What won’t make you stronger will kill you

Talk about a cosmic hint. Spurred on by the fact that the fabulous satin dress I bought for Friday night’s function is a tad on the I-can’t-breathe-otherwise-the-seams-will-tear tight side, I decided to go to the gym this morning (yes, completely irrational, I know). Coupled with the fact that I haven’t been in ages, I feel a cold coming on, so I foresaw a bit of strain. What I didn’t foresee was just how much.

After hacking around on the steppy machine and doing a brief circuit, I decided I’d brave the treadmill. In my fitter moments, I’m quite a runner, but today I got on, started at 8.5 km/h, and got an instant cramp. Fok voort, I told myself – this session is costing me R289 (I’m unlikely to go again this month after the experience), or more likely R1,189 if I’m being honest with myself (haven’t gone since January, you see. I blame my broken toe, of course). I even convinced myself to turn the speed up to 10 km/h, and my red face turned purple, my wheezing concurrently turning to spluttering. Still, there were people around, so to save (my purple) face, I continued. After twenty painful minutes, I climbed off – chin in the air – and virtually crawled to the showers. Still spluttering in the shower, I accidentally got water in my mouth, swallowed it incorrectly and starting coughing so violently the woman in the shower next to me came over to see if I was okay. (I wasn’t). Then, as though fate hadn’t bitch-slapped me enough this morning, I dropped my sample of very expensive shampoo down the fucking drain. F@%^*#!!!

But the coup d’etat came when I emerged from the shower to change into my work clothes. I left my bra at home. And there was no chance in hell that I’d put on the sweaty gym bra instead. So, fed up with the morning’s events, I decided fuck that, I’m not going to make my day better by returning home to retrieve the underwear, I’m just going to work hanging free.

Thus there will be no bounce in my step today, for two reasons.

On being Scarlett’s panties

I get energy from a variety of sources – sugar highs, the buzz after a long bout of strenuous exercise, shopping (let’s not spend too much time talking about the fabulous green satin dress, green pearls and green crocheted shoes I bought in a frenzied 60-minute bout of shopping therapy with Peas yesterday), a good argument with an engaged debater, great sex, experimental cooking that’s tremendously successful on a guinea-pig bunch of guests – but the longest-lasting buzz I get is from people.

I feed off the energy of strangers, particularly. It’s unusual for me to meet someone for the first time, sit them down and have an all-night conversation, and have them leave without telling me “that was the most interesting conversation I’ve had in a long time” (what happens on the second conversation onward is more mundane, if they even happen at all). That’s because I avoid the questions like “what do you do?”, “where do you live?”, “where did you study?”, and my most feared question of all “what’s your surname?” On subsequent meetings, you have to start asking these sort of things, because there’s a likelihood you’re going to have to go to the effort of “getting to know” the person, whatever that means.

I also have a penchant for meeting people under unusual circumstances – starting an SMS conversation with someone who accidentally sent an SMS to the wrong phone (mine) then spending the rest of the evening with them – the eve of my 23rd birthday, in fact; the last guy I interviewed in a journalism job who I found smotheringly beautiful to the point of utter distraction (the garbled article I wrote from the interview is proof); the artist-hobo drifter sulking sullenly at a table in a dingy club in Cape Town.

(In fact, my boyfriend might fall into this category too – we met in a gay club in the old Heartland when I asked him if my dance moves (decidedly funky at that time) stood out like a sore thumb on the hard-core trance floor, because he was staring so much. He told me to stop being paranoid and then I asked him for a massage. And got it!)

What follows is a list of things (and I apologise, I’ve been compiling lots of lists in blog entries recently) I’d rather know from a stranger – they tell you so much more if you know nothing of their background, not fearing judgement – all are questions I’ve asked of different people, and for all of which I’ve received earnest answers (I think):

1. What’s your darkest secret? (most memorable recent answer: boarding school gay experience. I so totally shafted the poor guy by replying with my now not-so-secret fear of peeing in public toilets.)

