans are really doing their bit for global obesity.

‘Most creative’… pah. I’m now trying to shake loose the image of over-sized American families waddling their sticky coke-glazed way around the local fair, eyes gleaming at all the heart-stopping artery-choking ‘creative’ delights. “But, Billy-Sue, if we only have one of each of these 105 different snacks and deserts, then we won’t be over-eating…” Idiots.

Okay. I’m over that. This is me letting it go.

Now, the post that I was actually going to put up: I was going to talk about flowers. You know how us girls love flowers. Bleugh.

I’m not such a fan. I love flowers – in someone else’s house (generally my mother’s). Flowers are messy and I never have anything to put them in – except a bucket or the kitchen sink.

Don’t get me wrong, I do really enjoy receiving them. I always shove my nose appreciatively into the bouquet and smile affectionately at the provider. But after 5 days, when I haven’t changed the water in the vase (that I’ve had to borrow), the smell of stagnating water kinda overwhelms the floral aroma. The thought is always appreciated though.

One of the few times that Boyfriend randomly brought me flowers probably still gives my ex-digsmate great delight to recall. We were all watching TV when Boyfriend climbed through the window (we never used our front door – guests were expected to climb through one of the open lounge windows). With a call of “Koekie, go long!” Boyfriend launched the flowers stem-first into my upstretched arms. I loved it. THAT is how flowers should be delivered.

It will come as no surprise to learn that our current horticultural collection consists of two despondent cacti on our balcony. It’s touch and go as to whether they will make it to the new year.

So, when Boyfriend sent me the latest bunch of flowers, it made me go all soppy and weak at the knees.

That’s it. My virtual bunch of roses - and they come in their own vase. How well he knows me. All the thought and none of the ‘open packet of rose-feed protein, empty into vase, refresh water every 3-4 days’ admin.

Bless.

Eh?

This morning I arrived in the parking lot and realised that the guy parked next to me was still at his car - because his radio was booming Highveld news for all to hear. Then I realised that guy parked next to me was actually changing in the parking lot, brushing his receding grey hair in the reflection of his car window etc.

I'm pretty sure there are changing rooms for that shit? Just a thought.

This weekend was decidedly sober, despite Champagne Heathen's best attempts at convincing me to join her in adopting a streetkid at 3:30am in Melville. I maintain it’s the same streetkid who relieved me of my cellphone about a year and a half ago, so I politely declined.

Fortunately there was some quality TV viewing to be had (and not just e-tv porn). With Police Academy 2, Shark Tale and The Addams Family Values on, who would want to go out? I ask you.

Oh, and the Currie Cup final. What a let down. Hey ous, let’s just call it a draw, hey. That way everybody’s happy. Except the teams (woo fucking hoo. You hold that half, and I’ll hold this half), and the fans, and especially not the bookies.

Not that I really give two hoots for who won. My rugby interaction consisted of:

• How does Rassie get down from the roof so fast? This lead to further super-hero speculations; the possibility of a foofie-slide attached to one of the rugby posts; and a 007 pulley-system gadget.


• What does the word “Rats” on the Cheetah’s collar mean or stand for?


• Where is Pierre Spies? I like Pierre Spies. Why aren’t they showing him more? And Bryan Habana with his top off. He doesn’t even have to be on the field.


• Now that Ollie has grown his locks, does he look more ugly than the ugliest of ugly rugby players: Phil Waugh (easily mistaken for a cave troll from Middle Earth)?

On Sunday, Boyfriend and I decided to get our cars washed at a friendly looking car-wash/coffee shop down the road from us. I’m not going to name names, but I will say that it’s on the road that goes past Wanderers, and it’s somewhere between number 182 and 184. And the service is shocking.

Besides being treated as nothing more than an inconvenience, there was also nothing in the coffee house (that advertised all sorted of mouth-watering delights) other than coffee, and coke. I asked if they had anything more to eat – besides the array of two flavours of chips behind the counter. “Biltong,” says the not-so-helpful teller, pointing behind her, “and cappachino.”

