Max and Me

I know Max is really jealous. He knew, the moment I pulled into the Ford/Mazda Fury parking lot, that I was going to cheat on him. I tried to hide the glee of my test drive of the fabulous Mazda 3, but he’s a very intuitive Corsa, he is.

Thus on Wednesday he got me back. I had to pick my parents up from the airport that afternoon, so I borrowed by Dad’s Condor to have enough space to fit the heaps of luggage in (and, my Dad’s a tad too large for a small Corsa seat). I dropped them off at their house, stayed for dinner, and as I tried to start Max, he spluttered and died. I tried and tried and tried again to start his little engine, to no avail. The motor wasn’t turning or the alternator was broken (that’s what my Mom said, I don’t know what it means), so I quietly apologised to Max for my unfaithfulness, knowing he was just being sulky, kissed his steering wheel affectionately, and got out.

But that wasn’t enough for you, Max, was it? You had to go and slit your tyre to get some attention too, didn’t you? The last trickles of air were bleeding out of his right rear tyre, so I worked fast and desperately to replace it with the spare. But he knew I’d rush to save him, so he foiled me there, too. One of his bolts was so worn down that the spannery-thingy wouldn’t grip it, and the wheel couldn’t be removed.

I ended up spending the night at my parents, borrowed the Condor again yesterday, and my uncle kindly went through to see what was the matter (my Dad’s not that kind of man – he’s more the opera, flowers, cooking type, you see).

Max again made two moves to spite me:

1 – the spare tyre actually had a slow puncture too, so that had to be repaired
2 – he pretended that the only thing wrong with him was that the petrol had run out (he’s done that twice before, all in the space of a year. He’s not being very creative, is he?)

Damn bastard! Still, I love him to bits. All the fond memories: steamy Titanic moments, heart-stopping instants where Max and I made physical contact with other vehicles/poles/road barriers, cutting off taxi’s, near-death experiences while being transported on a train from CT to JHB that derailed, and that scary road rage incident last weekend… dear Max, even if a new car enters my life, he can never replace the special moments we shared. We lived the best years of our lives together, and no sexy power steering / aircon / leather seat / cd player / five door-wielding vehicle can compensate. Promise.

I can like to moer you, tjiek.

First up – everyone’s said it, but I have to say it too: Robbie, I want your babies! That man is just the most appealing male creature alive, isn’t he? In fact, the whole experience bordered very much on the spiritual for me. And he even said that his favourite song is Come Undone, which is mine, too. Destined as mates? I hope so! The only thing that could have improved the show (apart form me flying off in his helicopter with him), is him having bared some of the flesh hiding under that long coat! Sigh!!!!! (And why didn’t he pick me to flash him? I was specially wearing my tight black t-shirt with scratch-and-sniff banana hands over the boobies.)

In other news, I had my first real road rage experience on Sunday, en route to an Easter brunch. I was trying to turn right at a robot, and had to wait for an oncoming car to pass through the intersection first. Except, in typical Joburg style, the damn idiot didn’t indicate to show that he was turning left. So, I waved a general flippant gesture in the air, and turned after him, muttering angrily about the usual behaviour of (surprise, surprise) beemer drivers.

He starts gesticulating angrily and wildly at me in his rearview mirror, to which I respond with a couple of unfriendly signs myself. And then he stops his car. In the middle of bloody Bryanston Dr. So I overtake him, turn right into the next street – or at least try to. The fucknut cuts me off by zooming ahead of me. And so my brave little Corsa (Max) engages its own zoom mode, overtakes his un-number plated beemer and hurtles down the road. Mercilessly he follows, at which point I get really fed up, slam on the brakes, and watch him slam to a halt too.

Out of the car steps a walking condom stuffed with creatine, screaming at me to get out the car as he approaches. I open the door, stick out a stilettoed heel, and he freezes, unsure of what to do (he obviously thought from my short hair that I was a guy). Then he starts screaming at me – in extremely broken English – a “fokken bitch” to “fokken stop pulling signs” at him. I (mostly calmly) reply that “it is customary for the person who committed the driving error to apologise humbly for their mistake”. This doesn’t go down so well with him, and he screams back that I must “get [my] brother to come to the scene so [he] can klap him, because [he] can’t klap a tjiek.” Niiiiiiice. I tell him to stop wasting my time, to get back in his car and leave me the hell alone. What I really wanted to say, but was too scared to, was: “Asseblief praat in Afrikaans. Moenie my taal so verkrag nie.” And, “for the good of all humanity, stop eating so much red meat.” But I didn’t. I drove off, all shaky.

