Third World Ant

Week 1 in the Peonda!

2007-09-05T05:58:00.001+02:00

So, here I am, writing to you from the dusty backwaters of Mpumalanga.

The week was filled with frantic packing, frantic driving to and fro between Joburg and “The Second” (Secunda’s name is from Latin), frantic planning of my birthday/farewell party and frantic last-minute admin for the new job, my UK cabbage patch, ahem, property investment, my father’s business etc.

Some strange facts / observations about my new “home”:

1 – This place is writhing with domestic violence. Not of the beat-your-wife-up-senseless variety – no no, these people take things to a whole new level. It’s the more terminal route of I-shoot-the-wife-and-then-myself (and sometimes the kids too) variety. There have been a spate of such killings recently, none of which make it into the press. Gilb’s colleague witnessed one such incident at 5am last week, through his chicken-wire fence in the neighbour’s yard. Why such stunningly bizarre behaviour? Read #2 for more…

2 – “The Second” is a place of sharing – sharing spouses behind their other half’s backs, that is. The twisted stories I could tell you but won’t… eye-popping stuff. It’s so publicly done, too…

3 – It’s a dry area on Sundays! I tried to buy some super el-cheapo wine for cooking (I swear!) and wasn’t allowed too, until I coquettishly batted my eyelids at the manager. Speaking of cooking, two other points to note: 1) (unrelated to Secunda) I was given two fabulous cookbooks as birthday gifts – one was Pasella, in Afrikaans, as practice for being kaalvoet en swanger in die kombuis one day. And, 2) I’m going to need to do extensive shopping trips in “The First” for food items that are not available here – black bean sauce, rice noodles, coriander and rocket are the first few items I’ve noticed to be lacking.

4 – Rent is ridiculously expensive here – I’m expecting that we’ll be paying 50% more for a place that Peas and I were paying. We may even buy a place because I baulk at the thought of shelling out so much cash for rent, when a little bit more would pay off a bond (although our view of leaving in 18 months does make for a compelling argument not to buy)

There’ll be plenty more to tell over the next few days / weeks / months. So I’ll save it all for later. But, I’m receiving my ‘Personal Protection Equipment’ this week, which comprises a hard hat, safety boots and overalls – how cool is that? Never going to wear it, but it’ll be handy for dress-up parties, I’m sure…

Totsiens julle!

The day has come...

2007-08-31T08:34:00.000+02:00

Well, the day has finally arrived. It marks the cusp of a variety of events: the end of my flatmating (well it’s a word now, purists!) with wonderful Peas; the official end of my life as a Joburger; the end of my life as a bachelorette (living with Gilb is practically being married to him, right?); the end of my brief employment hiatus; my last day as a 26 year-old.

Quite a list, eh? In December 2006 I said 2007 would be my year of change, and I got what I wished for – of course, the devil is in the detail, and here the mischievous fiend has taken vast liberties, for the changes are not at all the ones I’d been hoping for. Ah, well. These are the changes I believe are best for me now.

But let’s not wax too philosophical – plenty of time for that while immersed in the culture of Secunda, a.k.a. Satan’s Lung.

Instead, I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane and share with you the highlights of my two-year life with Peas – she has been so central to many of my fond memories of the past two years that moving out of home with her might be the hardest change to adapt to.

So here goes, in as chronological an order as my gnat-like memory can muster:

1. The night before I move in, Peas throws a welcome party in my honour, which is loud enough (or could the music have been so offensively 80s?) to land us in trouble with the neighbours and almost get us evicted. Enter with a bang, they always say (do they?)

2. We get invited to a ladies chocolate party at the Westcliff, and we behave badly. Terribly! All the other ladies are skinny shmodels who don’t indulge in the celebrated afternoon tea platter, so we steal everyone else’s cucumber sandwiches and pastries and shovel them down our throats. That’s not all we steal, eh Peas? A roll of 3-ply, a napkin (so soft that I keep it in my cubby-hole and use it to clean my sunglasses), and an umbrella. And we’re rather heavy-handed on the free alcohol, drinking bubbly alternated with single malts and cocktails. Unbelievably, we’re not the name-draggers of the day: two girls who got slightly giggly themselves started swearing loudly and offending other guests, and had to be told by management to shut up or get out. Amateurs.

3. Peas’ raucous birthday party complete with trouble-inducing jacuzzi. Completely plastered, I dragged my name through the mud and then some. But I did meet a lot of her very cool friends who have thankfully managed to overlook my obscene behaviour and still speak to me.

4. Many, many nights of karaoke. If Michael Bolton were in his grave, he’d be turning – spinning, even. So would Whitney Houston, Lionel Ritchie, the Carpenters (she’s already turning!), the South Park soundtrack guys, the Annie soundtrack guys, etc. This karaoke has been performed in a number of styles: drunk & clothed, drunk & unclothed, sober & clothed, sober & unclothed, drunk & in a trolley. The singing, however, is consistent – think round 1 Idols – should or should we let them scrape through? It’s touch and go, I tell you.

5. The men in Peas’ life: the tubby one, the skinny one, the tall one, now the blondie. Mine has been much more mundane with just one recurring act, the Gilb (but how memorable he is!) Peas and I share sex stories, relationship questions, and yes, even discuss our sex noises. I remember calling her a grunter, I can’t for the life of me remember what I am. Peas?

6. Peas’ eccentric behaviour, to which I can only imagine her new flatmate will have a number of cartoon-style double-take moments: eating tuna out of the tin, and leaving the tuna in the tin, plus a fork, in the fridge for tomorrow; loud singing in the bathtub, with the door always open; let’s not get started on the music collection, she’ll find out pretty soon (including Peas’ current rave phase); her addiction to Home & Away (good luck trying to watch anything else during that time slot); her inexplicable fondness for foods like Golden Smackeroos and pork bangers and her obsession with Snackwiches. There are plenty more, but if the new flattie reads this I don’t want to give away all the surprises that lie ahead, now do I?

7. Hiding booze and spliff in a picnic blanket and getting royally drunk at Zoo Lake. Walking around the Artists in the Park exhibition and saying, perhaps a little too loudly, “crap, crap, frigging awful, crap, almost decent, crap…” as we walked past the exhibitors’ artworks.

8. A dinner party where Peas, using a glass ornament aubergine (not in our flat, I assure you) demonstrated fellatio on nervous Gilb. There’s a picture floating around somewhere…

9. The Amazing Race, where our car’s participants were supporting the Ikeys, and wearing eye-catching phrases like ‘F.UCT’ and ‘Niknak poen’ on our clothes and bodies. We were magnificent! And we even put in a decent performance, coming third and winning a set of steak knives for the effort.

10. The Durbs July last year – not too much that we can remember directly, but the pictures don’t lie: we had a royally fantastic time, that’s certain. Sneaking into the expensive tents, wearing name badges of guests like ‘Thokozile Makhanya” and having the bewildered waiters serve us free food, dancing up a storm on chairs in the Pinkies tent (of course everyone wanted to watch us dancing, we’re fabulous!), posing as tea pots and stalking tigers…

And, just because lists of 10 are contrived, here’s an extra:

11. Famous Peas. It’s amazing to see how much cult status she’s achieved, I think even the new flattie’s a bit starstruck. From her blog, to the countless mentions of her in the media, to the blog awards, to her sex column, Peas is certainly a mini-shleb in this part of the world. And it’s all been achieved through the force of her personality, coming through in her delightful writing style. Truly amazing.

Alright, that’s it. Any more reminiscing and I’ll change my mind about moving out. To Peas: cara Pisella, ti amo molto. Spero che non dimenticherai di mé e saremo buon amiche sempre.

I expect numerous visits from Peas to the Poenda, I’ve insisted we don’t move into a place that doesn’t have room for a spare double bed, so there’s always a home for you (and any other visitors) in the backwaters of Mpumalanga, dear friend.

PS: much more frequent writing will resume from next week, when I am once again officially employed. And proper attention will paid to your blog sites, too!

PPS: thanks to Rev for your awesome idea for my birthday/farewell party! Everyone’s dressing up like they’re from the Poenda, and I’m arranging for some sokkie musiek for everyone’s pleasure and/or pain.

Back from the abyss

2007-08-20T07:45:00.000+02:00

Hello world, it’s been a while. Sorry for the lack of contact, I’ve no decent excuse beyond the predictable “life’s been hectic” adage. And perhaps too much has happened to describe any of it in any detail, but what the hell, here goes:

1 – News officially broke that my (former) company was closing down. Which brings with it the predictable angst of “what do now?” and its even worse cousin, “what is it I want to achieve long term?”. On both of these questions, I’ve been suffering a lot of anxiety and pull in opposite directions – for one, I’ve been LONGING to go overseas for about three years now, and something’s always held me back. There’s no better time to go overseas than when you get retrenched, unless of course you have a boyfriend with whom you’re about to spend your fifth anniversary…

2 - …which brings me onto the next critical occurrence. I applied for 2 positions with S.Asshole (I’ve copyrighted it, you bastards) in June, and the sloths have only got back to me now. One position rejected (I received news of my rejection by SMS, complete with the de riguer SMS abbreviations: “Tx for applying for position xxxxxx. We regret to inform u that u have been unsuccessful. Best wishes”) and one accepted – offer still pending. Everyone has advised me that having S.Asshole on my cv would be a terribly bad thing, so I have looked for alternatives – at the end of the day, it boils down to 2 alternatives: the aforementioned company and a consulting company that has told me I’m asking for too much money (despite the fact that I’d be working just as hard as at my previous job and potentially travelling more).

On this last issue, I have to be pretty discerning. See, if I’m making the distinctly large sacrifice of moving to the Poenda and forgoing my career progression, then why take a job where I’d be travelling 4 days a week, only to see the Gilb on weekends only (which is my current situation), instead of staying in Jozi where I could find a far more challenging job? My current thinking is to taken the 8-5 Poenda job and supplement with a part-time MBA to compensate. I simply can’t back down anymore – it’s the Poenda (where Gilb and I get to test our long-term yet long-distance relationship and see whether it’s worth continuing any further) or overseas; Joburg’s no longer an option.

3 – The universe has an unprosaic way of spitting on you for its own personal enjoyment. See, the day I became officially unemployed, I also had to give a speech at a seminar at Wits, and the beautifully ironic title of this speech was “Alternative careers for Chemists”. Of course, I opened my speech with the irresistible “Please take everything I say with a pinch of salt as I am unemployed and therefore not a stellar example of what you can accomplish outside of the Chemistry industry.” Ja, well.

There is much more to say, but I’ll try to share more over the course of the next few days, if I get the chance. What I’d love even more is to have the time to catch up on all your goings-on, please believe me when I say that a) I have very limited access to the Internet and v) I’m working harder as an unemployed person than I ever was as an employed one.

Toodles, and I’ll write again later this week.

xXx

Property baroness

2007-07-06T10:14:00.000+02:00

Guys, I’m glowing, and it aint even post-coital.

You see, me, I’m a leasing lass, I’m very hesitant to make even the teensy-weensiest investment (of course my beloved Mini, Ant, was a recent – and single – exception to this rule, even though the most prudent of you will argue that that’s not an investment per se), on account of the fact that this ties you down – you know, mortgage bonds and shit.

But, I recently threw caution to the wind, when my beady eye was attracted to the phrase “strategic investment” on a banner at a property sales stand in Sandton City the other day. I went to have a look-see, and decided that this kind of property investment wouldn’t really tie me down. So yesterday, me and 3 other people took the plunge and paid the deposit on this little piece of …. cabbage patch. I shit you not.

I am now the quarter-owner of a 250 sqm patch of agricultural land in South East England. Why? Because I can. Although the ownership aspect is academic at this point – the four of us have decided I’m the one who should face the brunt of the tax clearance investigation (i.e. everyone will deposit money into my account and I pay on everyone’s behalf, instead of everyone paying on their own behalf), which should pose some interesting technical debates, given my current SARS situation (they think I owe them big time, but my Dad’s tax dude says I’ve overpaid and they in fact owe me a reasonable amount). Pending the clearance of such issues, we should be all systems go, though, in which case some English farmer cedes his farm property to me and my mates.

And the really bizarre thing? I had a whole list of questions to ask (all technical kak like payment of stamp duties, property insurance, tax issues etc) but failed to ask one obvious thing: what is currently being farmed on the property? (The farming will cease once the land has been rezoned – that’s the whole point of the investment, to get the land rezoned as residential property and sell it at a fat profit to a property developer – but until such time, for legal/technical/cost issues, the land will continue to be farmed).

My guess is that it’s cabbages, which is quite useful if I fail to secure a new job in the next few years (remember, unemployment officially starts at the beginning of next month) and need to camp out for free on a piece of land, and live off its produce; although I’ve never been compelled to search for them, I’d imagine there’s an abundance of recipes involving cabbage (cabbage soup, cabbage soufflé, cabbage rosti, cabbage curry, cabbage gruel, and let’s not forget that picnic staple, the coleslaw).

I have a huge aversion to rabbits and goats and sheep, so as long as it’s not any of those, I’m quite happy that my “investment” (my boss thinks I’m ridiculous applying the term in this case. “It’s pure speculation, not investment!” he adamantly declares) is morally okay, and of course, living off the fat (profit) of the land in 5 years’ time will make the decision all the more comfortable.

If all else fails, I’ll be aiming to secure a client base for cabbage sales. I’m taking advance orders now, so be sure to let me know of your cabbage needs in the medium term. I’m running a “buy 5, get 1 free” promotion, if any of you are interested…

PS: I met someone last night who’s a blogger (a big fan of Peas) who wouldn’t tell me the name of his own blog, but nevertheless, hi dude! I couldn’t twist Peas’ rubber arm enough to reveal your site’s name just yet, but I’ll get there :)

Long weekend break

2007-07-04T10:13:00.000+02:00

I spent a glorious 4-day weekend in the Cape, using the opportunity presented by a former colleague’s wedding to extend my stay into a proper mini-break.

At the outset however, it looked like the trip was going to deliver much uphill, as evidenced by the following:

1 – Friday evening: unexpected late afternoon/evening at work to meet a crunching deadline (yes, even though companies close, someone’s got to do the work till the very end, right?), plus three social obligations to meet, before packing for our 7am flight on Saturday. Of course, I also had to run an urgent (unforeseen) errand before social engagement #1, but just before dashing out of the office, I miraculously remembered to print out flight/car rental/accommodation details. I unfortunately forgot to find out the actual venue for the wedding (somewhere in Elgin), which Gilb so kindly reminded me about, say 5 times an hour on Saturday.

2 – still Friday evening: exasperated with life, I decide to skip engagements #1 & 2, and skip straight to 3, where out of sheer exhaustion, upon leaving the restaurant, I manage to bring a plate crashing down to the floor, and cause a waiter to run after me and present me with the car keys I’d left behind.

3 – yep, not yet past Friday evening – I get home, manage to pick out a dress to wear to the wedding with relative ease (delightfully, even if somewhat inappropriately summery and pink), and then spend 15 minutes alternating between the pink shoes (you may remember this famous pair; quite English rosey in combination with the dress) and the silver shoes (metallic glam, baby!) and eventually decide that glam is more important than class. What I do not realise at the time, however, is that I end up packing one pink shoe and one silver shoe in my luggage (both left feet, incidentally), and that the 15 long minutes spent deliberating over which pair worked best, was wasted as I’d end up having to wear my only other pair of heels, the green ones, with the outfit.

Thankfully bad things only happened in 3, and the rest of the weekend was spent decidedly blissfully. Auspiciously, it rained – no, poured – for the wedding, and Gilb and I, who were late in booking into the hotel that the bride had recommended weeks ago for everyone to stay in, ended up staying at the far nicer (and marginally cheaper) 4-star B&B all of 150m down the road. The groom, my former senior colleague, who had nothing but criticism to dish out to me and my peers when we worked with him, gave a surprisingly stirring and tear-jerking speech. It’s nice to see men crying out of loving emotion from time to time, and weddings are a good bet to see such small miracles. My current boss did a stellar performance as MC*, and I had to go to pains to make sure no-one thought we were together, as we were seated next to each other and a fair portion of the audience (the coloured contingent) might have been tempted to throw daggers at his back, due to his irreverent coloured jokes (granted, being coloured himself, he was more likely to get away with the dodgy humour than a whiter or blacker person might have).