Now that’s a well-balanced meal if I ever saw one. A good, solid cup of coffee. Idiots. (I don't drink coffee. A journo who doesn't drink coffee, or smoke. Go figure)

So I pulled out one of the biggest Sulks I’ve managed to produce... Bigger, even, than the Great Sulk of '88 (I’ve been pouting for a long time). I was hungry, and when I don’t eat I get grumpy, and I wanted the damn milkshake that was advertised so proudly on the board outside. There I sat, legs stretched defiantly on the chair in front of me, arms folded across chest, and bottom lip dropping to my lap.

That was when the other staff arrived. This caught my (and Boyfriend’s) attention, because they had left the rest of their skirts at home. Boyfriend and I got to thinking that perhaps the car wash was a front of um… some other kind of business (think etv porn). It would make sense – I mean, we really were inconveniencing these guys if we were actually here for a damn car wash. Maybe if I hadn’t been accompanying Boyfriend, he would’ve been offered more value for money for his ‘Full House’ service… That said, our cars were spectacularly clean by the end of it.

Finally, last night, Boyfriend suddenly pointed out that I had the letters ‘CKS’ printed across my chin. I have no idea how they got there or how long they’d been there. The next 45 minutes, and various moments after that, were spent trying to establish what I had managed to press to my face to leave the mark. We’re still baffled.

Mmm, tasty...

Generally, I struggle to muster any enthusiasm for weddings, wedding arrangements, flowers or dresses but when you throw 'edible' into the equation... that's a whole 'nother pile of cookies.

"Baker Valentyn Shtefano and his bride Viktoriya show off her wedding gown, which Shtefano made out of flour, eggs, sugar and caramel in the western Ukrainian city of Uzhhorod in August. The edible dress, made of 1,500 cream puffs and weighing in at 9 kilograms, took the 28-year-old baker two months to make." Yahoo.com

The groom in the cheap baker's hat, I could do without. Truth be told, who needs the groom in the first place? Other than to make the cake, I mean dress, of course.

Customer Service

I took my very sick phone in for a number of second opinions yesterday. The first attempt was at Rosebank Vodacom, where the jovial gentleman behind the counter offered the opinion that (eish) my phone was “very, very sick madam.”

I found this quite amusing, because I was expecting something more along the lines of “Eish, this is what we in the business call fucked, madam.”

He suggested I take my “sick phone to the Vodacare ICU at Sandton City, where there are many, many doctors waiting” to fix my phone. Sweet.

I’m not a big fan of Sandton City. I enter that mall and lose all sense of direction (I grew up in Bryanston. Sandton should be second nature to me. It’s not) So I brought a buddy along for moral support and parked on the roof, because it narrows down the car hunt when there’s only one level to search.

The first place we found was the Vodacom Shop. We walked in and asked for the Vodacom customer care and repair shop.

First employee: Blank stare. Opens mouth. Shuts mouth. Blinks.
Second employee: “Not here. You have to go out to Midrand for that.”
Helpful customer: “No, man – there’s a Vodacare right here… just go up the escalators, it’s opposite Edgars.”

Brings a whole new meaning to Customer Service. Thanking the customer for this useful information, we pottered on.

At the Vodacare shop, I handed my phone across and suggested that it might have a virus. The friendly lady said she thought it was the phone’s software, but would check for me anyway. She took my sim card out, placed it in her phone and did likewise with her sim card in my phone. I asked her if she was sure about what she was doing… if it’s a virus surely it’s going to poke her phone too?

She carried on regardless. Suddenly my phone was fine, but her phone reported receiving messages of “ææææææææææææææææ” content. Not pretty.

“Hmm,” she proclaimed, “it seems to be a virus.”

You don’t say.

Once we’d come to this groundbreaking deduction, we were able to move forward and I was able to get my phone fixed. But it all goes to show. Vodacom really does care – enough to sacrifice a personal employee’s phone to an unknown virus. Now that’s love.