2. How do you feel about coffee enemas? (all answers thus far: what the fuck?)

3. What’s your favourite element? (most common = fire; most rare = earth)

4. If you were given the choice for the rest of your life only to brush your teeth, or only to floss and use mouthwash, which would you choose? (most people = brush)

5. Have you ever had doggy-style sex the first time you’ve had (free) sex with someone? (most common answer = no; missionary is the most usual first-time position with a new partner / one-night stand)

6. Do you split your infinitives? (most common answer = what are those? Favourite answer = I like to boldly split them from time to time, yes)

7. Which X-Men character would you be if you could choose? (predictably, guys say Wolverine; girls are more variable)

8. For straight girls: which woman – famous or not – would you go down on? (most say none, some say Angelina. I’m Scarlett all the way, though she’s been going through a bad patch lately, I seriously hope she’s not losing her charm). I don’t bother asking straight guys any more, they all say just “Yeuch!”

9. If you could be any inanimate object on Earth, what would you be? (although she’s no stranger to me, my sister has always said she would like to be a plastic packet because they don’t die and they can fly in the wind. When I saw that scene in American Beauty, it really elevated her arb sentiment to arty beauty. Male strangers are most likely to say some hot chick’s lingerie, though a few have said space shuttles, Aston Martins, significant pieces of architecture like the Golden Gate bridge etc. I’ve never posed the question to a female stranger before).

Now, I’m going to start asking people about their creationist/evolutionist stances, too. So I can update you on just where South Africans stand on the matter. The whole reason I bring the above topic up, by the by, is because I love being proved wrong in my automatic stereotyping of strangers (this is where the real buzz of interacting with them lies). Being a part Wop, I categorically declare all Italian men as chauvinist metrosexuals (not a contradiction in terms, trust me), and yesterday I was totally floored when I met one who was anything but. Long live the random encounter!

What do you believe?

Firstly, you may have noticed that I’ve changed my profile to describe my location as Jozi. I realised that by virtue of the fact that I’m associated with Peas, there’s no point in trying to hide my identity – after all, most people I know have found my blog (hi colleegs!) While amending the location I decided heck, let’s throw in a couple of links and a site visitor counter too. But I digress…

It dawned on me the other day that while the US is always associated with a large following of creationist believers (New Scientists often carries stories like this), not much has been said about evolutionists and creationists around the rest of the world.

As a result, I thought very few creationists occurred in my social / work circle, as I never thought to assume any otherwise.

(In case you need an explanation of the difference between the two, I will sum it up in a spectacular oversimplification by saying the most inflammatory implications are that evolutionists believe that mankind descended from ape-like creatures, while creationists believe this is not the case, and that God created every ‘kind’ of living organism – i.e. no macro-evolution takes place, but micro-evolution occurs to allow for variation between species in each ‘kind’ of organism).

After an admittedly too-flippant remark the other day in the office, I learned that one of my colleagues (with a Masters in Engineering) is an ardent creationist, which took me by complete surprise. He proceeded to send me a two and a half hour video clip of a creationist expert debunking ‘lies’ in high-school textbooks.

Whilst in Sepoenda, I casually mentioned the conversation to the Gilb’s housemate – another engineer – and wisely stopped short to ask whether he was of the creationist or evolutionist school of thought. Again, completely surprised.

My agenda here is not to slate one side and back the other, but to list some general thoughts that have come to mind over the past few days. (If you must know, I have no problem believing that my very distant forefathers were ape-like. After a recent visit to the zoo, I spent hours enthralled in front of the chimpanzees, amazed at how human their behaviours, gestures and facial expressions are).

1 – I know far too little about evolution theory and how scientific conclusions about evolution have been drawn to argue convincingly with anyone. I shall amend this over the coming months with a lot of reading.

2 – No person should ever base their personal convictions on watching/reading a single one-sided piece of media. Everyone is trying to prove their own side of the argument, so you never know how many indisputable opposing facts they’re leaving out. You also often don’t know how insignificant the facts are that they’re using to break down the opponent’s entire theories. Does one little hole in the opponent’s theory render their whole argument unfounded, or just point out that certain aspects of the theory need further clarification?