Sunday was spent idling over breakfast in Elgin, lunch in Hermanus and dinner in Constantia – our trusty little rental did significant revving to bring us between towns A, B and C in the required times.

Monday was spent on the tennis court, where Gilb and I had our first-ever tennis encounter (after much nagging from me, and some inspiration from Wimbledon highlights). Turns out the little geek is a past tennis freak who showed no mercy in dismissing me 6-1, 6-0, 6-1. (“40-love!” he’d scream. “You don’t have to rub it in my face, do you?!” I’d retort). His serve scorches across the court – my greatest success was in dodging any ball-to-body contact that would’ve left me bruised an unpalatable pruney shade. This was followed by the de rigeur walk around Kirstenbosch (my favourite sanctuary, a bit of torture for the Gilb though), a visit (finally!) to the Mitchell’s microbrewery at the V&A for me to try their cider (praised a few months ago in Wine magazine), and apartment-cooked dinner (oh, and of course, tons of sex. On all days – goes without saying).

Anyhow, it’s Wednesday back at the old grind, but there are two pieces of good news: 1) tonight I go to a launch party for the new Lamborghini Super Allegra, and get a freebie hair styling and expert make-up application for the event – it sucks to be you, doesn’t it? And, 2) Sass-hole have decided that maybe I’m not completely worthless and will be interviewing me this coming Monday. Oops though – the HR chickie called at 8:30 in the morning, which is the time I’m unfailingly annoyed by calls from people trying to sell me insurance/credit cards. I was a tad rude, especially cos she got my name wrong, and it looks like she’ll be the one interviewing me – d’oh!

*My favourite of his quips for the evening, relating to the high number of employees from a major financial services institution present at the reception (because the bride used to work there, which was how the groom came to meet her, when we worked in Cape Town on a project for the company): “… So I met [groom] at a casino. Which is quite apt given the number of employees of [SA financial institution’s name] we have here tonight. Because placing your money with them is always a gamble!” Ok, this was hysterical at the time, maybe you had to be there (or have worked with this company) to understand its humour…

Inefficient consumption

2007-06-26T09:44:00.000+02:00

First off, thank you for your comments on my last post – it gives me some comfort that you all acknowledge that I have some difficult decisions ahead of me, it’s not just some ridiculous issue in my head. Life and love, eh? Still, I wouldn’t ever opt to have the future made far easier by not having met the Gilb…

Anyway, today’s topic is something that although arbitrary, has disturbed me for years. Perhaps I have a somewhat Calvinist inclination, but I like to believe that anything you buy for consumption can indeed be consumed in entirety.

There are quite a few things, however, that you buy and acknowledge that some portion thereof, will not be used – ever. If I had a day to myself, I’d sit down and find a way to overcome this shortcoming and become a millionaire in patenting improved, more efficient designs.

Below, a list of some of the things that annoyingly can’t be used until finished. Feel free to add to this list of poor functional designs (or submit ideas for improvement that I can pilfer. Be generous, folks, you know I’m going to be jobless at the end of next month J). And in brackets, my estimation of the percentage of the product that can’t be used:

1. Clutch pencil lead refills (20%)
2. Normal pencils (20%)
3. Erasers (10%, depending on original size)
4. Soap (5%. If you’re my father, you glue the 5% sliver of soap to the new soap bar by squishing them together when they’re wet and then using them as a single bar. Looks like it’s clear where my Calvinistic tendencies come from…)
5. Any expensive facial product in a plastic tube (up to 10%, depending on the size to volume ratio. This, I’m convinced, is no accident – the less you’re able to use from a tube, the quicker you’re going to have to replace it. With my expensive eye cream tube, I now cut the bottom end off the tube when I can no longer squeeze more product out, and then proceed to extract the remainder of the contents as needed. It lasts about 4 weeks extra that way!)

That’s all I can think of off-hand; strange that everything I listed has a stationery/toiletry theme…

Pin the tail on the donkey

2007-06-21T09:01:00.000+02:00

I look back on my last past and think that perhaps it’s a tad melodramatic – the world won’t end after all, just because I’m temporarily without a job.

In truth, the angst I’ve been facing has just received a much-needed kick up the butt towards resolution, because I can’t now drag and delay my decisions along forever.

See, the million-dollar question is this: I’m with a man I adore, we’re almost upon our five-year anniversary. We’ve never lived together, and in fact, in September (our 5-year mark) 43% of our relationship will have been spent long-distance (I was in Cape Town for 9 months, he will have been in Secunda for 17 months); every month we continue in our present situation will only serve to increase that percentage…

So, what does a loved-up lass do in the situation? As I’m ever so fond of doing, I created a list of all possible options:

1 – we continue as is. Despite the fact that I largely enjoy my life in Joburg and he enjoys his in Secunda, this is no longer a viable option. Beyond December, I really don’t want this to be the case without a damn good reason. Why? Because I’m almost 27, and life and love must move forward or cease, whether you want it to or not.

2 – we live in one of these two locations or halfway in between (Delmas: have you ever been there? Nope – you blinked and missed it) and one of us / both of us commute a fair amount. As wiser friends have pointed out, the strain of moving in together for the first time coupled with the daily trials of traffic and rude driving will not make for an easy, or dare I even say successful, relationship. Plus, the stress of worrying if the Gilb made it there okay every morning with mist, single lanes and blind rises to battle against – nope, I could not live with myself if any terrible accident were to occur on account of my need to move in together.

2 – I move to Secunda. Which I wasn’t overly charmed at the idea of, despite not having an overwhelming aversion to the place – yes I’m a self-confessed city whore who enjoys the pleasures of international boutique store shopping as much as the next metropolitan maiden, but Joburg is only a 2-hour trip away. The real reason behind the lack of enthusiasm is more for the fact that I’m a bit of a career lass, and my concern that my career moves after a ‘step-down’ in Secunda might be limited (yes, Rev, I did also look into the delicatessen thing, Secunda doesn’t know what a decent bakery/coffee shop is – but maybe that was what was missing from my plan – beer and boerewors!). Two things have happened since: I’m beginning to question whether I shouldn’t be re-evaluating my goals: do I really want fame/fortune over love? And, 2: my mighty arrogance has been somewhat humbled. I took it as a given that I’d be granted a job at Sass-hole upon submission of my pretty cv, but they gave me not so much as a call-back. And I submitted it twice, for two different positions, and even pointed out that one of their new engineers might leave their company if I couldn’t find a place there (it’s strategic for Sass-hole to employ the partners of their engineers, it’s a retention thing they do to hold onto their scarce and precious employees). So this currently puts Secunda out of the question.

3 – We move to a place where we can actually both live and work in the same city. Pet faves right now are Dubai (big and growing, with plenty of scope for work for engineers and financial services people alike – High in Dubai has rather good things to say about the place) and the obvious UK (more jobs for someone like me, who is also endowed with an EU passport).

Thing is, as we’re making some earnest attempts to make moves in this department for the new year, I can’t help thinking that I’m demanding a hell of a lot from the Gilb: leave your newish job (which you enjoy) in your recent(ish)ly relocated town (which you also enjoy) and all your friends (who you adore) and family (less of a big deal) to go overseas because your girlfriend’s pestering you to, just so that you can live together in the same house and see whether you were meant to be together or not… I would really like some opinions on this – from people who know neither of us, and therefore cannot be biased towards/against either one of us.

It’s not like I don’t ask the Gilb repeatedly “Are you sure you want to do this? You’re not just doing it because I asked you to?” it’s just that I’m not convinced his positive response is completely honest. Yes, he is one of those people who prefer to follow rather than lead, but how far can I actually lead him down this path, in fairness? Moral dilemma, you see…

4 – I say f@ck it, to hell with my life in SA and with the Gilb, and I do the trek alone. Reminding you of what I said earlier (“I’m with a man I adore”), you see why although this is the logical – and least disruptive – path to all concerned, I am having exceeding difficulty in committing to it. Sigh…

I don’t know what to say or think about it any more – I’ve run through the scenarios again and again and again and still have come out none the wiser. I have the distinct feeling it’s one of those choices you have to make by blind-folding yourself and throwing a dart at a board, and then sticking with it.

For glory

2007-06-19T08:55:00.001+02:00

So. My company’s closing. Finished, kaput. It hasn’t been a real surprise; by coincidence I sit in the same area as management does, and I would have had to be completely blind to ignore the body language.

Ironically, the same challenge is faced by my father’s company at the moment – I imagine one of the top (if not the top) reasons small companies fail is a clash between key senior people in the firm.

After a three-year stint with this company (out of a total 3.75 year permanent working career), it’s time to reflect on what I’ve learnt during my time here:

1 – It takes a special breed of company to look beyond your actual qualification and rather at the person behind it. Some things can be learnt on the job as required, and all that is required is a bit of brainpower to get there – the Deloittes/KPMGs/Braits of this world can’t seem to get beyond the need for a physical qualification as proof of your capability.

2 – Small new companies can only dare to take on their mighty competitors when they have the people who are brave/arrogant/bloody-minded enough to do it. Mavericks at the helm, if you will. Without this bravado, the big guys will always win – why else would people opt to work for small companies? It isn’t the money or lifestyle that makes you go for small over large and established, after all – it’s the promise of glory because as long as you’re hungry for it, there’s only one way to go: up.

3 – Bearing in mind point #2, the vision of the few guides the crowd. There’s no executive board, no shareholder AGMs, hell, not even company guidelines, on how to deal with conflict within the upper echelons. At some point, a disagreement spurs a desire for a critical employee to leave, and because of its small size, the critical person carries enough mass with them to tear apart the fabric of the small organization.

4 – Small companies deliver a superior product – they have to. They don’t have the brand to charge as much as the larger companies do, and they have to deliver something more interesting to convince the client that they’re actually better than the large guys out there.

5 – As the owner of a small company, you have a bloody difficult task convincing everyone to pull in the direction you want to pull. Individuals are so much more important to the small company than they are to the large ones, and the good ones are that much harder to replace. A legacy is left behind by each and every person.

Enough waxing lyrical. There have been bloody exhilarating times, but bloody hard ones too - it’s now a time to move beyond reflection of why things happened the way they did, and into the realm of “what next?”

I can no longer use my favourite excuse “But I have no time to think about myself” to bury the soul searching that has lurked beneath my surface for some time now. The questions of Where? What? With whom? now need definite answers… in December I pre-emptively labeled this year as the ‘Year of Change’ and my recent actions have set in motion big wheels that cannot be stopped. I might not like the forks of the paths these wheels choose, but I have accepted that choosing any one of those paths is more important for me right now than remaining in the present rut.

Here’s hoping that I have greater resilience than I believe to possess, because I will need every spare ounce of it to make the decisions that need making in the next few months.

Fuel for thought

2007-06-14T09:10:00.000+02:00

If you’re at all like me (and yes, in this instance you are), you’ll moan about the fact that the petrol price keeps rising. Either the price of Brent crude’s increasing, or the Dollar’s gaining on the Rand, they always tell you. But even when the Dollar weakens against the Rand the price still rises.

Now, for an un-economist like me, this confusion is downright frustrating and smacks of excuses and refineries lining their oily pockets with even more absurd profits. So, I’ve done a little check on historical prices (using data from here and here) to see whether there’s been one mother of all consumer rights cock-ups, and, the answer is that I’m undecided. (The real truth is that I had to manually redraw the graphs below, so didn’t have the actual figures to convert the y-axes to equivalent scales, where a fair comparison could be made, so all my conclusions are based on visual estimation of the figures rather than on the actual figures themselves).

Warning: I really must warn you that I have as much Economics training as a pistachio, so feel free to ignore/correct me, peeps.

First, I present for your attention Graph A: the Dollar/Rand exchange rate plotted against Brent crude price per barrel. Because I don’t have data going further back, I can’t tell you whether there is any reasonable correlation between the two statistics – 9/11 was an anomaly which will have caused substantial disruptions to either or both figures (for example, demand for fuel fell as people lost their appetite for travel by aeroplane). At face value though, one might assume that there was no significant relationship between the two.

Next, I present Graph B: Brent crude price per barrel versus petrol price. Now this graph is more the stuff of statisticians’ wet dreams, because one can draw some conclusions off this: our petrol price is quite strongly correlated with the cost of Brent crude, which while being marginally inconvenient given the uncomfortable inching up of the barrel price on a daily basis, is also reassuring in that it sort of says that the stuff we fill our gorgeous Mini Coopers with is actually mostly fuel (without too many diluting cheaper substitutes like refinery fat-cat urine). I’ve even added pretty green circles to highlight the lag in changes in Brent crude price affecting the local petrol price.

But wait, there’s more… I’ll omit the third permutation of the above data (local petrol price vs Rand/Dollar exchange rate) because it’s much like the first graph (what with the close pattern between local petrol price and Brent crude price), and skip straight to the combined graph, where all three variables are plotted on one graph:

Now again, I warn you that the scales used on the y-axes are not comparable, so visual comparison is actually not going to be that accurate, but I’ve tried to estimate the actual values for more accurate comparison than just looking at the differences from the pictures. The first pretty green circle shows an increase in the Dollar’s value against the Rand of around 70%, with the arrow indicating a corresponding 40ish% decrease in the Brent crude price over the same time period. What happens to the petrol price over this time? It remains constant on average. i.e. the smaller change in the Brent crude price appears to buffer the larger change in the exchange rate. Now look at the second green circle: this depicts a 35% drop in the Dollar: Rand value over the period, while the arrow depicts the 150% increase in Brent crude price, and the corresponding 80% increase in the local petrol price.

If the impact of the percentage changes were like for like, then the first green circle scenario should result in a (70%-40%) = 30% increase in the petrol price (as opposed to it remaining roughly constant), while the second should result in a (150%-35%) = 115% increase in petrol price rather than the actual 80% experienced.

So what does this all mean? I can think of only four options:

1) Government is lying, they’re using the exchange rate as an excuse to hike up petrol prices to fund their (social) parties (I’m thinking Zoolander parties where they spray each other with “expensive” petrol for shits, giggles and cheap thrills)

2) The lag in the exchange rate’s effect on the petrol price is out of sync with the lag of Brent crude’s effect (i.e. the major impact on the petrol price is not seen until later than Brent’s price’s impact, so we’re comparing the wrong time periods for each graph against each other)

3) Government chooses to subsidise partly the effect of the exchange rate on the petrol price, but doesn’t feel the need to do so for the effect of Brent crude’s change in price

4) I’ve got something grossly incorrect here and am now spreading a groundless conspiracy theory, in which case I humbly apologise, Big Brothe…

Mood of the month

2007-06-12T09:00:00.000+02:00

Up here on the blogosphere, where ordinary people gets to express their personal thoughts and day-to-day diatribe, much has been said about PMS, and therefore perhaps one could be excused for assuming that an irate woman is behaving as such only because she’s about to have her period.

So, in the interests of dispelling this myth – or, perhaps to confirm it – I’ve done a 5-minute research effort (predictably, Wikipedia is a primary source) to uncover its truths.

Before starting, I’ll point out that I’ve never made a mention of having PMS on my blog, largely because I don’t believe I suffer from it. I’ve even looked back through my blog posts over a one-year ahem, period, to see if I could identify any correlation between my apparent mood when writing vs my menstrual cycle, and I can confidently say I haven’t found one. Sure, some months the pre-menstrual discomfort is greater than others, but I can’t honestly recall a time when this might have put me in a bad mood – I do believe I become more scatter-brained than usual at this time, and if I’m ever irritated about anything around my period, it would have to be this aspect – but again, irritated not irate. And irritated with myself, not anyone else. Discomfort, not unbelievably crippling pain.

So, what do the experts say?

Apparently, somewhere between 70% and 95% of women suffer from some PMS symptoms (that’s not a particularly helpful statistic. Either 1 in 4 or 1 in 20 don’t suffer any symptoms at all…), and to varying degrees. The level of discomfort can vary from month to month (the article doesn’t say why), and the most commonly reported symptoms include:
Weight gain from premenstrual water retention
Abdominal bloating
Breast tenderness
Stress or anxiety
Depression
Crying spells
Mood swings, irritability or anger
Appetite changes and food cravings
Trouble falling asleep (insomnia)
Joint or muscle pain
Headache
Fatigue (medical)
Acne
Trouble concentrating
Social withdrawal
Body temperature increase
Worsening of existing skin disorders, and respiratory (eg, allergies, infection) or eye (eg, visual disturbances, conjunctivitis) problems
Out of the 17 symptoms listed here, I experience seemingly random combinations of between 2 and 5 each month.