Ps. I’m having no joy with my breakfasts. I have a designated bowl that contains my daily dose of cereal from home. Yesterday, the bowl must have, at some point in its recent past, contained washing powder granules. I came to this conclusion because there was a decidedly soapy taste to my pronutro and as I got closer to the bottom the consistency became more and more soapy. And crunchy. And yes, I ate it all because it’s what I do.

As you can see, I survived, although my digestive tract is in all probability whiter than white, with any colours protected by the new colour action formula.

Not one to be easily deterred, I cleaned the bowl and rinsed, and rinsed and rinsed, until I was satisfied there was no soapy residue remaining. This morning, when I went to top up my Special K with the milk provided at work, I tipped a cupful of low-fat in before I realised the milk was off.

But I ate it all. Because it’s just what I do.

Fridays rock

This is why it's cool to be me... it only takes two savanahs to get tipsy. Even less when I'm fit, or if I've just donated blood. Sometimes I have a binge and I can handle anything up to five!

A two hour lunch on a Friday also helps.

On the walk back from Mimmos (all two hundred metres) I managed to trip myself on the pavement and stumble down a set of stairs. And then I got the giggles. All after I decided to share as many dodgy stories from my Rhodes days as possible to the wide-eyed amusement of a stranger/colleague.

Drinks = R25
Entertainment = unlimited.

Thanks Champagne Heathen for this delight:

NEW YORK, NY - A public school teacher was arrested today at John F. Kennedy International Airport as he attempted to board a flight while in possession of a ruler, a protractor, a set square, a slide rule and a calculator.

At a morning press conference, Attorney General Alberto Gonzales said he believes the man is a member of the notorious Al-gebra movement. He did not identify the man, who has been charged by the FBI with carrying weapons of math instruction.

"Al-gebra is a problem for us," Gonzales said. "They desire solutions by means and extremes, and sometimes go off on tangents in a search of absolute value. They use secret code names like 'x' and 'y' and refer to themselves as ' unknowns', but we have determined they belong to a common denominator of the axis of medieval with coordinates in every country. As the Greek philanderer Isosceles used to say, 'There are three sides to every triangle'."

When asked to comment on the arrest, President Bush said, "If God had wanted us to have better weapons of math instruction, He would have given us more fingers and toes."

White House aides told reporters they could not recall a more intelligent or profound statement by the president.

Them’s with which we work

Aren’t colleagues fun? Some are hours of entertainment. And it only takes one episode of watching David Brent in The Office to realise that every office is pretty much the same, no matter what you do or where you work.

The manager who loudly and proudly takes the credit when a project (which they in all probability had nothing to do with) is a roaring success; the middle-management yes-man who follows instructions to a tee, no matter how inconsistent or counterproductive they are; the heart-stopping breath-taking killer (there has to be one hottie in every office otherwise it’s just not worth it); the blonde, who always tends to be three steps behind every conversation (in my team this role varies from day to day); the perpetual cougher and snorter; the bored pill-popper (generally greeting each day with chilled grin) and the really, really strange guy who will not, or can not make eye contact.

Oh, and this might just be in my case – there’s always one person who’s annoyingly and endearingly chirpy BEFORE their first cup of coffee. Hate them.

A recent conversation with a co-worker led to us speculating as to what a mild-mannered unassuming colleague does when (if?) he leaves the building. Her guess was a wild dominatrix-type fan, my guess – and far easier on the brain so early in the morning – was a superhero.

Quiet and unassuming by day, crime fighting hero by night.

But what kind of superhero? Based on facial features, I’ve settled on rodent super-powers. Being some type of Danger Mouse would probably come in very handy when it comes to survival in tricky and sticky situations… anyone who’s had their ceiling infested with rats will know this all too well. Even rattex is no longer a threat. In fact, in my comic strip, this colleague would have ingested a box of rat poison, which would have resulted in the mutant powers.

Now, costume. Underwear on the outside is a must. Cliched I know, but how else are you meant to distinguish yourself from the average rat? Hmmm, nothing with a zip because that would probably be a bitch to get on and off with claws. As many colours as possible would be good – heroes don’t feel the need for camouflage. Oh, and there’d have to be a hole by the ass for the tail. Nice touch.

