Dit en dat

Following up on my "Who is gay in the world of rugby" theories... please see this story. Now, apparently, only real mean grab others by the crotch.

Then (and I hope you're reading this at lunch, because I was when I found it), please see this story to further educate yourself on foreign cuisine.

Koekmeister out.

Is it contagious?

They're dropping like flies. Every day, another falls. Every week, another announcement.

ENGAGED! ENGAGED! ENGAGED!

No, I'm not talking about the ladies' loos at a Justin Trousersnake concert. I'm talking about matrimonials.

I realise that in the conventional, orthodox, religious sense; marriage is important. No sex out of wedlock and all that. But in this day and age, what exactly is the point of marriage? I know there are also supposedly tax advantages. But tax is about as foreign an understanding as biochemistry is to me, so I ask again - what is the point?

There's also the argument that wedding illustrates the partnership. Matching rings on matching fingers, completing the set (like the salt and pepper cellars that dad bought my mom on their first anniversary... now there's a gift that'll live on in infamy for a loong, looong time). But you can get a set of his and hers toe rings without a marriage certificate. So what is the point?

The closest Mills and I have gotten to marriage and certificates is when we had to prove that we WEREN'T married (for relocation purposes). And there was the time that I thought he'd said, "marry me" when he was actually referring to his teammate - Murray Lee. That was an interesting conversation in a noisy and crowded pub.

I love the fact that my friends are getting married. I'm happy for them, and I'm really sorry that so far I've actually managed to miss most of the celebrations (being out of town and off the continent has put a dampener on the social circle). But I don't see why there is still an expectation for young couples to tie the knot.

Let's be honest... how many young couple unions end in divorce? Scarier than people my age getting married, is people my age getting divorced. Is it part of the growing curve? Get drunk, pass driver's license, try boinking, get married, get divorced, turn 30. Woo hoo!

Okay, not necessarily in that order, but I think I've made my point. Hmmm... do I have a point? What is the point? Oh yes. Marriage. Why?

I'm all for weddings though. Good fun. Two thumbs way up for that idea. It's true what they say. Every girl dreams of her wedding. The difference with me is that I don't think it's necessary to include a ceremony, a marriage certificate, or a groom for that matter.

I'm a simple girl. With simple dreams. I just want a party where I get to wear a special dress, eat a special cake. Where everybody brings presents and tells me how pretty I look in my tiara.

M.I.A.

It's been a while. I haven't had access to a computer at home, and I was keeping myself busy at work by completely destroying the internal network, culminating with a power failure on Friday. Okay, I can't back up those claims, but seeing that I was in the vicinity, I'm sure I had something to do with it.

In the last week, I have:
- attempted to consume already-eaten-and-discarded olive pips (it was semi-dark and what the hell were they doing in a bowl next to all the other snacks anyway?);
- almost broke my nose on the bus when sudden braking sent my precious face dangerously close to a pole;
- selected and attempted to try on clothing from the children's section. I was irritable and in a hurry and they were quite large children's clothes. Damnit.

Who am I? Where do I belong?

It's always been confusing being me. Growing up, I loved the music of the 60s and 70s, which meant that I completely missed out on what friends my age were actually listening too. To this day, when people talk about 80s and early-90s bands, I can't contribute.

Then there's my hair's era. My voluminous crowning glory belongs to the 80s, even if my music tastes don't. Unfortunately, I spent my teenage years in the 1990s, when everbody looked sleek and staight. Scraping my hair back and flat did nothing but look greasy from extensive product use.

Recently, I learnt that my body type belongs in the 1920s. Last night we went to a Flapper-themed party. (Flapper is the style of dress from the 1920s, for the uninitiated). I did some research on the fashion and learnt the following:

After the first world war (1914-18) when women's dress became more mannish, female clothes became looser and more shapeless in fit. The bust was suppressed, the waist disappeared, the shoulders became broader and hair shorter and shorter. Narrow boyish hips were preferred. The silhouette emphasised a flattened chest and womanly curves were eliminated as the line became more simplified. Foreheads were unfashionable in the 1920s.

No boobs. Check.

No waist. Check.

Boyish hips. Check.

I still have a forehead though. Doh.

Life would've been a bitch for Christina Ricci... there isn't a headpiece big enough.

The party was good. Not nearly enough Charlston dancing for my liking, but marching with about 50 flapper-styled expats through the streets of Rotterdam, in search of a late-night club is certainly a priceless (and probably once-off) experience.

Good times.

Let the games begin

Cycle 4km to hockey practise.
Run godknowshowfar up and down hills.
Get back to pitch. Warm up. (what the hell were we doing on those hills?)
Drills. Run. Jog. Run. Jog. Run.
Drills. Run. Dodge. Run. Shoot. Miss.
Game. Run. Run. Run.

Cycle home.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Peer at bicycle in dark.
Prod back wheel.
Pfffff.
Ah.

Walk the rest of the way home.

Fun.

Kaalvoet

It's always good to know you're not on your own... this received in response to my biking-incident:

Koeks, it's impossible not to laugh at your stories! All I can see is Mills's arse sticking in the air with a bike between his...Well, you get what I'm saying!

Speaking of funny stories....did I tell you my shoe story?
Briefly (to avoid boredom):

Arrived in London for my first job
Got lost
Found correct bridge (of many)
Ran along bridge - and broke both my shoes
Threw both my shoes away
Arrived at work...no shoes
Met my boss...sweating, with no shoes
Went to the board meeting....no shoes
Was introduced to the CEO...again....shoes?
Told him he had to employ me 'cos I am a poor white girl from Africa.