The Wiki entry goes on to report that 14% of women between the ages of 20 and 35 have such debilitating PMS that they have to miss work on some days, and that an unfortunate further few suffer from even more exacerbated symptoms, and this condition is considered to be distinct from PMS, labelled ‘premenstrual dysphoric disorder’ (PMDD).

The most interesting thing the entry points out is that “there is no laboratory test or unique physical findings to verify the diagnosis of PMS”, and that “a number of medical conditions are subject to exacerbation at menstruation, a process called menstrual magnification. These conditions may lead the patient to believe that she may have PMS, when the underlying disorder may be some other problem”.

Perhaps this is the reason for the discrepancy of the figures provided above – i.e. about 4 in 20 people believe they are suffering from PMS when it is actually masking some other potentially serious condition, such as depression, migraines, seizure disorders, chronic fatigue syndrome, stress and asthma.

There is also a school of thought that believes PMS is a socially constructed disorder, a product of a ‘hypochondriatic culture’ – a view that actually cannot be refuted scientifically because of the vast lack of study of the syndrome.

This last fact, coupled with the poor diagnosis of PMS versus other conditions, alarms me because it has, in my mind, only negative consequences:

- Women who are suffering immense pain for around one solid month of the year may have had no cause to suffer, as their symptoms have been casually labelled by the blanket term ‘PMS’ when other treatable conditions are the cause of majority of their pain. This in turn affects their productivity in the workplace, and perhaps contributes to a perception by some that women are weaker/less ambitious than their male counterparts, because they have to take a day or two off work every month to cope with their symptoms

- The lack of scientific diagnosis leads to a social misunderstanding, one that indiscriminately labels all female unpleasantness as ‘PMS’ which is belittling because women have as many rational menstrually-unrelated reasons to get pissed off from time to time as men do (and of course no lesser tendency to display irrational anger from time to time), without their anger being dismissed for existing only because ‘it’s that time of the month’.

The point of this little piece? None really – I guess I’m just expressing my gratitude at not having to deal with the severe monthly trauma that people like Peas have to – from my side, I hail the coming of my period as a fantastic confirmation that I have not accidentally fallen pregnant. Until, of course, the day I perhaps decide I do wish to fall pregnant, in which case the onset of a period will potentially cause me far more anxiety than any period pain ever did.

Please [fucking spastic bastard] sir, can I have some more?

2007-06-06T08:13:00.000+02:00

Being generally angry has its funny moments, you know. Like the other night, when I was infuriated at the prospect of loooooong work hours with stressfully short deadlines, and I was working with a few colleagues in the office.

At 6:30pm we placed a dinner order with Mr Delivery, from which I’d ordered the exceedingly simple dish of ‘fish of the day’ with side salad plus Appletiser. We all ordered from Ocean Basket to facilitate “speedier” delivery – even the poor vegetarian who was with us succumbed for convenience’s sake.

At about 8:30pm, the food arrives. At this point, Ant is quite furious – slides taking longer than expected, stomach grumbling, so the fact that the delivery dude walks in without apologising for his lateness puts him on a bad footing already. Ant digs through the bags, opening all the food containers to find the alleged ‘poisson du jour’ (noting, along the way, that the poor soul who ordered sushi was going to have to reassemble the delicate Japanese creations, their contents flung to each of the eight corners of its box). Prospects of a happy meal (and no, most definitely not of the McD type) rapidly decline… Could this be the box, I thought, reaching a decidedly two-dimensional container right at the bottom of the bag?

The R60 content of the box was a piece of hake with dimensions of about 10cm x 5cm x 1cm, crumbled into unappetizing little pieces. “At least the salad will be decent – that never fails” I thought. Except, there was no salad to be found. The dimwit had not brought me half of my meal, which was destined to be puny from the outset.

Social etiquette collapses at this point.

Ant [yelling]: where is my salad, for fuck sakes?

Dude [nonchalant]: what salad?

Ant: the one I ordered, the one I paid for, the one I waited 2 hours for!

Dude [still unconcerned, fumbling with the invoice]: oh. It’s not here, they didn’t pack it.

Ant [high-pitched screaming]: I don’t care what they did, I’m not Ocean Basket’s customer, I’m your customer! Don’t you check the orders before driving over at a snail’s pace? Don’t you care that they might get it wrong and you won’t earn your tip?

Colleagues back out of the room to avoid the awkwardness of the situation. They’re already tucking into their complete, albeit deficient, meals!

Dude [finally registering my earnest fury]: … … … …

Ant: You didn’t even apologise for arriving late! Give me the name of your manager right now!

Dude [still no apology, hands over the number]: … … …

Ant: Mr Manager, I am shocked at the pathetic product and service I have received [blah blah blah, rant, scream, swear etc]

Mr Manager: I’m terribly sorry, I will have [incompetent fuckwit] deliver your salad immediately.

Ant: By “immediately” I trust you don’t mean two hours.

Loud crashing noise of the phone speaker/mouthpiece thingy being slammed back into its cradle.

After sending the dude off (still with no apology) I had a rethink about how badly I wanted delivery dude’s sperm/snot/urine in my digestive system, and concluded that the salad might not be worth it. Mr Manager, how ever, did not call his driver to tell him not to return, but when he did, I was ravenous enough to overcome the vulgar thought of eating this man’s excretions, and hey, I’m still here to tell the tale.

I’ve noticed a lot more cooperation in carrying out instructions from my juniors who witnessed my attack – so all things come to a good end, I suppose.

Aside 1: on leaving the office last night, the security guard told me to ‘have sweet dreams’. Bizarre man, bizarre. I didn’t, by the by.
Aside 2: on Thursday evening, I have a slim chance of being voted in as the Vice Wop of our Wop society – Woplanders beware! Mwahahahahahahahaha!

R U disrespectin’ moi famille?

2007-06-04T09:00:00.000+02:00

In keeping with the latest fashionable social trends in Hollywood, a tale of “frienemies” follows – though the protagonists are unlikely to yield terribly high hit rates if their naked partying photos were splashed across the Internet a’ la Lohan/Hilton/Spears…

There’s something that has been bothering me for ages around the issue of friendship. I’ve been unfortunate enough to witness the phenomenon twice, and this time I vow I will not allow it to happen again.

Last night, my father’s company’s shareholders (originally he had 50% shareholding and his partner, his best friend at the time, had the other 50%) called a special meeting to attempt to resolve what currently appear to be irreconcilable differences. It’s been ten years since they bought the business together, and huge differences of opinion began to appear very shortly after that, and then thankfully his partner’s family emigrated to the UK to try and establish a branch of the business there. (This was disastrously unsuccessful, so they shut that business down, though the family continued to live there, relinquishing management control to my father to be simply shareholders).

Then, a few years ago, my Dad’s best friend/partner died of cancer, leaving his shareholding split equally between each of his two daughters, and out of friendship my father agreed to have the wife draw a salary equal to his to support themselves. Now, their family wants to come back to SA and run the business with my father, which everyone can see will be a disaster from the outset – they know each other too well, both my Father and his partner’s widow are strong-willed stubborn people who know how to push each other’s buttons, and use every available opportunity to do so. Ag well…

I observed this whole process right from the beginning, and thought that I’d learnt a valuable lesson: friends and business (and probably family and business too) don’t mix.

And then, a year ago, a friend asked me for a favour: please introduce him to my company in the hope that some vac work could be negotiated so that he could get some work experience (his varsity degree being a colourful patchwork of marks varying from the very good to the downright horrific). My boss loved him – he is an intelligent and knowledgeable fellow after all – and agreed to have him on board. Now, our friendship has always been based on argumentative banter at the best of times, so it shouldn’t have been particularly hard for me to imagine that our working relationship might have been less than ideal. But that thought hardly crossed my mind, as keen as I was to help out a mate in need.

The ‘one month’ turned into three months, and without getting into the nitty gritty, all I need say is that every moment of interaction between us was unpleasant. I believed everything would be alright in the end, because he had a ‘finite’ term of engagement with the company. Not so, because his contract was eventually converted to a permanent one, and we’ve had to accept that ‘working’ together is a daily reality. Of course, I’ll tell you here how it’s all his fault for the fighting and bickering, but to attempt to present an unbiased opinion I’ll also have to tell you that, judging by the way he has treated me in the office, he must think me the greatest idiot ever to walk the face of the planet. Perhaps I am, but in that case I used to be the greatest idiot ever to walk the face of the planet who was also a recognised good friend of this particular dude.

And, at a point about two years ago, I would have listed him as one of my closest and truest friends. Today, it’s safe to say that we’d both avoid attending the same social engagement if we knew the other was going to be there.

How is it that such great friends can drift so much apart, on the basis of what happens in an office, forfucksakes? We barely have to engage with one another, and yet always manage to find a fight to pick. And as for my father’s situation, well… the partner’s daughters are technically my oldest friends from the diaper days, but family alliances will dictate that they stick to their side of the fence while we stick to ours.

This leads me to draw one of the following possible conclusions, although being the greatest idiot to walk the face of the planet, I am unable to conclude which is correct. Some help from your side would be much appreciated:

1. We’re fundamentally different people in work contexts as opposed to social contexts – the biggest ruthless bastard in the boardroom might be the most chilled oke around the braai. If this is true, it’s in everyone’s best interests never to discuss work in a social setting, in case you let on what a punkass rat-race screw-over bitch you are in a pinstripe suit and how easy it would be to imprint your stilettoed footprint on one of your friends’ faces if ever the occasion arose. This intrinsically implies (I think, being the simple-minded moron that I am) that most friendships, if put to the test in an office environment, would falter. And, perhaps, that those people you dislike in social settings might be the ones you find most common ground with in the workplace.

2. Your best friends are those you meet at work. Why? Because you know what they’re like at work and can deal with that, and yet you’re also able to transpose that commonality out of the office and into the Baron. That means that you should judge all your friendships that have never been tested in the office with natural skepticism as to their true strength, even if many of those friendships go far further back than those from your workdays do. I don’t like this conclusion, because while I do have some very close friends I met through my jobs, a greater number of close friends stem from school/varsity days, and these are certainly not friendships I’d like to regard as ‘handle with caution’ – we’ve been through too much and shared too much for that to be a satisfactory conclusion.

3. As human beings, we’re too complex to define by our behaviour in any specific context (e.g. social circle, work environment, living environment) and we have sometimes very different ways of behaving, depending on what the activities are we expect to engage in. Given that everyone is uniquely different (similar on some fronts, different on others, but as a whole package, totally unique) it is ridiculous to expect that you should find commonality in every facet of your life. So you should enter any newly shared facet of your life with an existing friend (e.g. sharing a house with them, or starting to work with them, or starting a romantic relationship with them) with extreme caution, because the high expectations of enjoyment that you inevitably have at the beginning, will quite likely be dashed – perhaps irreparably, along with the friendship – before the party’s over.

PS: I’m not really sure what’s wrong with me at the moment. I’m moody and reflective and questioning everything that I’ve come to accept as a given. Best I consult the astrology guides to see what the hell is up with Virgo lately. Star sign swap, anybody?

Seared, but maybe not severed?

2007-05-31T08:51:00.000+02:00

First off, I have to rave about the restaurant I went to last night: finally, I’ve found one Joburg restaurant that knows how to prepare seared tuna (La Rustica, 103 Houghton Rd – I don’t own shares, promise!). I’ve learnt to gesture very emphatically to waiters my “tsssst, tssst” manouvre, indicating (with my hand taking on the role of the raw tuna fillet) the precise amount of time each side of the tuna should be exposed to heat. You might think I’d have learnt not to order tuna in Joburg, having been burnt time and time again (much like my poor overcooked tuna fillet), but no – I live in desperate hope that this time I will strike gold, this time the chef will understand; each and every time I hear ‘seared tuna’ listed as a special, I succumb to the adulterous promise of its tender, buttery seduction – and each and every time the slutty piece of fish appears to spend more time in the pan than in my mouth.

It’s not as though Cape Town fares much better these days – I’ve come to realise that the preparation of perfectly seared tuna is a dwindling art.

But anyway. What I really wanted to express today is highly related to a recent previous post, in which I wondered to what extent you were a product of the group of friends you associated with, and in which I stated that there are some people (perhaps groups of people is a better way to express it – one on one I’d like to think you might always find some commonality) that you’ll just never be friendly with.

So, the other day my temporarily (I hope) new Google (Facebook) spat out the name of someone I really liked (platonically speaking, dude in question – don’t get a heart attack now) way back in primary school, but have not seen since (save for one brief, chance encounter during the increasingly-distant varsity days). We started chatting (Chewwie, you’re a common friend, incidentally) and discussing blogs, and when he asked what the name of mine was, he gasped (the exact sound of this was conveyed through Internet transmission, trust me) to hear I’m none other than, of course, the author of this here bloggy-blog. It was total confirmation that as you grow older, you’re exposed to new experiences and different people, and your personality (and ideologies) develops in completely unique ways from each other person you knew as a child, which may either eventually converge more towards, or diverge more away from, the altering personality/ideologies of the adult people who were the children you first met. (Just re-read that, it’s pretty convoluted. In a nutshell: as a result of the personality/ideology transformations we’ve all undergone, we might have less in common with, or more in common with, our childhood friends/acquaintances).

What I’m trying to say is: dude in question, I wonder whether the person I’ve become (which hopefully is not my final ‘state’, I hope more transformation lies in my future) – clearly vastly different than the person I was, or at least appeared to be to him, judging from his ‘gasp’ – has more or less in common with you today than the person I was (or appeared to be)? Yes, it’s a largely irrelevant question, since I’ll probably not see you any more frequently than I have done over the past 15-odd years. But still, I’d just like to know.

Does Facebook credibly offer the promise of long-lost friends/acquaintances rekindling the friendships of the past? Or is it really going to be just an alternative way to communicate with your current friends, once the whole ‘friend’ harvesting craze has died down?

Turn your fucking phone off!

2007-05-29T08:55:00.000+02:00

What is it with people, who in the middle of a one-on-one business interaction with you – yes, that’s right, when you’re busy talking to them, in fact, halfway through a sentence they’re busy saying – will stop mid-syllable and take a phonecall?

I mean, if it’s that important, they will leave a message and you can call them back in 15 minutes. Unless you’re a doctor, or have excused yourself before the meeting started, by saying “I’m terribly sorry, I humbly beg your forgiveness for my imminent rudeness, but I’m expecting an important call from the President of Nicaragua, and I’m forewarning you that I will have to interrupt our incredibly important meeting for a few minutes to talk to him” then, I regard you with the contempt you deserve.

The dude who came to fix my laptop yesterday committed this sin while I was demanding that he explain to me why he hadn’t replaced my laptop battery when that was one of the two repairs I had requested from the company. He had the gumption to answer the call without even excusing himself for doing so.

But this dude has nothing on the beauty therapist who unbelievably answered a call mid-way through my first-ever pedicure on Saturday. Now, the irony is that my very poor command of the Zulu language strung together a sentence from a few key words of hers “client ukufonela 20 minutes” [okay, make that 3 English words plus one Zulu word which I’ve probably got wrong anyway] that made it clear that the person on the other end of the phone got no more information out of her than if they had not got through to her at all and had left a voicemail for her to respond to, a not-so-life-threatening 20 minutes later when she “ngifonela’d” them back. Eish. Oh well, I guess I saved R20 on her tip – which she definitely would have got otherwise, she did a damn good job of it, even if I have no prior pedicure experience to compare it with.

On the weekend front, as busy as I was social butterflying it up with people I haven’t seen in a while, I still managed to spend an inordinate amount of time pining for the Gilb. I thankfully did manage to impress two former colleagues with a butternut soup that I might have initially overmarketed to them, in a ploy to ensure they accepted my dinner invitation. The last time I made this soup was about two years ago, and I even had to call up the friend who gave me the recipe originally to remind myself of it (it did live up to its expectations, though. I’m pretty confident they were bowled over by the sheer… butternuttiness of it all).