I can see it now… a yellow and purple streak up the drainpipe and into the window of the office being burgled, green cape billowing behind him. Am I getting too carried away here? Probably.
But how many of YOU have a superhero in their midst? Huh?

Mammoth

Ok, I've wasted the last fucking hour trying to be a proactive blogger and upload the fucking pictures that I took this weekend, but I think - for some reason - the computer thinks that I don't like it and is refusing to be co-operative. But at last, here we go...

Right... Think. Type. Order.

My weekend started at the Bedfordview Sports Bar. Any preconceived misconceptions were quickly put to pay when I realised that, for the most part, people east of Rosebank are relatively normal – although slightly (grossly) oversized. What was meant to be a few quiet drinks quickly turned into a late night and ended with us stealing a dodgy, abandoned (but unopened) packet of niknaks and and smashing them in our diff – as us from the Eastrand would say. ps. flat top hairstyles, platform tekkies and vest tops are still very much IN.

Saturday morning I pottered off the hairdresser to make pretty for the hockey dinner that evening. That’s where it all went pear.

I told my hairdresser I wanted what we had last time.
Blank stare.
You remember what we did last time, right?
Uuum, ja… we cut it a little, layered it a little… um…

And off we set. She started snipping at the back and by the time she got round to the front it was too late. I was humming the funeral march as my locks dropped to the floor in bundles the size of small babies. Then, in case I wasn’t unhappy enough, she blow dried my hair UP. There is nothing wrong with volume in my hair. In fact, I run screaming from any shampoo, conditioner or product that proudly boasts ‘Added Volume!’

So I left the salon looking more like a happily married housewife from Oranje, rather than the sleek, red carpet strutting trophy wife I had envisioned. But, I told myself, I was going to be mature about this. I was NOT going to cry. What would that do? The hair is now cut. Ce la vie.

And then I cried. Oh, did I mention I was PMSing? I cry when I PMS. Ask Boyfriend.

I now needed consolation and turned to my cellphone for sms comfort. Unfortunately my phone picked that exact moment to have a series of brain farts. I started receiving sms’s that read: hoe@#dals my toe la& tonighT, Meet at %soli* aitol.” Which I, presume, is not how they were sent. These messages then progressed to the simple and helpful statement of ‘Unreadable’ with each new sms. I’ve diagnosed it with the deadly XDR-TB virus that’s been floating around Joburg lately, but am taking it in for a second opinion today.

After a series of woooosaaaahs and deep breaths, I was able to get ready for the hockey dinner – dressed as a Bunny of the Playboy mansion.

Donning my oversized ears, snazzy Playboy wristbands and a cheeky pink pom-pom attached to my ass I bravely ventured into the bar for predrinks - to find myself faced with a sea of people just there to watch some rugby. Picture Bridget Jones, literally in bunny outfit… Where the fuck are the rest of my team? I’m far too sober for this.

Sobreity quickly amended, I located my team (who had not donned their playboy attire yet, to avoid what I had encountered) and thatch-roofed hairstyles and reprobate phone troubles were soon forgotten.

Hmm, details are sketchy from the hockey dinner itself. I was a few litres of lubrication down by the time food was served (having already knocked over a number of full drinks, very distressing. Must drink to amend distress) and I was smoking H.O.T. As one is, after shooting a few sherry shots.

That is, until Beloved Boyfriend told me my hair looked like a mushroom… Never one to shy away from admin. Pick the slightly insecure, PMS-ING (did I mention that?), now half a bottle of wine down and very dronk-verdriet chick. I burst into tears, certain of the fact that everyone was pointing at my upturned goldfish bowl impersonation.

Finally coaxed out of the bathroom by a very patient fellow Playboy bunny I set about – again – amending my sorry situation. Sniff, sniff. Idiot boyfriend (who, I must add, I do truly love… but he’s still an idiot. Important lesson #357: Girlfriend gets very sensitive and cries after drinking wine. Note taken. Idiot.)