3 – Pro-evolutionists have a tendency to dismiss creationists as non-scientists. This is not true, the definition of science does not preclude the religious from its study. After all, who first developed sound principles around the genetic laws of inheritance? None other than an Austrian monk, Mendel.

4 – The converse is entirely true, too. Creationists tend to dismiss evolutionists as atheists (or scoffers, after a biblical reference which apparently warns against evolutionists). I happen to know quite a few God-fearing folk who completely accept the concept of evolution. Are they really heathens, or just advanced apes that have come to love God?

At the end of the day, I don’t think either party would ever conceive of being swayed to the other viewpoint by sufficient evidence. The debate has ventured far beyond the goal of revealing ultimate truth, and resides in the territory of pride. It’s political. Science has been viewed by religious ‘extremists’ as a way of belittling the historically religious control of a state, while religion has sometimes been quoted as a way of controlling the ignorant masses.

Thus, there is nothing you or I can do to change the status quo. We can hopefully just agree to disagree with people of opposing viewpoints, and maybe accept the challenge to learn a little more about the reasons for each other’s beliefs.

(As an addendum, I found a site interviewing Richard Dawkins, one of evolutionary theory’s most ardent proponents, which has a poll going that asks the following questions – numbers in brackets signify poll results:

- The universe was created in six days as described in Genesis (30%)
- Evolution began but God began and/or directs it (43%)
- Evolution is true, and religion has nothing to do with it (26%)

I don’t know whether these results are skewed – are you more likely to visit a site like this if you’re very religious (it is after all called “Belief Net”) or if you’re very anti-religious?)

Sepoenda: a visitor's guide

You would be understandably forgiven for thinking that this was a picture of Mordor. In fact, it is none other than the seething towers of the Sasol plant at Secunda (henceforth, referred to as Sepoenda, as one of Peas’ friends so charmingly rechristened it).

Seeing as I’ve spent the past two weekends there, I thought I should write a (probably not so) helpful guide for any of you planning to venture out to this endearing little town.

1. As Sepoenda lies some 150 km due east of Jozi, filling your tank on the way may be an issue. Do not leave the top up till any later than Delmas (note: I’ve only ever taken the N12/R50 route, so can’t vouch for the N17) – no other petrol station lies on the 80 km stretch between Delmas and Sepoenda.

2. Odds are you’ll miss the turn-off to Secunda from the R50 the first time you drive there. Why? Because a few metres before the T-junction, as you fly past at 140 km/h, you see a sign saying ‘Lake Umuzi Waterfront’, and carry on. Only when you hit the T-junction is there a little green sign pointing left informing you that this too, is the road to Sepoenda (the town that actually is home to this not-so-awe-inspiring waterfront), by which time you’ve sailed on by, and need to gooi a u-ey (sp?), cursing that you’ve now let all the trucks you overtook a few moments ago get ahead of you again.

3. Just before you reach the maroon power station where you turn off the R50, there’s a sign proclaiming ‘Warning – undermined area’. I’m still laughing at the pun; childish, I know.

4. The sign shortly thereafter stating ‘Dangerous Stop 300m’ fails to warn you of the even greater danger of a metre-wide, metre-deep ditch in the middle of the lane a few metres ahead.

5. After another 30-odd km you’re there. Avert eye contact with any of the male locals, who seem to assume that any glance in their direction is an invitation for a beating. Even more importantly, avoid eye contact with any of these males’ girlfriends, to preclude similar (if somewhat more dire) consequences.

6. Also avoid excessive stares at any mullet hairdo’s (or hairdon’ts, as a friend so brilliantly put it) and UV-laden spoilers/exhaust pipes/grills. Again, a beating may ensue.

7. You’re probably quite weary after a long work day and a two-hour drive there, so why not head on to Greenfields, the lodge half-way between Trichardt and Sepoenda, for a pleasant, relatively upmarket restaurant vibe? You may be lucky enough – as we were – to catch a night where they hire a DJ pumping remixes of that wondrous hit ‘McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut’ as your intestines churn with noise-induced indigestion.