And, I made a strange foray out to ESP at 2:45am on Sunday morning, which was a surreal bad flashback to my rave days. The people were as ecstasied-up as they were back then, except… they now had some wrinkles/slightly receded hair and didn’t quite fit into tight shiny raver pants that looked so damn good on them 3 years ago. It was an oddly depressing experience, because I had to acknowledge that I’ve grown older and that this scene is well and truly behind me, and that probably no amount of drugs could make me convincingly slip back into those overwhelmingly good times and forget, even just for a few hours, that times have changed and distinctly adult pressures now weigh on me – the greatest concerns in our lives as twenty-somethings far outweigh the panic around deadlines for varsity assignments, don’t they?

This depressing thought reminds me of another one that struck me about ten years ago at a dinner party my Dad was having with twenty-odd guests. There we all were, sitting around the table, when it dawned on me that most of these adults, well beyond their thirties at that stage, still had tons of kak shit going on in their lives. Yet, no-one really cared, or worse yet, they turned a blind eye to avoid the awkwardness: as a child, people show concern for your well-being, but as an adult, you’re expected to have it all together. Sure, your closest friends will be there for you, but by and large, people will ignore your problems. I could look at each of them one by one and because of my knowledge of their personal problems (thanks to my very gossipy father) I knew that their smiles were calculated strategic expressions rather than a true reflection of their emotional states. A’s wife, seated next to him, was cheating on him with B, sitting across the table from him – and A knew it, too; C’s family was in severe financial difficulty; D’s husband was in the terminal stages of cancer; E, at the age of 37, was in love with a gay man who would never be hers; and so on and so forth. I guess you could argue that these sufferings need to be put in context of the far greater sufferings of so many people in the world, but then W.H. Auden’s words in his poem, Musee des Beaux Arts, hold so true:

"In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure"

Enough of this dreariness, I’m just rather moody right now. More positive thoughts later this week, I promise.

Kennel

2007-05-24T09:26:00.000+02:00

In my three-and-a-half years of work experience, I’ve never really been in the dog box before.

My, how times have changed.

It’s rather… refreshing. No, that’s not quite the word. I’m in the poo. I want out, it’s smelly down here. Hand, anyone?

On two – make that three – random asides:

1. Has anyone else seen the ad for Nationwide Airlines? You see a plane full of domestic workers (as passengers, all in the stereotypical maid garb) all getting the regular air hostess treatment. The camera zooms out, where you see the plane flying through the sky, as they are wont to do. Parting caption: “Nationwide. Voted best domestic airline.” Hoots and cackles!

2. The Vodabastards didn’t fix my fucking phone, which means I had to find a Voda“care” (ironic name, isn’t it?) outlet phone number. Accidentally typed www.vodocom.co.za in the address bar, and thought “what the hell? Have they changed their branding overnight?” It’s a complete, thorough cellphone website – you’d be forgiven for being duped. Personally, if they were the cause for a large loss of Vodacom’s business, I’d consider it a wonderful thing. Hellkom has a new best friend! (Haven’t yet checked, but I’d imagine there are MTM.co.za and celld.co.za websites floating about too)

3. It’s amazing how one can fill one’s weekend diary so completely when one’s boyfriend goes away for a boys weekend (with my boys, nogal) – it’s almost like you have a … life again. Dinner on Friday, 2 Saturday morning engagements, 2 afternoon engagements, 1 evening engagement, 2 Sunday engagements. That’s a whole lot more socializing than I get done in a month with the other half at my side (or is that “in my bed”?) Hhhmmmm…

One step forward, two steps back

2007-05-22T09:22:00.000+02:00

The weekend started off with my being a real grumpy-grump to Gilb, admittedly through no additional fault of his own beyond my prolonged silent rage about the whole kissing thing (both my lack of ability and the discovery that his best-kissing ex is listed as such on his Facebook profile).

Anyhow, on Friday night I cornered him for a sufficiently long time to get extensive kissing practice in, and he claims he’s seeing (feeling, tasting?) significant improvement in my technique. I gave him the whole third degree about it, to make sure he wasn’t just telling me what I wanted to hear, and after my Nazi-like inquisition, I came to believe he was being truthful. So there, miss bitch ex! Haha! How far along have you come since your last lip-locking adventures with my boyfriend???

But all the good work of Friday night may have been undone on Saturday: my boyfriend would have every right to tell me I’m too forceful in the sex department. See, on Friday night (during my irate part of the evening) we were at his friends’ house drinking and talking shit as usual, where Gilb had pitched up rather triumphantly wielding a six-pack of Amstel he’d found hidden in the recesses of his parents’ fridge. Naturally, all of us advised him against its consumption, but the Gilb would have none of it. “It tastes a little… smoky and … mushroomy” F said. “Whatever. You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to drink it, so that I’ll leave it here and you can drink it instead!” [guzzle, guzzle, guzzle]

As a result, Gilb awoke with a massive headache on Saturday and we had to forego my favourite sex session, the morning variety. I insisted he take every Myprodol and Aspirin we could find, but his headache persisted throughout the day (of course, this didn’t stop him from drinking a fair amount during the rugby), through dinner (Yamato, Illovo – decent Japanese food at twice the price you’ll find it anywhere else) and beyond. But see, there must’ve been some oysters secretly stashed in my udon noodle dish, because I was having none of his excuses. I was so “in the mood” that even that pathetic late night E soft-porn show was arousing me.

I told him to go to bed, planning to sate my own appetite in the lounge (sorry, Peas!) but then did an about-turn and decided I’d take my sex from him, not without his consent (I’m not a rapist, I promise!) but rather by convincing him he actually wanted some: “You know liefie, I think sex will help relieve your headache. It always helps me when I have one, and I’m sure I read that it would do the same for guys in the FHM a while ago.” Poor guy, his head was throbbing so badly he didn’t think to retort with “but you don’t ever buy the FHM…” I sealed the deal by promising that I’d do all the work, he could just lie there. So he did, and I took my guilty pleasure from him, me writhing in ecstasy while he winced in pain. Look, I did stop once or twice during his most pained expressions to ask if it was helping or if he wanted me to stop, but the dear that he is, he let me continue (it’s not like he didn’t get any enjoyment out of it, if you know what I mean).

When we woke up on Sunday morning, he reported that his headache had disappeared entirely, which I victoriously announced as the result of my assistance the night before, but I’m not entirely sure he bought it.

I do feel remorseful for my behaviour though, like I used him – if the situation were reversed, how would I be feeling about it, I wonder? Seems like there’s plenty more work to be done in the ‘gentle intimacy’ department. Sigh. Sex just aint the way it used to be in the old days, innit?

Gilb’s guide on how to kiss, perfectly

2007-05-17T09:04:00.000+02:00

Okay, before I launch into the science of graunch stuff (eeeewwww! Haven’t said that word in ages), some other shitty smooching news: on a random whim yesterday, I thought to check out Gilb’s Facebook profile to see how his has grown – I humbly have to apologise to Mark Zuckerberg, seems this thing hasn’t died a quick and faddish yet, in fact there’s been a bit of a revival over the past two weeks.

Anyhow, so there I am scrolling through the Gilb’s profile, when wham! It hits me like a stray spinning sack of potatoes – one of Gilb’s buddies is an ex-girlfriend (no concerns there – in fact, another ex is there too) and… and… and… His description of how they met is “We hooked up for a bit in 2001 and she was the one who taught me how to kiss properly.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Taking a moment to breathe. It’s the age-old ‘ignorance is bliss’ scenario – Ant, stop bloody snooping! Of course, I confronted him about it, he just laughed and swears that he’s since “perfected what she taught [him]” and that he doesn’t kiss the same way she used to kiss him (I really shouldn’t tell you that in a moment of utter stupidity – and thank the dear Lord he’s 160km away from that flying sack of potatoes – he suggested that “maybe [I] should get some kissing lessons from her”)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, I’m determined to take this bitch out. Not with the potatoes, not with slander, not with a well-placed whoopee cushion. I’m going to take her out with my tongue (but not forcefully – in a hugely turning-on gentle probing manner) and French kiss her into a long-forgotten memory (how to word that properly? There’ll be no kissing of her at all, just out-kissing her! En garde!)

And what better way to accomplish this pleasant task than by learning the rules from the supposed maestro himself?

Here’s the Gilb’s take on the perfect kiss – there are only 3 rules, really:

1. Don’t go in for the kill too quickly – just because you’ve been given the universal “let’s French kiss” signal (i.e. parted lips and a soft dart of the tongue on your upper lip – c’mon, weren’t you reading my last lesson properly???) doesn’t mean you have to start Frenching immediately. Tease playfully for a bit, kissing with both closed and slightly-parted lips, sometimes casually stroking their lips with your tongue. When it’s really time, you’ll know – don’t just mechanically respond to the first universal signal you receive. Read the body language! [Ant’s action-list: Right, I’ll deal. Wait for a bit – BUT, not the same amount of time every time. I need some kind of varying time regime to apply. How about – first time, wait 6 minutes, second time, 4 minutes, third time, 2 minutes, and then revolve back again? That aught to throw him for at least the first four times! Brilliant!]

2. Not every intimate kiss has to degenerate into Frenching – sometimes, a closed-lip kiss is really intimate, no tongue required. Don’t fall into a pattern of always being intimate in the same way. Variety is the spice of life! [Ant’s action-list: speaking of variety, how about more Australian kisses, then? Suits me just fine! But back to the topic at hand… right, this calls for another semi-randomising procedure. How about, every nth kissing time (where n is a prime number) I initiate I do it the French way? Up until a certain count, of course, because at that point prime n’s become increasingly few and far between…]

3. French kissing is not a “I move then you move” process – the tongues should not be ‘sparring’ like swords. Learn to read your partner’s intentions – let them run with a soft probing sequence, and yield. There’s no I-probe-once-now-you-poke-back rule, because this is… you guessed it, TOO MECHANICAL! Sometimes, you want to be in control of the probing and your partner should sense this and let you roll with it, and sometimes you feel like yielding and letting the partner take over. It’s all about quid pro quo. [Ant’s action-list: look for subtle signs – probably a slightly more forceful probe indicates “I’m in charge, missy” while a lingering tongue on your lip is an invitation for you to “come on over”. But, don’t always worry too much about reading his signs – you’ve got to put your own ones out too, that’s only fair.]

Alright, I have to admit it to you, in case I unleash a wake of unhappy kissing couples in the world, I must ‘fess up: three’s a nice number, which is why there are three rules. In actual fact, the Gilb only listed the first two, I thought the third was important – in my most pleasant kissing experiences, the dude has been able to command and surrender appropriately (and Gilb’s included in this category). But, I don’t want you to take this advice from a self-confessed kak kisser, so freely ignore #3 while the first two should lead you to ecstatic kissing heights. Now pucker up!

How do you spite an anorexic, a vegetarian and a Jew?

2007-05-15T09:01:00.000+02:00

Well, if your name’s Timmy, you do it by disobeying (not accidentally, either) your wise and entirely reasonable friend’s instructions to cook the bacon separately from the peas and mushrooms, so that 3 out of 7 guests can compile their modular pasta sauces (the ano didn’t want the sauce base – which was cream – either, you understand. Turns out neither did the Jew) and not participate in the glorious combination of all of the above ingredients. Post-rugby bliss, I was ordering guests around like a demon, to get the food ready by a decent hour. Timmy starts by following my instruct… erm, I mean request, then deliberately disobeys me by adding the bacon to the mushrooms and peas “to let their flavours infuse.” Gilb’s conscience wouldn’t allow him to quash his gasp at Timmy’s insolence, and since I’m rather well-tuned to such whimpers from Gilb (and of course frantic “ssshhhh!”es from Timmy) I found out, turned beetroot red in anger, but then burst out laughing too.

Thankfully, the three guests in question were in the room next door, so we had enough time to scoop out precisely three sevenths of the pea-mushroom duo and heavily overdose it with garlic to cover any delectable smoky bacon taste (although there was no point, none of the three would know what glorious new taste sensation they were experiencing anyway). We even garnered praises for the pasta sauce from all three (okay, not the sulky ano, who had vastly altered the sauce by substituting smoked salmon for the bacon and tomato sauce for the cream).

But ja, this was a rare highlight in an otherwise decidedly shitty week, in which I experienced the following:

1. Snooping around till I found out something I wish I hadn’t known and which will cause me an endless amount of stress in resolving its impacts on my life (moral: ignorance truly is bliss. Then you can blame it on someone else)

2. Gilb’s gran suddenly diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and dying a few minutes before he got a chance to see her after months of not having done so (moral: treasure your grandparents while you have them, never neglect to pay regular visits, no matter how annoying their diatribe about the weather/their back ache/your working too hard/your not saving enough may be)

3. The very capable president of my ‘young fascists’ society unexpectedly resigning due to not being able to cope with the stress of a hectic job plus recent marriage plus running a not-for-profit youth organization (moral: sometimes your grandparents are right, you may be working too hard and not taking time to smell the roses. Do so while your senses are young enough not to have dulled! Does your sense of smell even deteriorate with age? I’m not sure)

4. After delightfully indulging in the surprisingly generous wine selection at Peas’ friend’s Indian chest exhibition, which included the likes of Meerlust’s Rubicon and Hartenberg’s Cabernet Sauvignon (and that’s not to mention the fabulous selection of chests, too), one measly tainted samoosa saw me spewing the night away (12pm, 3am and 6am) and spending the whole of Friday bed-ridden, when there was lots of work waiting for me in the office. I did get to play up the pain on the rest of the weekend, to eke more sympathy out of the Gilb, which is always a good thing (and results in a full-body massage and pedicure voucher gift, sweet dear sucker that he is). (moral: just when you’re complaining you’re too fat, something comes along and wipes out a few days’ appetite, and hopefully a few kilograms with it. You get what you ask for, after all).

One monumentally good piece of news did arise: congrats to Cherub on news of her engagement, I’m looking forward to a wonderful wedding celebration! (and you have my full permission to change the venue to somewhere outside of SA, we’ll gladly come on over!)

Oh, and on the kissing issue: on the single day of my not feeling atrocious and mustering the desire to kiss and… (all those other details you don’t want too much info on but I seem to have no problem sharing), the Gilb reported some significant improvement, but I can’t tell whether he’s just saying that to reassure me or out of genuine conviction. For your enlightenment and/or future kissing pleasure and/or future kissing confusion and/or future kissing complexes, my next post will contain Gilb’s commandments for the perfect kiss.

Tongue techniques

2007-05-08T09:13:00.000+02:00

You may remember my recent report that the Gilb finds my French kissing less than adequate. Far from miraculously resolving their untoward forcefulness, my mouth/lips/tongue have steered very clear of any oral engagement (no, Rev, before you ask, I said ‘oral’ meaning my mouth on his mouth) for fear of further insult. Of course, though he would never admit it, the Gilb must be secretly relieved.

Anyhow, the only way I can think to fix this problem is to resort to wonderful Wikipedia for help on this tongue-wagging (but not tongue gagging) topic.

So I’ll share the secrets to great French kissing with you, in case you’re in the same absurd situation that I am, being involved with someone for four-and-a-half years who only reveals to you a week ago his lack of oral satisfaction. And if you’re one of the lucky ones who kisses with the best of them (but are you sure? I thought this of myself until last week, after all!) then this guide may help you in educating your lippy partners less skilled than yourselves. I gave myself the perhaps over-confident benefit of the doubt and skipped beyond the beginner’s Kissing for Teens guide and moved straight onto the activities of the croissant-eaters:

How to French Kiss

1. Moisten your lips – you know, not dry, not wet, just… the m-word (urgh!)

2. Angle your head – get the head-tilting thing right, no nose-on-nose combat

3. Close your eyes – open-eyed approach, followed by shut-eye lip contact

4. Start with a gentle and closed-mouth soft kiss – “do not lunge in with your lips agape like you’re going to eat them”. [Oops. I think sometimes I might go off the rails as early as this step}]

5. Go Dutch on the decision to go French – “Open your lips slowly and just a little during the kiss so that one of your lips is sandwiched between theirs and one of theirs is between yours. As you are locking and re-locking lips, brush your tongue against your partner's lips ever so slightly. This should make it clear that you want to French kiss” [But if your tongue is half-way down his throat that should also make it pretty clear, right?]

6. Explore with your tongue – “If you and your partner seem to be enjoying the open-mouth kiss, slowly try to open your mouth a little bit more and gently push your tongue a little farther into their mouth. The tongue is very sensitive, and the mere act of touching your partner's tongue with your own will be very pleasant and stimulating for each of you [Run! Head for the hills! Her tongue’s coming!]. Do not stick your tongue too far into the mouth, as this can be a big turn-off. Instead, just gently and playfully touch tongues.” [Oh come now, how long is a piece of string? How far is too far? Give me centimetres, damn it! Past the outer incisors? Before the soft palate?]