Aaaanywho, last laugh was on me as I returned to give Boyfriend more admin, which he avoided by falling off his chair. Not sliding… tumbling.

All in all, good clean fun that the whole family can enjoy. Ps. More pics can be found here if you want proof of the carnage.

On Sunday my weekend actually started, as I’d taken Monday and Tuesday off to spend time at our little plek on a farm just outside of Rustenburg. I told myself I was going to detox and sober up… but after a few hours of bellowing conversations at my two grannies and doing my best impression of a patient and doting granddaughter (haha) I had not just fallen off the wagon, I had dived off head first in search of the nearest Marula tree.

I also graduated myself from farm guest to farm girl as I drove the landie, barefoot nogal… yeeeehaaa! It was great fun, although Daddy-darling did feel the need to inform me – as I launched the heavy vehicle in fourth gear over a series of potholes and futile speedbumps – that most people prefer to be driven at a speed where they can actually spot game. I’ll keep that in mind for next time. I also won the messy rib-eating contest. Although I may have been the one to call the contest, I was the unanimous winner by a long shot. It's a talent.

Oh and I bought a new pair for slippers from Rustenburg’s shopping mall. See example of average family that can like to be spotted at Waterval mall. I'm going to hell, I know.

This latest purchase takes my tally of slippers alone to 5 pairs. I now have more slippers than Boyfriend has shoes, much to his disgust.

Come on people… they were orange, and fluffy… how could I not buy them? I don't care who you are... orange fluffy slippers rock.

Mammoth post over. Now better get cracking on those deadlines!

As long as you're happy

PRICELESS!

Or PUKE-worthy.

Hey, if he's happy in that outfit, and happy to pose for a pic in that outfit, then... I have not the words.

One more thing: Today is Boyfriend and my 4 year (minus 6 months) anniversary. Because today, four years ago, we really properly hooked up. We had hooked up before, but as I had (allegedly - details are sketchy) kissed three boys before him that night, and then another few boys a few nights after that... well, we only really hooked up four years ago.

And then minus 6months when we broke up for a wee-bit. But moving on. Happy four years minus six month anniversary to us! That's 1,280 days of happiness and hormonal bickering. It must be luuuf, luuf, luff.

Character awareness

Not sure how this is going to look on the blog, but it's just so me it has to be displayed. I know it and I accept it. Everyone else can just deal.

My car key ring reads (or used to read before I dropped it on my foot on Tuesday and it broke into two pieces): "You've obviously mistaken me for someone who gives a shit."

I'm just a treasure, really.

ps. Just in case anyone cares enough to wonder where I've disappeared to on Monday and Tuesday, I added an explanation but it's not showing on top of the page. I don't know why. I don't care. I'm going home. Scroll down.

Crabby Bitch signing out.

Koekgenaarde... big news!

It’s going to be a long day. Besides the quacking ducks and har-har-hardedaaahs that had me tossing and turning all night (do those birds ever sleep? Am suddenly in all in favour of fois gras), I was woken up by the sound of a crack and smashing glass. As of this morning I don’t think there anything quite like the sound of glass to give you a shot of adrenaline and have you sitting bolt upright in bed at 4:20am. And… AWAKE.

Turns out it was our muchos-expensive kitchen clock (R25 from Clicks) smashed to smithering on our kitchen floor. Not such a clean dismount. I didn’t even realise they included glass for R25. This early morning rising is becoming a trend... I also woke up at 2:44 yesterday morning. I know, because I couldn’t get back to sleep until my alarm went off at 5:15. Then, I slept like a log - waking up to the realisation that I was going to be late for work.

The reason for me lying awake yesterday morning is because earlier this week, Boyfriend got a job offer in the Netherlands. Specifically, The Hague. Obviously I would like to go with him. I even wore a bright orange shirt yesterday to show my Dutch support (no matching undies like the union jack set, yet). My 3am realisation yesterday morning was this… “I’m gonna have to learn to ride a bloody bike.” Shitballs.

A brief history of my life-cycle:

Recently, I was forced to ride a bike while staying with a friend in Utrecht. I am convinced she only did this because she knew that it would make for great entertainment for her and her boyfriend. Cow. Prior to that… I think the last time I was on a bike, it had training wheels.