8. You may wonder what it is that the locals get up to on an average night. If you are invited to a house party, by all means oblige the hosts. If you are a single man, be sure always to ask the pretty things you meet an important question: are you out of school yet? Do not be fooled by heavy make-up and precociously revealing clothes (this warning is doubly pertinent to new Sasol employees coming from bigger cities. These lasses are looking for any way to leave the trappings of town life behind them).

9. Following on from point 8, other than house parties, Sepoenda is also referred to as ‘dop-en-pompville’. Because there isn’t much else to do. The younger Sasol employees all get hitched to local lasses straight out of school, who seem to pop out babies at a scary rate. The number of Spar trolleys I saw with built-in baby seats (like the ones you get for a car) bears testament to this fact.

10. Even less remotely related to point 8, the population of Sepoenda is described by the following formula: P(x) = 4x + xy, where x is the number of employees at Sasol (currently 7,000) – hence 4x refers to the fact that every Sasol employee has hitched and popped out two kids after experiencing the delights referred to in point 9 – and y is a constant factor describing the population that thrives on providing services (such as those listed in point 12 below, along with a hefty number of obstetricians and paediatricians) to Sasol employees and their families. I believe at this point xy = 10,000, so y is approximately 1.429. This implies that Sasol employees support 1.429 people over and above their families, which isn’t surprising when you acknowledge that this town has the highest GDP per capita contribution of the whole country.

11. If you’re an older person trying to avoid any exposure to points 8 and 9 above, and you get invited around to an older resident’s house, you’re in for a treat. Dress warmly, as you’ll be entertained in the de riguer lapa, which will be decked out with a big-screen tv for better rugby viewing, and a fully-equipped bar. I hope you like your Klippies! Do not be alarmed if the hosts ask you to try out any of their hunting guns by shooting a glass from the top of the bar counter – this is entirely normal entertainment in this part of the world. If you ask nicely, they may relent and exchange the dangerous weapon for a less harmful Windbix, much to the lady of the household’s silent relief.

12. If you need to do a spot of laundry while visiting, head on to the Wishy Washy laundromat, owned by proudly-mulleted Spookie. This enterprising fellow also owns the tv repair shop and driving instructor company next door. While you wait for your laundry, head on to the nearby Secunda Corner Café for the cheapest bunny-chow of your life (R9.50, VAT and mince included).

13. Looking for a Sasol petrol station in the heart of Sasol country? There’s only one I know of, on President Swart Street. Do not gasp in great surprise that the petrol price is no cheaper than that of imported brands.

14. Bear in mind that on the return leg of the journey, you’ll be driving due west, straight into the setting sun. For two whole hours. Try to avoid starting this journey between 4:00 and 5:30 in winter, and between 5:00 and 6:00 in summer.

I hope that this brief guide has proved useful and will enhance your enjoyment of all this little town has to offer.

Yes, it’s normal

A good friend in Canada sent me a link to a web forum (http://isitnormal.com) where people put out questions about their secret freakish behaviour and await judgement from readers on whether such behaviour is acceptable or not. Things such as ‘sleep rape’, a desire to eat your grey hairs, and regularly defecating on your neighbour’s driveway are some of the issues put out for the opinions of the web-trawling masses.

Reading through some of the items got me to thinking about the human condition, and these are the conclusions I have made:

1. No matter how weird you think it is, the habit has a name. Yes, they all do. Even that fantasy involving you, the broom, artichokes and the dog next door.
2. Following on from 1, if you’re inclined to think that anything you do is unique, get over it. It’s not. Someone somewhere (in fact, probably as you read this), is doing that weird thing you do sometimes.
3. Following on from 2, you as a person are still unique. While none of the individual things you do is unique, the particular combination of the things you do is unique. Which is why we can all relate to each other to some degree.