Perhaps all he needed was a hug, my minor exaperative gesture was a trigger that released the tension that had been building up because his girlfriend was cheating on him, he’d just been mugged, his excessive creatine intake was giving him kidney stones, and the raise he was hoping for hadn’t come through. So maybe some fault lies my way, for lack of compassion. Then again, he was driving a beemer. It’s just in their nature.

(note: the generalization in the last two sentences does not apply to drivers of the 1 and 6 series – those cars are shit cool).

Tea for two? I wish!

If I’d got my act together, I would have pipped Peas to the customer complaints blog entry. But because I’ve been scarce in the office (and hence internet access has been scarcer), I only got to sending off my complaint letter today. So now in humble homage to Peas, here’s my version of a customer complaint (far less sex-oriented, I’m afraid).

Firstly, for some context, let me explain my feelings about tea, specifically Earl Grey (you may have noticed it makes top of my Interests list on my blog profile).

The highest compliment I’ve ever paid a man, was to say I’d sacrifice all the Earl Grey tea in the world for him (and believe me, that is not a compliment I’ve thrown around lightly). Earl Grey is my drug of choice. I truly believe the success of the British Empire was founded upon tea (and yes, I know tea is not English in origin, so no retorts to that effect, please). When met by a particularly difficult rabble of annoying natives who just wouldn’t bloody give up their land to the colonial incumbents, I have no doubt that the English would have sat down, brewed a particularly good cuppa and strategised their way through the obstacles at hand. Kind of like those cringeingly embarrassing ads for Ricoffy where the son asks his father for help with his Maths homework, the father gets a worried I-can’t-remember-primary-school-arithmetic-for-shit look, then makes a cup of coffee and is suddenly enlightened. Only not.

So, without further ado, here is the email I sent to Twinings Head Office, UK. No exaggerations, I really have tried hard to find it in a number of stores. (Oh, and I conveniently included my postal address, in case they feel a fit of generosity coming on):

Dear Twinings customer care employee

I am a loyal South African fan of Twinings tea, especially your delicious Earl Grey.

I was thus very displeased when I bought a box of 50 tagless Earl Grey tea bags at a large supermarket in Johannesburg, only to find upon opening the box, that the tea was scented with cherry flavour. I returned the box to the store, was given a new one, and had the same problem upon opening it. I called the local distributor, Stafford Bros & Draeger Ltd, who were already aware of the problem. After promising me a free box for my inconvenience - which four days later has still not arrived - and having attempted to buy another box from another retailer (only to discover more cherry-flavoured Earl Grey), I would like to lay a complaint about their poor service with you.

Twinings teas are substantially more expensive than other brands in South Africa, and as such, we supporters tend to be more discerning tea consumers than those who drink regular teas. I am certain the local Twinings distributor is well aware of this, yet does not seem concerned enough to retrieve the defective stock of tea from retailers, let alone attempt to mollify vocally dissatisfied customers, in order to preserve the quality and excellence associated with your brand.

Today I will visit yet another retailer to attempt to find my beloved Twinings Earl Grey. How many other South Africans have experienced the same frustrations, have raised their concerns with Stafford Bros & Draeger, and have met with the same empty promise? How many, like me, after trying unsuccessfully for over a week, will begin to buy a local (lesser quality, but also lesser cost) Earl Grey brand, which at least delivers what it promises?

I trust the matter will be seen to promptly.

Kind regards

TWA
{insert postal address here}

5 Reasons to be happy today

1 – the Gilb returns from his first week in Secunda. I’m wearing my sexiest underwear, a pair of hot pink lace knickers, to celebrate.

2 – I only left the flat at 1:30 today to come into the office (okay, I was working very late last night and from very early this morning, but it feels far more acceptable when you’re in bed in your PJ’s doing it).

3 – our flat wasn’t gutted last night by First For Bitches’ assassins. Although we were shitting ourselves when we heard a noise outside. I jumped up, screaming “First For Bitches, we’re onto youuuuuu” (while pulling open the curtain and looking around in bewilderment for the hitmen – or is that hit-bitches – only to realize it was a cat playing in the bushes)

4 – this glorious month is going to be jam-packed with weekend activities. This weekend: tons of sex, and a birthday party, and high tea at the Westcliff on Sunday (unfortunately, this is actually a work engagement, but hey). Next weekend: stuffing my face with chocolate, along with the rest of you Gentiles. Following weekend: Nan’s engagement party! Whatever to buy her? Followed by a one-day rafting trip to Parys. Following weekend: the Vaal from Thursday to Friday, followed by the Natal Midlands till the Monday.