7. Go slow – take time to explore your partner’s mouth. [I take that as an instruction to initiate his gag reflex].

8. Mix it up – “Kisses are like snowflakes: no two are exactly the same. Once you finally feel comfortable French kissing someone, it is tempting to try to do the same thing every time. Add variety. Sometimes kiss deeper [aha!], for example, and other times pay more attention to the lips than the tongue” [Gilb’s speciality].

9. Read body language – “Everybody kisses a little differently, and each person enjoys different things in a kiss - there is no "right" way to kiss. What separates good kissers from bad is an ability to read a partner's body language and be responsive to their partner [i.e. is his dick hard?]. Of course if your partner pulls away or seems uncomfortable at any time, understand that you have to slow it down. Listen for cues that tell how much your partner is enjoying a particular kissing maneuver [Uh-oh, this sounds far too much like ballroom dancing and the battle for who leads and who follows. Which might shed light on why Gilb and I might battle in the smooching department]. If you hear a sigh or moan, or they begin kissing you back with increased intensity, realize that they are responding with fervor” [see Gilb, I only do it because I’m enjoying it so much].

10. Develop your style – “Good French kissing, like good kissing of any kind, requires practice. You will get better as you do it more [really now?]. In addition, the more practice you have with one person, the more comfortable you will feel kissing them and developing a style that suits both of you.” [No comment]. Feeling more enlightened now? But wait! There’s some handy tips to throw in, too:

Breathe!

Freshen your breath

Beware the teeth

Adapt to new kissing partners’ styles

Vary the length of the kiss

Use your hands

Talk about it [yes Gilb, that one is especially for you]

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to practising my technique out on the back of my hand – I’ve got to get this thing right quick to surprise Gilb pleasantly this weekend!

Tales from our 4-day Namibia town-hop

2007-05-03T09:11:00.000+02:00

So, I neglected to tell you all until the last minute that the Gilb and I were heading to Namibia for the long weekend. Oops. Until Standard Bank split from the Voyager airmiles awards programme, I was a default customer who never used her miles (it’s suckers like me that makes these rewards programmes so profitable for the companies, I know). I then learnt that, because of the two companies’ split, all my accumulated miles would be lost if I didn’t use them pronto. So, I reasoned that flying to Cape Town would be a waste seeing as I go there often enough for work purposes. Where’s nearby for a short getaway, a new experience of a place I have not been before, and easy from a logistical perspective (i.e. no visa required, no antimalarials necessary, easy contact with accommodation providers via Internet etc)? Namibia, of course. My Voyager credits were enough to buy one return ticket (at R3,000, excluding airport taxes), which immediately made the proposition highly attractive.

I’m not going to give you a minute-by-minute account of the weekend, but will pull out the highlights:

Observations

- The country really is a 10th province of SA. All the SA banks except Absa are present, you get all the chain retail stores (PEP, Foschini, Woolworths, Pick ‘n’ Pay) and even restaurant franchises (Steers, KFC, Ocean Basket, Primi Piatti). It’s a bit upsetting to see: where are their own formal businesses? Other than some restaurants and hotels, and the mythical Namibian Breweries (see next point), every business seemed to be South African in origin

- In my mind, Namibian Breweries would probably be the shining star Namibian company that the local folk would be really proud of, but why, then, could nobody actually point out its location to us on a map? Gilb and I had reached the conclusion that it was all a sham, that the beer was actually a cheap Chinese import with a false label, when, right at the end of our trip, waiting at the airport for our flight home, we thought to buy a bottle of Windhoek lager and check for the address! We then managed to find this ‘road’ on the Windhoek map. Ah, well, next time

- My memory is vague, but I do remember my father telling me when I was young that the ‘bad South Africans’ had ‘stolen’ a port. Walvis Bay was only returned to Namibia in 1994, making the country’s history as a truly independent nation as recent as ours

- The travel guide I bought was a Globetrotter one, which irritated me so much that I looked to see who had written it, and will lay a complaint with the company. In fact, most travel guides are written by locals, not exciting adventurers who travel to the earth’s furthest reaches (I discovered this fact last year when I thought that I’d like to be a travel journalist in my next life and checked the guides’ websites for job application forms). Of course, this makes total sense from an economic viewpoint, but there are problems it brings too. For instance, the Mozambique Globetrotter which we used last year did not irritate me at all – it listed a range of accommodations and restaurants from budget to upmarket, and seemed to present a fair view of what was available. However the Namibian guide struck me as particularly nepotistic (or just damn lazily put together) – only the most established (and expensive, whilst not necessarily being the best) restaurants and hotels were listed, so when I made bookings from Joburg, I actually did not use the ‘guide’ to help me find accommodation. I was astounded by how much else was available, still being quality whilst being reasonably priced. Only the oldest (and frequently German in orgin) hotels and restaurants were listed. I defended this by saying that they’re probably writing with a specific audience in mind (i.e. middle-aged German tourists, which seems to be the major contigent of foreign arrivals) but Gilb pointed out that this shouldn’t be the case – a good travel guide should be effective for any traveller

Ant & Gilb experiences

- Upon arrival in Windhoek, we went to our backpackers lodge to check in. (I’ll recommend Chameleon Backpackers to any traveller, the beds are really comfy, the breakfast is simple but pretty decent and the manager and staff are really friendly and knowledgeable about the city). I’d asked for a double room with en-suite bathroom, and when we get there, the manager loudly announces in front of all the guests “Oh, this is the honeymoon couple!” I frantically assure him that this is not the case, to which he loudly responds, “oh, so you just wanted the, um, er, honeymoon facilities!” By which I assumed he meant the double bed, in which case he’s right. But the en-suite bathroom was a major bonus too, I might add. Anyhow, he gives us the keys to the “Love Nest” which is a wooden structure right above an occupied 6-bed dorm. Gilb gave it 5 minutes when we were in our room that night, then started bouncing on the bed to make our downstairs neighbours think we were shagging – I pointed out to him to keep it up a bit longer lest they think he had no stamina.

- We went to Dune 7, the most accessible large (50m tall) dune outside Walvis Bay. We got there really early and beat the American couple climbing to the top (“Come on, honey! We’re halfway up!” Not. He said this to her when they were a fifth of the way there, and they had not progressed much more by the time that we had descended), so being childish, we took our glee in “devirginising” the entire crest of the dune for the day. It was ours! Muahaha! (see pics at the bottom of the post).

- We went dune quadbiking, which was a guilty pleasure, because I’m sure it’s a sport that gets ecologists hot under the collar. Guilt aside, it was damn fun. Never having been on a quad bike before, it took me a while (about 30 minutes of our 45 minute ride, I’ll admit) to get truly comfortable with the steering, and to figure out how to avoid getting stuck in the loose sand on uphills (yes, I was ‘grounded’ five times, much to the poor guide’s frustration). Not having a total handle on the steering, on the long steep downhills where you gather a fair amount of speed, I battled to stick behind Gilb and the guide, fearing that I’d flip the bike if I turned the steering too much, which left me frequently veering off in other directions. Gilb only took photos of me when I was stuck in the sand, by the by, so no-one would believe that I eventually mastered some skill in the dune quadbiking arena, and from what I’ve written, you probably won’t believe me either!

- On our return drive from Swakopmund to Windhoek, I insisted we take the scenic route back (383km gravel road, in our Toyota Yaris rental car), which Gilb kindly obliged. The road’s not terribly bumpy, but there are some very steep sections on which buses and caravans are not permitted because they’ll get stuck. Apart from the loud thuds of occasional rocks hitting the underside of our rental (and two hitting the side of the car – oops!) there were no driving-related incidents, but almost a serious wildlife-related one. All of a sudden, 4 zebra start charging from behind a bush towards our car – we must’ve startled them as we came past. If Gilb hadn’t been quick enough to avert them, they’d have collided at high speed into the side of the car. They ended up running in front of us at about 60 km/h, and when they eventually veered off the road to get back into the game farm from which they’d come, they just hurtled straight into the farm’s fence (5 horizontal wires attached at different heights on far-apart poles), tripping/tumbling/falling over – they seemed to get up alright, but it’s hard to imagine they didn’t hurt themselves badly doing it. Just a few moments later, the incident repeated itself with startled sprinkbok, and 3 of them cleared the fence easily, but the last two clipped the top wire of the fence and took serious tumbles. Ouch!

Ok, enough words. Have some pictures: typical street in Swakopmund; Dune 7; leaping Springbok; view from a pass between Windhoek and Swakopmund

Ant go bye-bye!

2007-04-26T03:27:00.000+02:00

In all my blabbering on about stuff, I forgot to mention that I'm off to Nam for the long weekend (alright, alright - Nam', not 'nam, but it just sounds more exciting). The Gilb and I are doing Windhoek and Swakopmund, with one of our flights paid by Voyager credits - thanks to my excessive credit card use. I picked up my new credit card this morning, so there'll be plenty further abuse from tonight onwards.

Oh, and on another point - I laughed when I saw Peas's post about road rage, I came into the office yesterday unbelievably tense after 4 jerk's maneouvres in the morning traffic jam. It occurred to me that a lot of the bastards pulling these rude road moves are probably the sickeningly 'chivalrous' types who insist they always open a door for women (or stand up when a woman enters the room etc), but have absolutely no problem cutting a woman off in the traffic. "So long as she's in a car, she's weaker than me in my car, and I'm going to cut her off" type of thing. Because it's always men who do it, I've very seldom come across women who do. But let me stop there, because I can feel my rage from yesterday returning.

Happy long weekend y'all, I'm only back in the 'burg (and not the burg') on Wednesday!

Pillow Talk

2007-04-25T08:28:00.000+02:00

Smooch smooch smooch smooch smooch…
Ant: How come we don’t French kiss anymore unless we’re having sex?
Gilb: What?
Ant: Kiss me. Properly.
Gilb: “ ”
Ant: What’s wrong?
Gilb: It’s just that… you’re a bit forcef...
Ant: WHAT?!? We’re 4 years and 8 months into our relationship, and you’re telling me NOW that I’m too forceful???
Gilb: I’ve told you before… not in so many words…
Ant: I can’t BELIEVE you’re telling me I’m a bad lay only now!
Gilb: That’s not what I said, liefie. You’re a great lay –
Ant: Bollocks! That’s what you implied!
Gilb: Don’t be stupid. You’re over-reacting. You just need to me more gentle.
Ant: *sulk sulk sulk* [deftly shoves tongue halfway down Gilb’s windpipe.] I’ll show you forceful!

Anyhow, after that astounding revelation last weekend, can you blame me for not kissing him unselfconsciously during two sex sessions? I just meekly held my mouth there and let him do all the probing work. It’s going to take a while to get over this. Or, a lot of alcohol, or drugs. I never had myself figured for anything less than a fantastic smoocher, and this has really thrown me. I’d ask for some good Samaritan’s assistance in practising, but then I couldn’t be held liable if they suffocated during the exercise.

And on another bed-related note, I’m alarmed that Gilb’s and my sleeping positions could suggest we’re distant and uncaring. Our view on the matter is, cuddle for a few minutes (largely my pinning him down and smothering him with kisses (not of the French kind, in case you’re concerned)), then move as far away from each other as possible, so that it almost feels as though there’s no-one sleeping in the bed with you. When we first started sharing a bed, we had to use separate duvets so we couldn’t sense each other moving about during our sleep, but we’ve now progressed to the stage where we can sleep reasonably comfortably in each other’s presence, so long as we’re not touching.

But the other day my colleague told me about how she and her fiancée are always wrapped around each other like entwined vines (they even have ‘positions’ for optimum entwinement depending on each’s movements during sleep). And then, my other colleague agreed with her: that they just sleep better knowing their other halves are there, protected by their embraces. And then, I saw something in Gilb’s Men’s Health, alluding to the same thing, and also describing and illustrating sleep positions for a couple, depending on whether each is a stomach/back/foetal sleeper. Are we crazy, or is everyone out there crazy? How do you sleep, couples (or one-night stands) of the world? Tell me!

The good, the bad, the concerning and the downright freaky

2007-04-23T08:43:00.000+02:00

Good news first: got a call from the credit card division of my bank, my card’s arrived (now if only I could find the time during their inconveniently short hours to go collect it!)

And the overwhelmingly bad news: I got a call from SARS. Has the mere word induced a cold sweat in you? Now, I’ve never had any trouble with the folk (in fact, no dealings either – all forms are deftly handled by my Dad’s tax dude) so when the lady announced herself as one of Satan’s henchmen, I suspected nothing amiss. Until she stated that I am a creditor of the State, to the tune of a hefty R17,700. I start telling her how bloody ridiculous that claim is, the tax comes straight off my salary, I never get any rebates back, I have no allowances for petrol or telephones, so there must be something seriously wrong with their forms and/calculators and/or brains. She advises me to “go to the Germiston branch to sort it out.” I instead call my Dad’s tax dude who only just received my assessment form (or whatever the damn thing’s called) last week, and he does a quick calculation and unfortunately takes the devil’s side. Although it’s not finitely concluded yet, it appears my employer has been deducting too little tax from my salary each month, and a whopping 5-digit figure has been raked up as a result. Which also means I’m going to be paying a potentially far heftier fine for tax year 2007, too. Strangely, it’s just me from my company that’s been affected. Sigh…

Downright freaky: unwillingly, the Gilb and I attended a charity ball in the Poenda on Friday night – when a friend’s organising a ‘do’ for a cause, it’s kind of hard to say ‘fuck off’ – but this, of course, is nothing like the balls Joburgers are accustomed to. For starters, tickets were R200 each (I’m thinking, how are they going to make any money for the cause after expenses are deducted?). Then, they have a magician as entertainment. A 70-year old endearing man, who at the beginning of the evening, while trying to climb onto the stage, falls back and concusses himself while inflicting a deep blood-spurting gash into his noggin on a table top. Minor pandemonium ensues, the guy is aroused and a serviette pressed to his wound to stem the blood flow, and the MC announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, there has been a minor setback to the entertainment. While we’re trying to stop Alfred’s head from bleeding, please go and help yourselves to food in the entrance hall.” Unsurprisingly, there is no sudden stampede for the pap queue. But the weirdness does not end there. Further entertainment followed in the form of fire dancers (bloody hell it’s a ball, not the hippie hall at Woodstock) and a freaky teenage dj who looked like a cross between Alex Jay (and every bit as old as Alex Jay) and that Swiss genetic aberration, DJ Bobo (if you don’t know, don’t ask). He also used a tambourine to some of the music, and commanded about half of the dancefloor’s space doing his Ricky Martin / Michael Jackson / primary schoolgirl’s modern dance class routine. One of Gilb’s friends leaned across to me and said with dazed admiration: “Wow, look how well Manny dances, don’t you think he’s amazing?” What on earth do you reply to that??? Despite the otherworldliness of it all, I enjoyed the sokkie-ing – for a change Gilb and I didn’t have an outright fight about who leads and who follows, I sort of managed to read his half-baked lead, and neither of us suffered a stray elbow in the eye socket (quite a feat, given the way a good sokkie lends itself to having them flailing about at high speed).

The concerning: I guess we all subconsciously know, but deny it (unless you have worked as a waiter before – a torture I’ve happily never had to endure) because it makes our lives easier and our meals more palatable… last night, while having jam jars with Jen-Jen at Primi in Rivonia, the waiters were packing up for the night and had shamelessly brought out large plastic containers, into which they were scraping each of the contents of all the little chopped garlic and chilli saucers they hand out at each table. I can only pray that no-one is as childish as I used to be in high-school, mixing sugar or tomato sauce or saliva into the little sauce bowls. Aaaaaaaargh!

Our shit don’t stink

2007-04-18T07:21:00.000+02:00

Oh the satisfaction of it all! It may be a mere R75 saving, but the mere ego factor of my victory is worth far more…

You see, I have a credit card with one of SA’s major banks, the bloody thing is less than a year old (you know how they send you a new card every 2 years?) and has some mysterious large credit limit which I will discover shortly when my statement is sent to me for last month (yip, I maxed it, thankfully mostly on company-related expenses that will be reimbursed).