Using myself as a case study, I’ll point out an example of a unique combination of habits. And I’m hoping none of these make you judge me in any way – hopefully some of you have similar habits. Though I hope no-one has all of them, combined. That would lessen my individuality and cause me to contrive new habits to redeem myself:

Specifications: Individual, model X9939 v2.0

1. You may recall from a previous post that I have a problem peeing in public loos. I tried to sort that out by going to Peas’ hypnotherapist, but you could say I pissed the R400 away (sorry, just couldn’t resist it). Over the years I’ve developed a strange habit (naturally, mine are unique!) to help me um, pee, in such scenarios: I have to say, in a Jamaican accent nogal, “Extraaact da urine, mon”. Don’t ask me, I don’t know why. But it helps, sort of.
2. If I get pressure applied to one part of my body for which there is a partner (ie legs, arms, cheeks – facial and gluteal, ears etc), eg someone touches me or I accidentally knock one against something, then I have to apply similar pressure to its mate to “even out” the feeling. You can imagine the abuse this created when my friends found this one out…
3. Being a generally atypical Virgo (you know the perfectionist stereotype), I do have certain fastidious habits: yes, the room can be a complete wreck of a mess, but the shoes had bloody well better be sitting in neat pairs, wherever they are! And the tassles on little carpets must all be neatly combed to lie absolutely parallel to each other (the easiest way to do this is on hands and knees, using your fingers as a brush). No soap stains on the (clean) cutlery or crockery, otherwise they are deemed dirty and go straight back into the sink!
4. A habit of sniffing my underarms. I am strangely fascinated by the faint odour that arises at the end of the day. I’m also convinced that my left underarm smells more than my right one, and I frequently attempt to get the Gilb to verify this (involuntarily), usually by attacking him as he’s lying down, not suspecting me to pounce on top of him and smother his face with a smelly pit. (I very rarely get to give him both pits at once, so the comparison is seldom successful). Does “everyone loves their own brand” apply to pits, too?
5. Sex. There are a number of habits here, but I’m only going to point out one of the strange ones, relating to role playing. Anyone watched The Score, where Ed Norton brilliantly portrays a thief pretending to be a retarded janitor? The Gilb does a really excellent impersonation of his voice and facial tics. I get totally turned on in bed when he drags the persona out (sadly it’s rather infrequently, these days). He plays the retard, I play the regular person trying to have illicit sex with him (“ok Danny” – that’s the name I use – “we’re going to do some special exercises, but let’s keep them a secret, something just you and I know about, ok?”). Once, while trying to explain to Danny about how we’re going to perform these “exercises”, he says (in the retard voice) “just hurry up and stick it in your hole now!”. Total fucking hysterics. Not to mention the arousal!
6. My pedantic obsession with correct spelling. Calling over waiters to inform them that the Italian language has been raped in the menu (capucino, Guiseppe’s, expresso) and carrying a permanent marker in my bag for correction of posters displayed in public (cheap accomodation, millenium carpet cleaners, affect change, dependant upon, principle issues etc) are some of my habits. And interrupting you in conversation to point out that you have just split your infinitive (even though the dear O.E.D. has given up on this one and declared it acceptable a few years ago).

Any similar souls out there?

tWITS vs fUJs (former fRAUds)

I advise that if you’re an alumnus of the tertiary institution a stone’s throw away from WITS, you don’t read this post. I’m quite willing to admit that I’m far from impartial in my views on the two institutions, given that I’m a Witsie. I do however, date a man who is quite a proud graduate from UJ (why they still insist on calling it RAU, I have no idea. The name and logo have changed, the university grounds have expanded to include five campuses, black people now actually attend this university), so many of my views have been further incensed by boyfriend/girlfriend rivalry (I am told that I am fiercely competitive, after all).

Anyway, last night he graduated with a double degree in Mechancial Engineering and IT. Having attended a number of WITS graduation ceremonies, I’m quite schooled in the proceedings. What follows is a comparison of the WITS versus RAU events, to show you how being all of 2km apart can make the world of difference.




So what is my point? Do I think fUJ’s are racists whose mentalities are stuck back in the 1940s? Not at all. But I do think their graduation ceremony needs a bit of an upgrade to reflect the social changes our country has undergone (and especially since the conversion from RAU to UJ, the social changes that institution has undergone – more so than WITS, even).