One of the requirements to getting a resident’s visa is assurance that I won’t be a public menace. This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, provided they don’t ask to see me riding a bike…

My brief attempt at two-wheeled transportation to the train station and back involved me wobbling unsteadily into and around very nervous drivers; ramming my front wheel directly into my friend’s back wheel (takes great aim and skill); and on one occasion, using a pole to come to a dead stop… all while said-friend took her camera-phone out and with one hand on handle bar documented my cycling attempt, checked the picture, snorted with glee and carried on pedalling casually.

AND they cycle/drive on the wrong side of the bloody road, so when I was diving for the pavement (my safety haven) I was automatically diving across traffic to get to the left. I think I might have sent a few drivers home for a very strong shot of whiskey that evening.

It also ended with me having a very, very tender koek. Cycling is over-rated.

Bearing all this in mind, I’ve put in a request with Boyfriend – that while he is eagerly awaiting our reunification in den Haag, he should invest in a bicycle with a side-car. Or a trolley big enough for me and our grocery shopping. And work those quads.

This is all, of course, providing that I actually get a visa to get into the country. Better start brushing up on my Dutch swearing!

Woooo Faaaaking Hoooooo

It's the end of the week. Despite earlier conspiracy theories, Friday did eventually arrive.

Tonight I'm going to Bedfordview to see a friend who visiting from San Francisco. San Francisco... Bedfordview.... San Francisco... Bedfordview... Actually I shouldn't mock. I've never been to see the view of Bedford, so full report back next week.

Tomorrow, I'm dressing up like a Playboy Bunny, which is gonna look nothing like this. But it should be fun. And my editor walked past as I was viewing playboy sites. Awesome. TGIF.

And then on Sunday, I'm taking some me-time and going to sit on a farm outside of Rustenburg and do nothing. For three days.

So I'll see ya'll on Wednesday. Maybe.

Kisses!

Interesting

It’s amazing what you learn on a random mid-morning sojourn to the shops… Today I learnt about foie gras:

Foie gras [fwa gaa] (French for "fat liver") is the fattened liver of a duck or goose that has been overfed.

I can’t remember what exactly got us started on this topic, but I’m pretty sure it went from me wearing an orange top, to good Thai food, to eating breakfast at a shebeen (as I did last Saturday) and came right back round to edible bodily entrails. As conversations tend to do.

So, to paraphrase my source of information, foie gras is “the squishy engorged liver of a duck or goose, which is then mushed into a smooth innard mousse-type pate.”

Nauseating. I’d hate to be on the duck’s tail end of that process.

You learn something every day.

On the subject of ducks: did you know that there are Egyptian geese swanning around Rosebank? Cos there are - I saw them with my own eyes.

I concur

It annoys me beyond belief that I am expected to ignore the box on job applications, surveys and bank forms determining whether I am African in race or not. I am African. I am South African. I will possibly accept that I am white African, but I am sure as shit not European - and I know this much because no European country will let me travel within their borders without proof of my South African ID and passport, proof of income in South Africa, proof of residence in South Africa and possibly a DNA sample from a harvested egg just for good measure.

And that is my political rant for the day.

See here for what started it.

"About 11 white students painted their faces black in a bid to be classified as Africans at the Union Buildings in Pretoria today...

Kriel said the students' tongue-in-cheek action carried a very serious message, namely that the government was becoming ludicrously obsessed with race...

As part of the memorandum, the students each completed the Department of Labour's EEA1 form, in which they classified themselves as 'African', and which they submitted to the President for certification as being correct by him. On the form, to be filled in by employers or their employees as part of the labour department's employment equity reports, people were given a choice of being either 'African', 'Coloured', 'Indian' or 'White'..."

The students also appealed to all who were born in South Africa to classify themselves as African when completing the EEA1 form.

Hence, I concur.

Makes me all proud

It helps when you're receiving well over a million, but a feel good story none-the-less...