Anyhow, the thing should not cease to read when swiped through retailers’ machines unless some major damage (and I don’t mean the financial kind) is inflicted on it, but mine has given up the ghost. After weeks of frustration (including a non-reading incident that delayed me for 45 minutes at the airport on the Friday evening of the Blog Awards, causing me to miss the announcement of Peas’ award, courtesy of an exorbitant parking bill I had no cash on me to settle) I called the customer ‘care’ line, to enquire about the procedure to replace my damaged card. All goes fine until right at the last step, when it dawns on me to ask whether there is any charge for the new card (because they train their sly consultants not to inform you of the fees they will automatically deduct from your account sans your permission), and it turns out there is indeed a charge – R75. I tell the consultant that is preposterous and that I will shop around for a new credit card, and that I will lay a complaint against the company, which I pursued immediately as promised.

I send an email informing them:

It is utterly incomprehensible that in the increasingly competitive environment of credit provision, you dare to suggest I should pay a R75 fee for a new card that has been damaged through no fault of my own, except perhaps overuse (which is to your advantage, anyway). My FNB debit card which is far older, and from a seemingly more reliable manufacturer, has never failed me, and I am increasingly using it to charge large expenses that my [insert name of offending bank here] credit card won’t read.

As I type this, I am already visiting the websites of competing products – do you know that one of your major competitors only charges R25 for the replacement of a damaged card? I’m certain the new-age affinity group credit cards charge nothing, along with their drastically reduced annual management fees, which appears to me to be a far more attractive proposition than that offered to me by your institution.

In the next few days I will have selected a new credit card product, and you will have lost another customer. I expect to write you yet another complaint when I realize that you will have charged me my full annual management fee of R150 for my card, even though at that point I will have used it for only 4 months of the year, but that is a battle I will fight when I come to it.

Yours sincerely

Angry Ant

To my amazement, I got a response within 3 hours, and the obsequious consultant managed to calm me down to the point that I agreed to stay with the bank if they gave me a free replacement card (lucky for them – my colleague tells me she has information that they’re bleeding credit card customers like hell at present) – which she promised will be available by next Monday at the latest. I wait in anticipation.

And in a little unrelated (as always) anecdote, Gilb’s friend told me a truly cringe-worthy story: he went to the Easter Oppikoppi festival, where the open-air male and female ablution blocks are separated by a mere wall. From the male shower stalls, the men could hear two girls going about their business (number 2’s, apparently plainly audible) in the toilets on the other side of the wall – this will be a hazard of going to the festival, but it’s to be expected, I guess. Anyhow, the one girl finished her business earlier than her friend, and she gets impatient with her and says (again, very clearly audible to the showering men): “knyp hom af, man, ons moet gaan!” (for the Engelse out there, this translates to “pinch it off, we must go!”). Sorry to dispel the myths about girls not pooing, guys, but at least ours do smell like roses :)

The best way to terrorise your boyfriend…

2007-04-16T08:58:00.000+02:00

… is to start singing the chorus from Natasha Bedingfield’s lastest offering “I wanna have your babies” absent-mindedly in front of him.

Like so:

All you hear is Uh uh uh uh uh uh
Gonna button my lips so the truth don't slip
Uh uh uh uh uh uh
Gotta beep out what I really wanna shout
Whoops! Did I say it out loud?
Did you find out?
I wanna have your babies
Get serious like crazy
I wanna have your babies
I see 'em springing up like daisies

For the male readers – if you’re like most men involved in a fairly long-term relationship right now and have not yet had children, I’ve probably just induced the following reactions in you: your heart is beating a little faster; your palms are sweaty; you’re mentally calculating the last time you had sex vs the last time she had her period; you’ve just opened up another Explorer tab and are frantically scrolling through the Google results for “fastest route to Lima”.

Note: I am neither currently broody nor pregnant, but may well be either in the next few years – the above behaviour is purely for comic relief – the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word, eh?

I happen to think Natasha Bedingfield is one of the kookier singers out there, I’d never write a song on this topic for mass consumption if I were in her shoes – but then, maybe that’s another reason I’m not a millionaire recording artist. Does she – or did she until one sudden moment a few weeks ago when her song was released – even have a boyfriend?

And on an entirely different topic, it dawned on me yesterday while mulling over the lastest Mail & Guardian that pretty much the most embarrassing confirmations of one’s incompetence in the workplace one could ever receive is this: you’re the CEO of a prominent company listed on the JSE, the moment your resignation is publicly announced your company’s share price increases! Shudder… spare a thought for poor mortified Papi Molotsane, recently-resigned CEO of Telkom, whose plans for departure resulted in a 4% increase in the Telkom share price.

Back to basics

2007-04-13T08:27:00.000+02:00

Forgive my arbitrary topic of algebra in today’s post, but I simply couldn’t resist. Back in my student days when I’d do anything for money, tutoring Maths / Science was my staple in the income-earning department, and many times students asked “but why do you solve it like that?” and the answer often had to be “I’ll think about the explanation and come back to you next week.” Because sometimes it’s bloody hard to explain why someone else’s logic is wrong.

And then, last week, in the course of an ordinary work day, a bit of a mathematical row broke out (as it so often does).

Our office manager V has started hosting big dj parties as an additional income earner, together with 4 friends. The 5 of them organize the venue, arrange the dj lineup, the free cocktails and snacks, and market the event to the general public. The venue owner calculates the profit of the party, takes 20% of it, while the remaining 80% gets shared among the 5 organisers.

One of V’s friends (N) called her last week to say that he’d been through the accounts, and had discovered the venue owner had been cheating them. “No he hasn’t! I checked the accounts myself!” V exclaimed. “Oh yes he has! He’s taking more than 20% of the profit!” Now, N is a lawyer – for a big, renowned firm – working in the corporate realm, and it seems he often has to work out VAT amounts for things. His take on the split of profits was as follows:

R18,800 was the total profit of the party (correct)
This should be split into two sums: 20% for the venue and 80% for the 5 organisers (correct)
80% of R18,800 = R15,667 (what the f%#&%*?????)

To which V responded that 20% of R18,800 (calculated by typing ’18,800 – 20%’ on her calculator, or equivalently ‘0.8*18,800) was equal to R15,040.

I overheard their argument on the phone and could not resist the urge to join the battle.

N’s reasoning was that when you calculate a VAT amount for a number, you use the following calculation – for argument’s sake, the number is 100: (100*114)/100 (us normal folk would’ve just said 100*1.14, but hey). The answer to this sum is 114. Now, if you have a number 114, and want to remove the VAT from it, you use the equation (114*100)/114 (again, I’d simply have said 114/1.14, but us simple folk don’t know the fancy equations lawyers do, it seems). So N proposed to do the same thing with the amount of R18,800:

80% of R18,800 is the same as removing 20% of R18,800, i.e. (18,800*100)/120 = R15,667.

The argument went back and forth about how you calculate percentages (at this point we’d moved to Google Talk), and he kept pulling out the argument that if you remove x% from a number y, then try to add x% back to the new number, the answer never gives you y again. [Yes, N, but what the hell does that have to do with this? We’re not working with VAT!]

Our Google chat went something like this:

N: I can’t believe your firm of supposedly smart people does not know how to work out a basic percentage!!!
Ant: I can’t believe you work with financial aspects of companies and can’t do basic arithmetic!
N: Any moment now, you’re going to realize you’re wrong and humiliate yourself!
Ant: Do me a favour – please please PLEASE go and ask your manager to help you with this calculation!
Ant [again, typing furiously]: But be sure you have another job lined up first, he’s gonna kick your ass out of there for your stupidity!
N: Fine, I will! You should ask yours too!
…

Of course, he came back a few minutes later, humbly apologising because he’d “got confused and was working from an interest-based perspective” (what’s that? Do you even know, N?) to which one of our colleagues told us we should ask whether he’d considered nominal vs real terms in his calculation!

That night, I spent some time thinking how to explain why he was wrong, and this is the reasoning: the formula he used to remove 20% is wrong, because that is a formula used to remove a percentage when that same percentage has before been added to a number. In this instance, the base number, R18,800, has not had any percentage added to it initially, so you can’t ‘remove’ anything from it using his VAT equation. In algebraic terms, let’s assume that R18,800 = x.

From his formula to remove 20%: (x x 100)/120 = x/1.2 = 0.83x (which is why he’d thought they’d been cheated by the owner, who had given them only 0.8x instead of what N had calculated).

Anyway, it allowed me to sleep better that night – I hope this has the same effect on you.

Puppy love

2007-04-10T10:23:00.000+02:00

The outcome of the session my folks had with the dog psychologist last week, is an adorable chocolate-brown labrador.

The animal expert came over to their house, marched around the lawn with the troublesome alsatian Frodo, and declared the following:

1. He (Frodo, that is) is frustrated by the fact that he can hear traffic from the street, but cannot see the source of the noise. Solution: Frodo needs daily 20-minute walks on the street.

2. Frodo was in fact abused by his former owners, although not to a sufficient extent that ‘turned’ his personality – he is still a loving, trusting puppy desperately seeking affection and care from a new family.

3. Frodo hates the gardener a lot. But this does not take a dog whisperer to figure out – all our dogs have hated the gardener, he’s not the most affable personality around.

4. Frodo needs a playmate (again, no genius required to figure that one out). Not just any playmate, mind you. Female, young, and to match his temperament, it had to be a labrador. A suitably adorable one was sourced in Bloemfontein and transported up to Joburg, and is now living at my folks’ house. Mom is insisting she be named ‘Amber’ (gag), while Dad is arguing for the better name, ‘Roma’. Knowing that Mom is likely to win this battle, I’m very much in favour of the dog dude being brought back to ask the puppy what she’d prefer her name to be.

And in other ‘news’ (really scraping through the barrel of events here), the Easter weekend was wonderful. But really, really uneventful. Friday was spent on a delightful acquisitive spree (happily not by me, all the Gilb’s expenditure) – it’s amazing how much influence you can have on a shopping partner when you’re renowned in your circle as a fashion guru. The Gilb succumbed to buying long pants (shock, horror) – and not just any long pants, three pairs of pants that actually define his shapely legs – and collared shirts. Friday evening was spent at a braai (followed by vehement denial of any meat-eating to my parents and the Malawian priest who’s staying over at their house); Saturday was spent doing a good deal of fuck-all bar two hours spent washing my beloved Ant; Sunday was devoted to a gorge-fest breakfast with my folks, followed by dope and bubbly with Peas at the Emmarentia Dam rose garden, followed by a crap-in-your-pants-terrifying movie (The Exorcism of Emily Rose – not the best choice for paranoid stoned lasses), followed by dindins with the Gilb’s folks; Monday was spent traipsing around at the Pretoria Zoo and kicking ass at tenpin bowling.

Happy 4-day week y'all! Yet again, I'm off to Cape Town today.

Facebook: Passing fad or here to stay?

2007-04-04T09:22:00.000+02:00

What with the manic craze sweeping the world right now (and stealing further work hours from our weekdays, as though blogging wasn’t enough of a distraction), Peas and I had a mini discussion on the issue of Facebook’s longevity, and are unresolved on the issue.

But before I get into reasons why / why not this craze might survive longer than the average Hollywood marriage, let me give you a brief history of its origins…

Young computer programming whiz, Mark Zuckerberg (born in 1984), has other acclaimed software projects behind his name – most notably a media player that learns your taste in music based on your previous song choice behaviour, and then designs playlists to suit you.

Facebook was born out of a combination of a number of his previous programs, including the following: Facemash, which uploaded two Harvard students’ photos onto the Internet, for viewers to vote who was hottest (he got into a lot of trouble for that); and Coursematch, which allowed Harvard students to see which other Harvard students had enrolled for their courses.

Facebook was released at Harvard in February 2004 and by mid-year had reached membership across the country of 150,000, through participation of Ivy League university students.

Zuckerberg (due to graduate in 2006) left Harvard in that year to run the website full-time, as revenues from advertising grew along with membership (then released outside of the elite university network). According to Wikipedia, membership today stands at over 17 million.

My computer-expert friend tells me this project is most certainly not the first of its kind – since 1995 the concept has been attempted to be plied in the mainstream, but never before has there been a critical mass of socially-bent Internet users to support these, hence Facebook’s success.

Right, that’s the history out the way. Onto the burning question: but will it last? I guess the answer to that lies in its perceived value, or lack thereof (and I must defend myself from any in-depth criticism of my comments here, I am a self-confessed Luddite, streets behind many of you in IT savvy).

A few months back, the whole LinkedIn networking craze hit us, and I’m told that serious networkers, particularly in the IT industry, use the utility quite religiously. I for one, have not looked back at my profile since the last time anyone new linked into it all those months ago.

A few other explosively popular social internet… activities (for want of a better term – maybe programmes? Help!) have emerged in the past few years – myspace (which incidentally I still don’t get), YouTube, and our own dear blogging addictions. All seem to have some form of staying power – at least judging by the fact that they don’t appear to be heading south anytime soon.

So why my skepticism of Facebook? In its defence, it’s a great way to hook up with lost souls from lives past, and a fun way to play the Kevin Bacon game. But beyond that, I’m not sure how much more value it holds. Sure, you’ll spend 1 obsessive week trying to amass a group of friends big enough to ascertain your alpha status in the social empire, but then what? You won’t use it to communicate regularly with close friends, will you? That’s what phonecalls, emails, SMSes are for. You might use it to communicate with long-lost friends strewn across the globe, but if you start communicating with them regularly, won’t it just be easier to get their email addresses and write to them that way, instead of having to log into Facebook (a painfully slow procedure, I find) every time you get email notification that someone has written on your wall/poked you/sent you a message? Also, you have your blogs, and one of the major reasons I started mine was so that friends overseas could follow my day-to-day life if they felt the burning need to do so.

Clearly I’m wrong – everyone I’ve spoken to disagrees with my view wholeheartedly. Will someone please explain what I’m missing?

I will acknowledge that it’s probably a fantastic tool for marketing – I’d imagine you can get very targeted advertising, perhaps you can advertise only to members of specific groups. G sent me an interesting article discussing MySpace’s US presidential primary election to be held in January next year (with membership supposedly high enough to have MySpace counted as the 11th largest country – although double-counting is likely as members can have more than one MySpace page). The article goes on to list the popularity of the candidates’ own MySpace pages – take the time to read through the readers’ comments on the article, especially those of representative this sample population is of the voting population. Anyhow, the author’s comment mentions the value Facebook would have over MySpace in holding this primary: Facebook’s user base is considered to be of higher quality, as accounts are tied to email addresses or cell phone numbers, and this identity check means duplicate profiles are far less likely, and US-based citizens can be far more easily identified (as the only participants in the election, the vote of global users is a largely irrelevant indicator of the election outcome)… A useful side use of the program, perhaps, but I assume not its creator’s primary intention.

Parents. Go figure.

2007-04-03T08:51:00.000+02:00

They’ve been acting a bit weird this year, that’s for sure. For starters, my family has always been a good Italian example of the ‘communication through screaming’ school. But, to my utter horror, every time I’ve been over for dinner this year (admittedly on very few and far between occasions) we’ve not been fighting in our usual way. It’s a displeasingly enjoyable get-along-gang type of event that quite frankly leaves my gagging. I’m really not a fan of affectionate family behaviour – it simply has to be yelling and wild gesticulating and name-calling, which is how nature intended blood relatives to interact. So what the hell has gone wrong?

[A brief aside: my Father had me laughing and my sister sulking last night. My sister often goes over for dinner, and generally is much closer to them than I am. She tends to blag a lot of free food/household equipment off them, given that her salary’s not much is comparison with mine. Anyway, in honour of my infrequent dinner visits to the fandamily, my father always goes out of his way to prepare a lavish feast. My sister moaned at him and asked why he goes to so much effort for me and none for her, when she clearly cares a lot more for them than I do, judging by the frequency of our respective visits. To which his response was: “But sweetie, have you not heard the parable about the prodigal son?!”]

Anyhow, sickly sweet family visits aside, there is further evidence of parental weirdness. My father, the stereotypical fat Italian man (for whom his company’s logo was redesigned from a skinny guy to look more like a fat Italian guy. No, seriously) has mysteriously given in to our years of nagging (read: screaming, gesticulating) about losing weight. He might not be doing it entirely au naturelle, relying on appetite suppressants to curb his relentless appetite, but he’s at least making it to the gym thrice a week, which is a lot more than can be said of me right now. He now tends to eat less than I do (granted, I have a disturbingly healthy appetite myself) or either my sister or mom do (and those two eat like scrawny pigeons). Which is a mind-warp of obese proportions.