5 – it’s Friday! Been an incredibly long week, but it’s almost done! So happy boozing/partying/shagging to all of you, but maintain enough memory of the festivities to tell me all about it on Monday!

Mmmmwwwaaaahhhhhh!

A funny pic for you – one of many from an email I got entitled “A man’s idea of an ideal world”.

Calculate the number of people who bought Audi's in SA in 2005

Due to our company's severe employee shortage, I've been sucked into the recruitment function, to the point of the ridiculous. I was asked to interview someone for a position higher than me on the chain - can you imagine the questions I'd ask? "So, Bob, if you gave me a huge workload to do and I told you to sod off, what would you do?" I'd turn down the applications of anyone who said they'd report me to the MD. But the interviewee cancelled so that scenario never came to fruition.

Instead, today I was asked to interview two people who would come in at entry level, just one wee step below me on the food chain. Being a business consultancy, our company normally asks interviewees to complete a case study, to gauge their general awareness of the SA economy and their logical and analytical abilities. We give them no information, but want to see how they think and solve problems.

The first interviewee was so bad she doesn't warrant mentioning. The second one showed quite a lot of promise during the general questions session, then crashed and burned in the case study. For your enjoyment, I take you through the case study proposed to him (the same as the title of this post). Let's call him X and me TWA:

X: Right, firstly, there are plus/minus 3 million people in SA.

TWA: What kind of fuckwad are you? There are more people in Cape Town! Aloud: I see...

X: Then, the cost of an Audi is at least R200,000...

TWA: typical guy. knows all about cars. lucky this time. Aloud: Uh-huh.

X: Of the 3 million South Africans, only 1.5 million will earn a salary of R200,000 and above, to afford to buy an Audi.

TWA: Is this nutcase for real? Do you know we live in a third world country, mister? With an unemployment rate almost up to 30%, and a population skewed towards a generation that is too young to work legally in the first place? And that those who do have jobs are usually blue-collar workers? Have you heard about the on-going nation-wide union strikes for better wages? Have you ever left your privileged little suburb and ventured into the real SA? Aloud: Okay.

X: And I think about 1 million of those people will buy a new Audi in 2005.

TWA: Riiiiiiiiiight. So everyone who can afford to buy a new car does so each year, and two out of every three cars on the streets are Audis. Aloud: Don't you think that's a little high?

X: You're right - let's say 500,000 buy a new Audi.

TWA: Still nowhere close. How quickly can I get rid of this fool? Aloud: And what do the 1 million other new cars comprise?

X: Um, 500,000 Beemers, 300,000 Alfas and 200,000 Mercedes Benzes.

TWA: So what car do you drive?

X: A Toyota.

TWA: I see. Thanks for your time, we'll get back to you very, very shortly with our decision.

Bye-bye baby

After many teary-eyed mornings, and I’ll admit, some insane clinging to the Gilb on his last official morning in Jozi this Sunday, I let go – both literally and figuratively - and accepted that the Gilb has to begin his career and if that means taking a great opportunity in some little voetsek-sized town called Secunda (still haven’t looked on the map to see exactly where it is, though I’ve driven through twice as a young ‘un) then that is what he has to do.

I haven’t committed to any path of action regarding us yet, but will take things as they come. If we were meant to be together, then it’ll work out that way in the end, right? Even if our semi-long distance relationship becomes truly long distance and I move to Europe or Thailand next year. So.

My interactive love life will take an immediate dive (but then that’s why God invented vibrators, no?), but the Gilb will be there emotionally over the phone, and in all the other accustomed ways on most weekends.

I guess I’m being remarkably childish about the whole thing – a lass can hardly expect to get everything she wants, especially if she’s relying on that delivery from a man…

To cheer myself up, here’s a pic of my favourite lady crush: the delectable Scarlett Johansson, in that spectacular red gown…

The trouble with being a woman

I want to be your whore
But I want to be your princess

I want you to worship the ground I walk on
But I want to crave your attention

I want to have a more high-powered job than you
But I want you to spoil me with priceless gifts

I want to look after you, nurture you, nourish you
But I want you to protect me

I want to love you unconditionally
But I want to hate you in moments of irrationality

I want you
But I don’t want to want you

See?