Was splendid.

Must go - actually have work to do but again, briefly:

I HAD NO FREAKING SHOES ON!

D.U.I.

Mills and I have gotten pretty good at balancing on one bike. Besides that little kneecapping incident. Unfortunately last night proved that we have yet to master the drunken-biking balancing act.

After a civilised round of croquet in the park (which lasted over four hours, without anyone winning... we're that good) we moved on to not-so-civilised dinner in town. Mills and I were already on one bike, so when it came time to go home we went through the usual routine: Mills fired up the engines, I trotted along next to him and hopped on. No problem.

We travelled about 7metres and fell over.

It happened in slow motion. We were doing fine, when suddenly the vindictive hand of gravity reached up over my left shoulder and pulled. Technically, I don't know whether I was the one responsible for the lack of equilibrium, or if it was Mills who just couldn't handle the excess baggage.

I landed arse-first, with my feet in the air. Mills landed in a similar position, but on top of me, sandwiching the bike between us.

The indignity.

We walked home after that. Well, I stomped and Mills tried to keep up while wheeling/wobbling his bike behind me. Next time, maybe we'll take the bus.

RWC

Bring on the passion...

Continued

Last night, Mills and I were going through our joint budget (which he INSISTS that I should be in charge of, because I HAVE to learn how to budget. Pah.)

But, amazingly, the budgets and the bank balances do not... balance. So Mills was doing some reconciliation. He quickly learnt why the excel spreadsheet and the bank accounts don't match...

Mills: "You really are amazing at this. You've broken all my formulas."
Me: "Yes."
Mills: "How do you do it? All you have to do is fill in a number!"
Me: "It's a talent."

This evening, I asked Mills if I could use his computer. He trustingly allowed me control of the keyboard. Shortly after...

Me: "Miiiiiills.... it won't let me log on."
Exasperated boyfriend: "How do you do it, Koekie? How... do... you... do... it."

Right, must dash. I'm off to break something else.

Untold talent

I have a super-human power. You’ve heard of the Midas-touch? I’ve got the converse... commonly known as the Clutz-touch. If I come into contact with it, it will break. Sometimes my powers are so strong, it breaks on contact. On other occasions, it will take a few days for my power to crumble the resistant molecules.

In the last week:

The keyboard on my computer has switched keys. I don’t know how I did this. I was typing and suddenly I couldn’t find the question-mark key. I later learnt that it had been transported to where the hyphen key can usually be found. The @-sign has gone missing completely. I now have too many variations on apostrophes. I have no idea where the forward-slash key has been relocated. I can’t find it at all. It made punctuation tricky, but I soldiered on.

Then – the laptop stopped recognising the power cable altogether. As it was, it was functioning on a precarious connection with very limited battery-power. More than 3 seconds without electricity and it started beeping. Now it has progressed to not recognising the power cable, unless I’m holding it in place. The resultant one-handed typing (sans punctuation) killed my anal-retentive nerves. The computer was blessed with every combination of colourful swearwords I could muster and I am back to sharing a computer with Mills (much to his delight… especially with my Clutz-touch track record)

This weekend, I broke the fishbowl. This wasn’t an instantaneous reaction. I managed to crack the underside of the 30l-capacity bowl. Unaware, we refilled it and replaced it on its spot… on the TV cabinet. You can see this going horribly wrong, can’t you? Fortunately, I noticed the puddle of water forming underneath the bowl and we were able to avert a major crisis before the glass gave way completely. The fish look lovely in their new bucket-habitat though.

Finally, today… I was closing the window in our bedroom and I managed to break the window-maker-opener-thingie clean off its hinge. THIS I maintain was not my fault. The solid metal connection has literally crumbled. I am not that strong.

…Although, who truly knows the full might of my super-human power? If only I could harvest it into a bolt of pure energy directed from my fingertip. I could fry pigeons with a single gesture. That damn laptop would be the first to go up in flame, if I had a choice. The very thought of its destruction fills me with glee.

Overheard

I found a shoe sale this evening. €5 for every pair of shoes in the shop. The catch was that you had to FIND a matching pair. There were shoes in big tubs everywhere. No categorisation of sizes, colours, styles... nothing. Boots, sandals, slops, moccasins all in one messy barrel. If you can find a pair, you can have them.

It was proving to be a popular concept, dominated by frenzied women throwing discarded shoes over their shoulders like spilt salt. One lucky boy had been dragged into the middle of this mess. His girlfriend had located one shoe that she liked and was now scouring the shop for the other. He was assigned the impossible task of Cinderella's prince: find the set.

She was looking for a white, opened-toed shoe. I watched as she gave him specific instructions on the specimen... Left foot. Medium heel. Size 39.

He couldn't understand why she wasn't interested in what he thought were perfect matches:

"No... that's got an ankle strap. Can you see how this one only sits around the heel? Not the same."

"No. That one has a platform heel."

"No."

"No."

"No. That's cream, not white."

"No."

"Are you kidding?"

Poor bugger was doomed from the start. I eventually lost interest in that shop and went to a normal store where they sell shoes in matching sets - although it did cost me more money for the service.

ps. Freaky is pooing peas and doing much better. Swimming upright and all. Good sign.