But the real cherry on top came in a revelation last night that my folks, the walk-the-straight-and-narrow skeptical kind, are taking their new puppy to a dog psychologist. They recently got him from the SPCA, and have had trouble training him. He chews up the garden more efficiently than a mole colony could do, and has no problem chewing through the (ridiculously expensive) electric cables of the (ridiculously naff) garden light extravaganza my parents had installed a few years ago. (I would honestly do the same if my new owners had rechristened me ‘Frodo’. But I guess this is better than some of their other pet names of the past: Pashmina, Zorro, Candy). My mom explained in a totally serious voice, that this dude is an expert who talks regularly on 702 weekend shows about dogs and their feelings, and communicating with them. Now, I’m not about to dispute the fact that animals do have their own personalities, but somehow my parents falling for the “let’s talk to our dog and try get to the bottom of his social disorder” scene doesn’t gel. And I bet there won’t be any of the traditional screaming and gesticulating either. Barf/woof.

Odds & Ends (no pun intended on the latter)

2007-03-31T10:42:00.000+02:00

Firstly, some distressing news. My Dad’s friend, an internationally renowned professor in his field, and former Head of School in that field at Wits, shot himself last weekend, leaving behind his wife and 3 sons aged between 7 and 15. I always battle to deal with this news, because although in the past I’ve been so unhappy as to contemplate doing the deed, I know I could never actually have brought myself to do it. There’s a level of despair that is even greater than that I felt – or anyone else who has contemplated suicide, and I know many of you out there have at some point – that I cannot begin to fathom. No-one can really explain it to us, I guess, because those people who could have ultimately gone through with their intentions. And here, a successful man in his mid-50s, with a loving family, world-wide respect for his work and no apparent huge financial burdens, has gone and done it. How tragic.

But, life goes on for the rest of us, and we take amusement in life’s witty little trivialities.

Take, for instance, my little drive up Table Mountain the other afternoon to dodge the traffic. I parked a wee bit up on the road from where all the cable car traffic parks, and sat for a while just enjoying the view of the lovely little curve of earth that is the CT city bowl. It was about 5:30, and the shadow that Lion’s Head cast over the city was disturbingly long and thin (back when I used to paint, I always looked out for these sorts of things, because it’s not immediately obvious what shadows some objects will cast, making it difficult to ‘guess’ them to portray in your art). I immediately thought “Wow, if I had had to paint this, I’d never have guessed that little dumpy poo piece of mountain would cast a shadow that is so long and thin over the city. I’d have got it totally wrong.” So it occurred to me that this shadow casts a pretty darn regular sweep over the city bowl, and if you lived in any area touched by the dark finger’s shade at any point of the day, it would happen at precisely the same time each day (give or take, given seasonal variations). In short, its shadow is like that cast by a sundial – neat, hey? “Daaaaaad, what’s the time? Well, we’re in the shadow, son, so somewhere between 5:20 and 5:35. Why do you ask when you should have known that already?”

In another life triviality (and beware, this one’s very, very trivial), that thing I’ve recently started to fear has finally happened. You know those new nifty cartons of Clover milk – the ones that make fresh milk last a lot longer than normal? Well, I’ve always been fearful of the little tag you use to tear off the top of the container, breaking during the process. It looks so flimsy, that I’ve always treated it with the greatest of care, gently pulling on it at an angle that I’d imagine would cause the least distress to the plastic. Yet somehow, my delicately precise actions still caused the thing to break the other day. So I had to hack at the damn thing with a pocket knife. You’ve been warned – always keep one handy!

PS: A huge congratulations to Peas for winning yet another blog award this year – Most Humorous Blog of 2006! And well done to all the other well-deserved winners, hope you're more skilled with your vuvuzelas than Peas is ;)

one-legged 'mobile

2007-03-27T10:34:00.000+02:00

If you happen to see a chick driving a white Fiesta down the M3 in Cape Town with her left leg tucked under body, then stay the fuck away. For it is me, attempting to drive an automatic car, perpetually falling into the habit of trying to depress the clutch and change gears, as those who are accustomed to driving manual cars are wont to.

Despite my protests at 10pm on Monday evening at the Avis counter, they gave me an (unconditioned) automatic car. I couldn’t even get the damn thing out of the parking lot without help – I didn’t realise you had to brake while changing the ‘gear’ from ‘park’ (what the hell is that?) to ‘drive’.

This situation last happened during my last long stay in Cape Town, way back in 2004. My colleague, who drives an automatic, asked me to drop her off at the airport in her car one day. For the first nerve-wracking kilometre (naturally, down the bloody N2), I couldn’t understand why the car jerked forward and halted so violently. It took me that long to realise that left feet were not made for braking, given their accustomed task to jamming in on the clutch.

So now my resolve to confining my left leg to numbness under my ass during violent cussing sessions every time I accidentally move the ‘gearstick’ from ‘drive’ into ‘1’ or ‘2’. Automatic cars do have one nifty use though – in addition to needing only one leg to drive, you need only one arm to – the left arm can quite safely shovel spicy chicken tikka pasta salad down your gullet while the right navigates the vehicle round a corner.

Useful, that.

ps; still no internet access! i'm going mental!

Riddle

2007-03-26T09:56:00.000+02:00

I love our crazy language, don’t you? I have a minor obsession with English words and phrases, and always keep my beloved Collins dictionary (I like their etymologies better than the supposed bible, the O.E.D.) and Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable close at hand.

Two phrases I looked up this morning (although in neither of the above-mentioned books!) include:

The bee’s knees
By some, alleged to refer to the concentrated goodness to be found around a bee’s knees (where their pollen sacks are located); by others, meant to be a twist of the word ‘business’. The phrase was first used in 1797 to mean ‘small’ and first appeared in print in the 1920s. Today it is thought that the phrase was merely coined because it rhymes nicely; at the time the phrase was invented, there were many other ridiculous terms for ‘excellence’, including: the snake’s hips, the kipper’s knickers, the cat’s pyjamas, the sardine’s whiskers.

Monkey’s wedding
The symbolism of references to sunshine and rain happening simultaneously is unknown
, all that is known is that many cultures have a phrase for this occurrence – in South Africa, we call it a ‘money’s wedding’ which is a direct translation of the Zulu phrase umshado wezinkawu, a wedding for monkeys. In the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, the term used is ‘sunshower’; the Arabs use the phrase ‘the rats are getting married’; the Polish prefer the lengthy ‘when the sun is shining and the rain is raining, the witch is making butter’ as do southern Americans with their ‘The devil’s behind his kitchen door beating his wife with a frying pan’. Other cultures include animals ranging from foxes to tigers.

And now for a little riddle: you’re walking down a path, and reach a fork. The path to the left leads to (at least temporary, if not more permanent) self-frustration*, while the path to the right leads to your heart being extracted from your chest with dull tweezers and then thrown in the way of stampeding bulls. Which path do you take?

*Nope, I'm not talking about the sexual frustration kind. That sort can be relieved rather quickly, partner or no.

Zero to Maxed in 3 easy steps

2007-03-23T10:46:00.001+02:00

1. You choose to forget that you’ve charged hefty work-related expenses (e.g. flights, rental cars) to your credit card already. Oops.

2. You go to the V&A (so many shops!) to visit a friend, who doesn’t know the rule. When Ant says “Ooooh! Do you mind if we quickly go look around that nice expensive boutique wine store? I’ll be 5 minutes”, the good friend is supposed to say “No no, just keep on walking, do not – I repeat – DO NOT deviate from this path” instead of “Ja, sure. I’ll come with you.” Of course, coming with me means there are more hands to lug more wine around the goliath of a shopping centre. (Thanks F, you’re a peach, and the tarot card-labelled wine has already been quaffed. I give it a 3/5).

3. Restaurants, restaurants, and more restaurants. Some reasonably priced, some expensive, some just plain ludicrously overpriced. (Although they all have one thing in common - the service leaves much to be desired. I did go to one nice Austrian place in Hout Bay where the almost-Scarlett look-alike Austrian waitress gave us outstanding service. I’ll be back for more next week – the service, that is, not Scarlett.)

Yet another good reason I don’t live in this pretty city, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. Too much to see, do, buy and eat, all at around 1.3 times the prices in Joburg.

One thing that would be better off here is my fitness – somehow you just want to exercise as an excuse to enjoy the scenery (a case of the means justifying the end), and it stays lighter longer in summer, meaning longer working hours do not always have to hamper your good intentions. My nerves, on the other hand, would be more frayed during the morning/afternoon commutes. No-one uses indicators at all (as opposed to the 10% of drivers in Joburg that do), and they use traffic circles very differently than how I have become accustomed to using them in my mother city.

Ah, it’s always a love-hate rivalry between these two cities and my emotions about both of them.

Happy weekends, y’all. I’ll be doing the Joburg one day, Cape Town the next, thing throughout next week. It’s a tough life, ain’t it?

Sea, sweat and sex with strangers

2007-03-20T09:47:00.000+02:00

Well here I am, sitting in a large corporate office in Cape Town, where my usual IT luxuries have been taken away from me: I’ve had to fight for an adaptor that will allow me to connect my laptop to power (because normal three-prong plugs aint good enough and no supplier has stock of the right kind, not even our client), I have zippo connectivity for Internet and email (thanks to the colleague who lent me his iBurst for a few precious minutes), and up until half an hour ago any time I left the building someone had to come down from the 7th floor to let me back in.

Not all’s difficult though – I am wearing my fabulous new bright red peep-toe stilettos, and out the corner of my eye can see the lustful/jealous stares of the strangers as I walk past their honeycomb desk hives. This infinitely improves my mood, of course. And tomorrow I’ll don the new bright green pair (how many green pairs of high heels can a lass have, I wonder? Four and counting, and still nowhere near my fill) bought in aid of that best day of the year, St Paddy’s.

I went for a jog yesterday along the beach in Hout Bay, and that eternal question popped into my head: why do we choose to live in Joburg when the sea, mountain and longer summer days are to be had in Cape Town? (I already know the answer to this rhetorical question, of course).

Anyhow, 2 little anecdotes to relate: firstly, my boyfriend has informed me he’s officially joined a thpinning class. Yes, folks, in the midst of manly, traditional Secunda, the Sasol gym (where the clientele is 90% male) has a thpinning class where big hairy men (and one woman who apparently looks decidedly unattractive in her yellow lycra cycling shorts) gather for a communal session of sweaty peddling. I asked him not to tell me about it every time he goes, I’m mortified. [“Oh, so my boyfriend rode the Duzi this weekend, and is doing the Paris to Dakar next weekend. What’s yours do?”. “Um, you know, thpinning. But he used to play action cricket until they closed the venue last week.”]

[And apologies to all the spinners out there who I’ve just insulted. Well, maybe.]

Secondly, I was driving back from Parys for an emergency work trip on Sunday night, when I stopped (as one does) at the toll gate to pay, and the dude proceeded to beg me to take his friend to the Engen garage that was about 5km down the road. Now, I used to do this more frequently when I was younger with far less concern, but these days I’ve become cynical and paranoid, and the Gilb’s given me express orders not to give any stranger a lift, ever. But, cornered there as I was, I felt I had no choice but to oblige him, and take his friend to the Engen. The guy was chatty enough, but literally 1 minute into the journey he says “I’ve never had sex with a white woman before”. Oh God, I thought, he’s going to follow that up with “…and tonight’s going to be my first time.” Panic attack! I quickly diverted the conversation by asking why he wasn’t wearing shoes on a cold windy evening, we then got into talking business, and I… felt compelled to give him my business card. He did ask, what was I to say? Anyway, much admonishing from the Gilb later, I’m relieved to say that I’ve done my good hitchhiker deed for the next couple of years. It’s sad that we always have to think the worst of people, but I guess that’s the society (and to a large extent, the world) we live in.

(PS: chin up, dear Peasypoo, I wish I could be there to help cheer you up xXx)

WWIII

2007-03-16T08:48:00.000+02:00

The Gilb and I had a discussion the other day about countries’ contributions to society (reading ATW’s post about the impact of Rubik’s Cube on his native Hungary reminded me of this). Basically the question we were trying to answer was:

What indispensable contributions have the nations of the Earth made to society?

(although at the time we worded it as “If you could wipe out each country of the planet one by one, what inventions/products/discoveries would you keep in the course of history?”)

Of course, the answers are highly subjective – what I think is indispensable you might not agree with, and of course you can argue that someone else from a different country would come up with those things instead. But for the sake of argument, let’s assume they don’t, i.e. if it was discovered/invented/produced by that country, no other country would have managed to replicate it instead.

So… here’s my take on things – please note I’ve not done any additional research, so I’ve used what limited general knowledge I have, and it’s very evident how remarkably ignorant I am of the contributions of the countries of the world, especially in areas such as philosophy and politics (and ashamedly, any contributions of the developing world). But, feel free to educate me.

Italy
Indispensable: Ancient Roman road/aqueduct knowledge, …?
Very nice to have: Famous Italian composers (e.g. Verdi, Rossini, Vivaldi, Puccini), famous Italian artists (e.g. Michelangelo, Raphael, Botticelli), Roberto Cavalli, grappa, Dante Alighieri, tagliatelle
Definitely dispensable: the entire post-WWII government, football antics, Italian pop music, vomitoriums

France
Indispensable: Pasteurisation, methode champenoise (for making champagne), Rene Descartes
Very nice to have: Brie, Camembert, the Louvre, gargoyles, croissants
Definitely dispensable: French pop music (yes, Peas), Jacques Chirac, closed-minded small-town French folk

UK
Indispensable: All of Newton’s work, a language that has managed to become globally accessible (even if not the most spoken), ..?
Very nice to have: Earl Grey (you’re surprised I didn’t put this under ‘indispensable’, aren’t you?), high tea, Tudor architecture, Shakespeare’s literature, Turner, Scotland, phrases such as “I can’t be arsed”, “ginga” and “minging”
Definitely dispensable: football thugs, responses such as “fantastic”, colonial slavery, those shit-hole hostels on Bayswater that look beautiful from the outside but are fucking awful on the inside, the Millennium dome

US
Indispensable: The internet, most computer hardware and software, resources spent on R&D in biosciences that attract bright foreign talent, consumerism (for the world economy’s sake)
Very nice to have: Model T Ford, Google, the moon landing, the World Trade Center (sorry, that’s a bad joke but I couldn’t resist), Scarlett Johansson, Hollywood gossip, hippie culture, The Simpsons
Definitely dispensable: George Bush, all foreign policy plus xenophobia, McDonalds, Utah, Ohio, Nebraska, Tom Cruise, CFCs and leaded petrol, American football, yaks, yams, American spelling, the Imperial measurement system

Iraq
Indispensable: zero, …?
Very nice to have: oil, …?
Definitely dispensable: Muslim fundamentalism, gender inequality

China
Indispensable: Nelson Mandela (cheesy, but if not for him, I’d have left this section blank!!!)
Very nice to have: Kung fu, Ming dynasty pottery, cheap labour (for some)
Definitely dispensable: disregard for the Kyoto protocol, unashamed courting of resource-rich developing nations, human rights abuses/exploitation

And I’ve left our little nation till last, because I’m extremely embarrassed at my inability to complete it adequately:

South Africa
Indispensable: Nelson Mandela (cheesy, but if not for him, I’d have left this section blank!!!)
Very nice to have: koeksusters, Madam & Eve, gold & diamonds & platinum & coal & uranium, fruit that tastes like fruit not just looks like it, extreme ironing, Ndebele art
Definitely dispensable: apartheid, crime, policies regarding Zimbabwe and healthcare, fake Tuscan architecture, the Gautrain, taxi driver behaviour

My choice of countries has been very westernised, I’m aware. I’d love to have included places like Ecuador, the Ivory Coast and Nepal, but I’m not educated enough on these nations even to attempt it. Anyone know any better?

D’oh! Eek! Oops! and Grrrr!