Charity starts at Rhodes
University’s new boss takes pay cut to sponsor students

"NEWLY installed Rhodes University Vice-Chancellor Saleem Badat is taking a R200,000 pay cut to put five needy and deserving students through university each year.

Badat has set up a fund named after Rhodes University chancellor, Professor Jakes Gerwel, to provide five full scholarships to local candidates on the basis of academic potential and financial need. He announced the fund at his recent inauguration, saying it would provide for students whose aspirations are limited by social status.

The event was attended by Education Minister Naledi Pandor, who noted that Rhodes had the second poorest equity profile of all universities in the country last year. Based on its history and reputation, the university could continue “to take the cream of the crop of well-prepared matriculants and leave the challenge of dealing with the legacy of educational disadvantaged to others”, she said, but added: “I very much doubt if Saleem has come to Rhodes to do that!”

Rhodes University spokesperson Natasha Joseph said Badat’s generous offer of support to local beneficiaries underlined his intention to work with the Grahamstown and Eastern Cape communities. “It is a very practical, very real step to get in there and make a difference,” said Joseph.

Badat declined to reveal how much the donation represented of his total salary. But while negotiating his package, university spokesperson Guy White said it fell well within Higher Education South Africa’s guidelines of between R1,1 million and R1,7m..."

Daily Dispatch

No petrol and too many wives

When Daddy-darling established that I was driving on nothing but fumes, he had a mild apoplexy and gave me some cash to get me home last night. So I'm now driving on just over-empty. I used the rest of the cash for drugs. I joke. I used the rest of the cash for food.

In other random news, the palm of my left hand is really sore, I'm not sure why. I think I might have managed to acquire a stress-induced injury, possibly from aggressively clenching my gear level too hard. Hmm, that sounds very dodgy. This is me shutting up.

But before I go, here is today's winner of a story from around the world: This man reckons that after 201 marriages, he's had enough.

Ya think?

The story is far too long, so go read it yourself, but here are a few prize quotes:

"I have an exceptionally high taste for women and my sexual urge is quite strong. I would always go for voluptuous women because women with sagging bosom would not excite me", Malami said....

..."All my marriages were done with good intent but I encountered misfortunes. For instance, four of the women I married were already pregnant from other men when I married them..."

..."I later came to understand that my older wives were also responsible for my divorces as they would, out of jealousy, tell any beautiful young woman I married that she did not deserve to marry an old man like me..."

...He never hides his pride in his 29 surviving children out of 47 from 25 marriages, and his 39 grandchildren.

A few thoughts: Any man who marries and divorces hundreds of times deserves every piece of admin that he gets; having more than one girlfriend/wife in the first place is just asking for trouble; and 'accidently' marrying four women who are pregnant with someone else's baby is actually not such a high ratio out of 200.

Ok, so I lied about shutting up. I'm really going now.

Never say die

A very good example of my favourite mantra: 'persistance overcomes resistance'.

"...I met a girl once. Nice lass, name from hell to remember, though very regal and sweet as warm pancakes all the same. I swiftly seduced her with my blazing wit and disarming charm. Actually we were hammered, I thought I was losing her, so I just lunged. It's an old one, but it's a classic that rarely fails. The point is I followed through. I was determined. And with little or no regard for my own safety, I started something and I finished it..."

Another example of persistance overcoming resistance is why I've been with my boyfriend for four years. Bless him for his perseverance. (He claims it was the other way round, but it's my blog so it's my version)

ps. My bum is very stiff from hockey. Sitting down and standing up is awkward. Stairs are avoided at all costs.

pps. I just dropped tomatoey pasta on my beige skirt, in my crotch. Crap.

Village Idiot

The petrol price is dropping tomorrow. Yay. This is pertinent to my story.

Summer league started yesterday. So at 5pm I dragged myself away from watching Days (no acting required, just excessive eyebrow movement - quality) and piled into my car to head to Randburg astro.

The reason why I mention the petrol price is because I have to make my car last until tomorrow, and the fuel light has been silently screaming at me since Sunday (or is it since Saturday?) Anyway, short story: the petrol has to last.