Oh, and on a final note: congrats to the Gilb! Ek is vreeslik trots op jou! My rantings above do not diminish the great accomplishment of your degrees…

Buig, papa sal bestuur

An inadvertent result of being so horrified by something your boyfriend said to you, that you bring it up in group conversation for the similar repugnant reaction by your friends, is that it becomes part of his new alter ego, and the frequent joke of a long weekend holiday.

But first: the long weekend started with me cursing solidly for four hours as I cleaned the flat, much to the annoyance of our neighbours, with the vacuum cleaner whining at 8am. Then, off to Secunda. Thanks ATW for the directions, but fortunately (or rather, unfortunately as will become evident later) my boyfriend drove us there (basically, you go straight for a heck of a long time, then turn right and go straight for another heck of a long time – swerving occasionally to avoid potholes – then turn left when you see the curlicues of smoke wafting insidiously from Sasol’s plant. Then bang, you’re there.). Not a terrible place for a village out in the sticks. They’ve even got a Dros, god bless ‘em. Two things that stood out in what I stereotypically assumed was an Afrikaner fortress: one, gays are allowed in Secunda, provided they stick to the service industry. I think they view ‘mo’s as counting towards their disabled employee equity credits. And two, black people are by far the coolest people there. As this latter thought strayed across my mind, providence provided proof in the form of a pumping Fiat Uno that zoomed onto the pavement next to the Gilb’s new rented house. Pumping regte egte boereliedjies, that is. The ones with accordions as chief instrument. Believing that diversity is the strength of the country, I decided I would not judge the geriatrics driving in the Uno, that could only have played that Hades elevator music so loud because they were virtually 100% deaf. Except when they stepped out of the car. Folks, they looked just like you and me (except you’d never have caught me dead in those cheap furry brown Roberto Cavalli boot ripoffs). Mid-twenties, a poppie and her ou. They even left the motor running to wait until the end of the song before sauntering out with that we’re-extreme-right-wing-white-supremacists-and-proud-of-it attitude. So unnecessary.

But let’s fast forward to the trip down to the Natal Midlands, the following day. A general word of warning to all would-be travellers that happen to be in Secunda, en route to the Midlands. If you’re thinking that the N11 (via Ermelo and Ladysmith) is a neat shortcut, you’re fucking wrong. The “road” consists of very large holes occasionally interspersed with tar. Which is the very reason why, while I was chatting away mindlessly as the sweat of prolonged concentration beaded the Gilb’s brow, he turned to me in exasperation and said: “Liefie, shoesh! Papa bestuur!”

What?!? Daddy’s driving? Of all the terrible phrases that modern society has invented – moist panties; making love; hell, even moist panty lovemaking – this little phrase sent the kind of shivers down my spine that turning to the mirror to see a tarantula crawling across your neck would incur. It did the trick, though. I was too revolted to open my mouth again, but was quite willing to bring the sick, sick sentence up again when we met up with friends at the lodge that evening. They, of course, thought it was the funniest thing ever said. One even thought it was kinky. Another remarked that it was his Secunda alter ego emerging for public display. And that’s when he started liking the attention too much, and inventing new vile Daddy lines (all delivered in a deep, very porno quasi-lustful voice), like: “Sit dit in papa se mond”, “papa wil he dat jy papa se piel suig”, “buig, papa sal bestuur”, and one I admittedly liked, “papa gaan jou van die bed afstoot”.

Why am I going into such minute detail about these little things? Cos the big details around this trip were otherwise quite mundane, being a chilled vacation and all. Here’s a brief summary:

Eat, drink, sex, smoke (a joint), drink, sex, eat, smoke, chess, drink, sex, chess, vague freak out on a mushroom trip, two-hour walk/hug combo from the dear Gilb to calm me down, drink, eat, smoke, sex, chess, Monopoly, Tuesday, sigh.

Thanks for enduring to the end of this longwinded post, I promise the forthcoming ones will be shorter. Happy weekend, hope the reality of five-day work weeks is not depressing y’all…