So, half an hour later I’ve fought my way (surprisingly calmly, by my standards) through the traffic to Randburg. That’s when I realised I was in the wrong place.

Without use of a schematic diagram, I’m going to try to demonstrate what I had done.

I live here. I was supposed to be play at Wanderers. Here. But, I got in my car and voluntarily wasted petrol to get to Randburg astro… ……
……
…… all the way over there.

Idiot. Me.

Quick phonecall to the captain.
Me: “I’m such a fucking idiot. You’ll never guess what I’ve done.”
Her: “You went to Randburg.”
Me: “Okay, you guessed. I’m such a tithead. I’m coming now.”

I couldn’t even do some low-flying to get back because I’m trying to conserve petrol. Wooosah. Even then, I was (still) surprisingly calm when the driver in front of me felt the need to stop, check, roll, stop, check at every four-way stop through the suburbs. No, no… really. Take your time. Make absolutely certain. It’s not your fault that I’m a fekking imbecile and now late for my hockey match. I even remained perfectly calm when the family walking at least 13 dogs decided to cross the road directly in front of me. Serenity is me.

I made it to the hockey match, which we lost. Now my petrol… must… just…. last… until… tomorrow…

Unapologetically Female

This weekend, not-so-beloved boyfriend and I had a fight. Well, I had a fight and boyfriend carried on with his weekend. It boiled down to lack of communication on his part, which lead to a good few solid hours of ear-bending communication on my part. You’d think, after four years, he would have learnt that admin can be avoided. Sometimes.

I actually had a more detailed bitch session but I couldn’t get on to the site to upload it on the weekend and now I’m over it. Sort of. I do feel that boyfriend owes me a pair of shoes. Don’t ever say that love can’t be bought.

So – I went to a high school reunion-type braai thing this weekend. It was a casul ‘pop along if you want’ and up until 10 minutes before I really wasn’t sure if I wanted to pop along at all. I was a self-aclaimed cheer-leading team-spiriting geek at high school. Why revisit it? To prove that I’m no longer a dork (which I am… see recent seafood quiz, for instance). To see people who I’ve been avoiding for the last six or seven years. To see how many kids my former friends have popped out in the mean time (at least two toddlers, in one case). To see how many people are STILL in the same circle of friends, kissing/dating the same guys we were all giddy over in high school… Move on? Branch out? Just a thought.

It actually wasn’t too bad – I made a point of swapping numbers only with people who I would like to catch up with (which narrowed it down to one) and then I moved on to join current friends for cocktails, with relief.

A few mojitos later, all high school dorkiness was forgotten and I was ready for The Colon in Craighall. Anything less than the equivalent a few mojitos, turns the colon into a colonoscopy-experience – do not attempt this place sober. Don’t ask me… ask Champagne Heathen, who was running around like a naughty imp using the interesting technique of a swift kick to the arse to encourage people to dance. Good, quality entertainment.

Other entertainment at the Colon: cane and crème soda served in sawn-off 2litre plastic bottles; very bad karaoke; very explicit public display of affection from a couple who were either very much in love or very much on E. Speaking of e… the highlight of the evening’s entertainment: e-tv porn on the TVs.

Kwa-Li-Ty.

The low-light of the evening was watching a friend getting piled into by a tattoo-boasting steroid-popping apoptistic dickhead. It was the most random act of violence I’ve ever seen. Kind of like watching someone grabbing Winnie the pooh from behind, dragging him by his neck, pinning him face-down on the ground and then throwing three cheap punches at his back.

Steriod popping dickhead was very quickly evicted, my friend sat up looking, as he said, like he was “in a dream” with everyone staring at each other with what-the-fuck-was-that expressions. So, so very random. For all his gentle nature, this friend is a hardy fellow and didn’t even show any bruising, although he confessed, as he flexed his shoulders and arms for my benefit, he was definitely “gonna feel it in the morning”.

Sunday was spent hungover and giving boyfriend more admin, because I’m female and he doesn’t think. That’s what it basically boils down to.