2007-03-14T09:04:00.000+02:00

A number of bloopers / irritations to report to you from the past week:

Ageing gracelessly
It was a dark and stormy night… okay, actually it was about midday on Saturday at a table outside the Dros in Cresta, but the tale that follows is as scary as any Hitchcock thriller could be…

There we were, downing draughts at a swift pace, when the Gilb’s pal (coincidentally named after my previous car – but, irrelevant) screeches out at the top of his voice for all the three-eyed Cresta people to hear: “Ohmygod! That’s a grey hair right there, on your head!” I angrily shut him up, categorically denied the accusation, and drained my glass. The Gilb, bless him, immediately rose to my defence, saying that it must be a blonde hair and not a white one. Like monkeys grooming their offspring, they proceeded to pick through my tumbling chestnut locks (okay fine… my punky short ‘do) until they’d isolated the offending hair, then yanked it out, along with one from Max’s liberally-Clooneyed head for comparison. We’re undecided: it was much finer – and dare I say more golden – than Max’s exhibit, but it does beg the question: what is a lone golden hair doing in a mass that is not only decidedly brown in colour, but also regularly washed with Sunsilk Deeply Brunette shampoo (shampoo, lather, pray silently that my crowning glory avoids turning that lighter mousy brown colour, rinse, repeat as necessary)?

The only proof I have my boyfriend is a filthy man is sitting in some garbage dump
First: anyone who reads this and knows the person who gave me the gift, DO NOT tell him, please. I’m mortified. (N, you hear?)

So, in November last year when I went to Mozambique with a bunch of friends, we had a wild and crazy night out in Maputo, and a friend took a photo of a prostitute bumping and grinding against the Gilb in some club, much to our collective amusement. (A few seconds before the happy snap, she had her hands on his crotch – I’ve never seen him look so chuffed at such attention! But the camera came out too late for that…)

Anyhow, we got back to Jozi, and ever-faithful Murphy’s law – the one photo that was corrupted and couldn’t be enlarged beyond a thumbnail pic was Gilb and his lady of the night. Miraculously, a few months later my friend managed to enlarge the pic somehow, and after repetitive nagging from me, had a large copy printed. Unfortunately, he chose to give it to me on Saturday evening when we were out for dinner and drinking fairly heavily. For some reason, the notion of putting the photo in my bag eluded me, and I instead stuck it on the floor under my bag, which was somewhere under the large table. We drank, we shouted (this particular group’s preferred mode of communication), we drank some more, we haggled over the bill, we gathered our belongings from under the table (…can you see where this went wrong?) and happily stumbled to our vehicles (yes, I’ve been driving Ant under the influence recently. Shame on me, the concern has largely worn off already). Only back at the flat do I remember that the photo is still under the table, but when I call the following day (and the day after, just to be sure), it’s nowhere to be found.

The Gilb is devastated; I’m frustrated at losing the jewel in my emergency blackmail material collection for his folks. I’m also too sheepish to ask my friend for another copy immediately, after the way I went on nagging about it and managed to lose it within a few hours of obtaining it.

[Reminder, N, don’t tell him yet, please!]

White lies get you nowhere
This is such a daft story, I’m embarrassed to tell it. But, as always, I will. Picking up two grocery items at a P ‘n P on Monday evening, I was standing at a till to pay, um’ing and ah’ing about which of two adjacent queues was shorter. I was just about to move from the one till to the next, when I see a slightly older dude had joined this other queue fractionally before I moved into it. One of those awkward chivalry games ensued (“No you first”, “No, really, you first”) and to spare the battle of politeness, I lied and told him “No really, I was just stepping across for some chewing gum.” Of course, he could see the same brands of chewing gum displayed at my till’s counter, but he had the grace not to say anything. I fumbled through the chewing gum offering, picked two random types (I don’t chew the stuff, so it was purely an academic exercise) and stepped back into my queue. As it turns out, we both had trouble at our respective tills (my f$%^ing chewing gum packs wouldn’t scan!), but after eventually paying for everything, I put the chewing gum into my handbag and carried the other two items out without buying a plastic bag. Mr Chivalry walks out beside me (not-so-surreptitiously scanning my hand-held acquisitions for the chewing gum he knew I didn’t really want, and presumably came to the incorrect conclusion that I’d just dumped them at the till because I hadn’t really wanted to buy them after all) and says “Glad to see you’re done with your ordeal!” flashing coffee-stained teeth at me. Cringe! I felt like pulling the chewing gum out and offering him some just to show my earnest enjoyment of the product, but there’s never any knowing how much deeper a grave you can dig for yourself, is there?

Irritatingly smug journalism
Watching Carte Blanche on Sunday, I realised that the show frigging annoys me. Now I can’t speak with authority since I hardly ever watch the damn thing, but I have figured out what it is that bugs me about it so much. They only have two kinds of approach to any story: 1) a pure fact-finding interview where they ask the interviewee neutral questions and get neutral answers (I have no particular gripes with this approach, sometimes it’s interesting, sometimes it’s not), and 2) a sensationalist investigational story where one party is so obviously the victim and the other so obviously the heinous criminal that they might as well not have pursued the story at all – no-one changes their minds about the topic, and it’s clear that they entered the story with pre-meditated opinions which get justified along the way. For once, I’d like to see a Carte Blanche piece where they go in thinking one thing, and learn something from their ‘investigations’ that actually changes their opinions – and perhaps some of ours – along the way. Please, actually teach us something.

PS: I’m so excited, I’m heading out to the ‘Noni tonight for Pro-20 cricket to get a glimpse of the Gilb, who is trekking the 150km out of the Poenda in honour of his beloved game. Of course, the poor bastard doesn’t yet realise that this act provides ammunition in any future argument where he refuses to come to the ‘Burg at my request for an equally important mid-week event of my choosing. But that’s for another time.

Birds of a feather

2007-03-12T08:49:00.000+02:00

Do you ever wonder how differently you would have turned out if your social circles were different than the ones you float among today?

This thought (certainly not the first time it has occurred to me), was the singular thought that traipsed my mind throughout the course of a dinner I attended as a partner for my close friend last week. ‘Partner’ as in back-up, conversation mate, effective tool for the avoidance of lengthy conversation with the other dinner attendees.

See, me and T are nerds/geeks/dorks who go way back to a time when nerds/geeks/dorks were still pretty uncool. Back in school, us and third partner in crime, G, while never being picked on, were never really included in any of the cool people’s activities. Not that it bothered us, it was just the unspoken rule: the jock set (don’t get me wrong, a lot of them were really intelligent people too, but they also had the good athlete and prom queen attributes that are necessary criteria for membership) didn’t mix with the nerd set.

I think those were the formative years (forgive me, I’ve always wanted to use that pretentious snotty phrase, now I found a context for it) during which we became the cynical, rude, elitist bastards that we are today. We didn’t shake those traits when we upped our social profiles at varsity, where you start with a clean slate and no-one can fairly judge you until you seal your fate through action. Then, somehow nerd-dom/geekdom/dorkdom became a vastly lesser offense, and our little trio expanded significantly to include some of the jock set (and yes, of course, other people labelled as we were in high school). One thing we all had in common – some to a lesser extent than others – is that we all recognized the cynical, rude bastards in each other, and began to feed off each other’s black comedic side.

The reason I tell this tale is threefold: one, I damn enjoy our style. I like that we’re ironic, callous, horrible and annoyingly intelligent (again, some more than others. I have friends of unbelievable genius who, rather than finding intimidating because of my lesser intelligence, I thrive in being around. They have challenged me to think about things I might not have thought about, in ways I’d never even consider thinking about). Two, I’ve realised I’ve grown to enjoy the company of people of other inclinations (although admittedly far fewer in number) who have challenged me to step out of my ironic/callous/horrible habits from time to time – they help you to stay just optimistic/sensitive/friendly/sincere enough to thrive and to smile at nice things from time to time. And thirdly, there are people that are worlds apart from me and anything I could ever be.

Oh yes – that was the thought that struck me the other night – these people were what my doctor friends used to refer to as the “pillars of society” – the ones that always did their homework assignments, studied longer than necessary for exams, and were somehow possessed of personalities that failed to evoke any lasting impression in our minds. (No doubt, they felt similarly indifferent about us).

That’s what makes this blog thing so fascinating – I have no idea what type of people you really are, and yet we manage to engage – albeit very superficially – on a broad number of topics. We’re less judgemental ‘up here’ for some reason. I guess that’s why blogger meets work for some people and not for others – some people like the anonymity that goes with their thoughts.

Putting your nuts in a safe place

2007-03-08T10:10:00.000+02:00

I wrote a post for today, but ugh. I looked over it this morning and realised it’s a self-indulgent woe-is-me rant.

I guess I realise now that I’m suffering from a mild bout of depression, which has probably been the case for around four months.

Suffice to say I feel… displaced. And perhaps misplaced, and even replaced. I just wish this awful feeling would go away.

One thing that did make me smile this week was this logo. At first I looked at it and thought, what the hell qualities does a rodent have that embodies any of the qualities a society for financial services would want to advertise to the world? Then I looked a little closer and realised it was a squirrel, and suddenly the logo was a lot cleverer. Cute little things, those.

SA’s gone as wedding crazy as Hollywood has gone baby crazy

2007-03-05T09:11:00.000+02:00

I had two weddings last weekend, so had to do the mad dash from Gilb’s colleague’s one in Pretoria to my friend’s one at larny Glenshiel in Westcliff (guess where I wanted to spend more time, and not only because she’s my friend…)

This weekend started with a colleague’s bachelorette, in a few weeks time I have another colleague’s engagement party.

Anyway.

The bachelorette party was awesome – no cheesy woman selling sex toys you buy and end up using only once (like the last one I went to – the f&%*ing things take 4 watch batteries that get depleted with one weekend’s use) – just good old fashioned drinking, dancing, truth or dare, pass the parcel (I won those little plastic boobies you wind up and they hop around so naturally when I got home I showed Peas that we could make a jumping titty fuck with her little plastic hopping penis) etc. She’s an Irish lass, only been in the country for 18 months, so wasn’t expecting anyone to organize anything, so the hospitality of her SA friends really overwhelmed her.

One of the things they did for her (which I’ve subsequently learned is quite standard for these parties) is a video interview of her fiancé where they asked him questions about his feelings for her, and before playing it for us, tested her by seeing how well she knew what his answers would be. So, I decided to put the Gilb to the test, too:

Q: What’s your favourite body part of mine?
A: Your bum. [I thought he’d say stomach or upper arms, but, you know. A nice ass is fine by me. Incidentally, his bum – toight but still squishable – and his hands are my favourite parts of his body. Oh, and that ridiculously cute dimple on his left cheek. He gets away with murder because of that.]

Q: What’s your favourite dish I cook for you?
A: Burritos and that tomato-green pepper-tuna sauce pasta. “That’s it? Nothing more… unique, less replicable? My successor could whip those up in a heartbeat!” [my favourite dish he cooks for me, and this is an easy selection because I’m far less spoilt for choice, is toasted chicken-mayo-chili-cheese sandwiches. But he has a very particular, careful, time-consuming – pedantic even – way of making them that is adorable to observe. So long as you’re not starving, you’re going to wait far longer than is ever really necessary for a toasted sandwich.]

Q: What is your favourite thing about me?
A: You’re so cute! (And in response to my eyebrows raising threateningly)…And so, so hot! And you dance really well. We couldn’t have stayed together this long if you didn’t dance like you do. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have that pleasure. [yes, I know I dance really well. Dancing and spelling are the two things I beat most people on, but they get the upper hand on most other things. When Gilb and I first met (in a gay dance club, cringe!), he came up to me and told me I dance really well. I told him I know. It was a sure thing from then on. But, I digress. My favourite things about him are his kindness and gentleness, and how good he is with his hands – he’s a really handy guy who knows how to fix anything. That’s a huge turn-on.]

At that point, we gave up on the game and went and had sex. Unfortunately, both his housemates were home (in rooms on either side of his), so I wasn’t brave enough to try out the “Yeaaa-haaahh! Yeaaaa-haaaaah! Fuck me like it’s a dildo!” line, but there’s always next weekend.

Love noises

2007-02-28T09:02:00.001+02:00

Firstly, I apologise, I will have been talking dirty sex-talk on this blog for two consecutive posts, and it might begin to get a bit boring. Secondly, Peas and I had two sex-related conversations last night, so we divvied them up for our readers. And I think we’ve exhausted the topics, for the rest of the week, at least…

Ant: So I heard you last night.
Peas: [looking worried] What do you mean?
Ant: You know exactly what I mean… “Yessss!” “Ooooh!” “Don’t fucking stop!”
Peas: [aghast] Oh. Fuck. You’re kidding me!
Ant: No. We can ask the neighbours, too. Are you denying you screamed out “Don’t fucking stop!” last night?
Peas: No. I’m mortified. Did you hear Smoking Legs?
Ant: Nope, nada. It was pretty much just you, you know… grunting as usual.
Peas: *gasps* [indignant] I do not grunt! I… I… fucking moan appreciatively.
Ant: You’re right. Like a cow giving birth to a hedgehog.
Peas: I resent that. I am a sexy lovemaker.
Ant: *vomit reflex* I’m sorry, what? WHAT?
Peas: Shit. I meant “shag” in a sexy way.
Ant: No, I don’t think so. I could hear you weren’t “shagging”.
Peas: Yes we were.
Ant No you weren’t.
Peas: Yes we were.
Ant: No you weren’t.

[repeats ad infinitum]

Peas: Let’s talk about the noises you make, missy.
Ant: What? I don’t make any noises! I’m considerate, skank-ho.
Peas: Firstly, it’s “skank-whore”. Secondly, I’ve heard you, like 8 times.
Ant: What. Ever. Fine, what do I sound like, then?
Peas: aaaaaahhhhh yes! Yes! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh… [fading to the end]
Peas: Basically, you sound like a lemming on acid hurling itself off the face of a cliff, with that fading noise you’d hear if you were listening from the top of the cliff.
Ant: So I sound like a punctured tyre? A wounded bat?
Peas: No – louder. Much louder. And about half as sexy as me. Because I don’t grunt.
Ant: For the record, I’m denying your claims. I moan seductively, I gasp becomingly.
Peas: My ass.
Ant: Well, let’s record ourselves then, and play it back to each other.
Peas: That’s sick. But great. I’ll prove I’m not a labouring bovine, you’ll confirm you’re a suicidal rodent.
Ant: Fine. You want to hear the worst sexual noise? If I heard a woman doing this, I’d climb right off and walk out, starkers.
Peas: Worse than us? Bring it on!
Ant: [puts on porno – the same porno with my shoes]

Porno chick: Yeaaahhhh! Yeaaa-HAAAAH! Fuck me with that dildo!
Porno chick 2: Ohhh yeah! That’s a naughty pussy you’ve got! Fuck that dildo!

Peas: thank God we don’t sound like that.
Ant: It would be good for an experiment, though. Like if we were shagging Gilb and Smoking Dick and suddenly spoke like that.
Peas: What, like “Ohhhh Yeaaaaa-HAAAAH! Fuck me like it’s a dildo!”
Ant: Exactly. They’d be instantly revolted and would belt for the door. We should probably do it at the same time.
Peas: …and we’d run after them wielding our dildos! Hilarious.
Ant: Cool, how’s this Friday suit you?
Peas: Game on!

Sticky stilettos

2007-02-26T08:51:00.000+02:00

I hope you’ll all appreciate the lengths of research effort I went to, to write this post*: it has taken up considerable hours of my time, both in doing the research and then thinking about it for a good deal afterwards.

See, a few weeks back a colleague told me he/she [let’s keep them extra-anonymous for safety] had seen my new shoes in a porn movie. I was consumed with glee, the same glee that once gave me a week-long high after spotting another pair of my shoes gracing local shleb Noni Gasa’s feet in Heat magazine – in the ‘This Week’s Best Dressed’ pages, not the ‘What Was She Thinking’ pages, I’ll have you know.

Naturally, I had to see the porno myself to verify that my shoes were in fact part of the accessories to the plot. Trouble was, my colleague couldn’t remember in which of the episodes of the porn series (www.vipcrew.com – great stuff) he/she had spotted my gorgeous heels. So I forced myself to wade through hours of arousing material to find them (particularly frustrating when you don’t have a living person there to relieve yourself with). You also tend to get a little side-tracked from your shoe-hunting mission when Andy’s doing Mandy from behind while Jessica is simultaneously nipple-fucking Kim (yes, I did learn something new) and plunging a dildo into Michelle’s cavernous vagina (“Yes Michelle, you like that don’t you, dirty bitch. Spread that ass for me.”)

I kept getting absorbed in the task of determining who had, and hadn’t, had anal bleaching (answer: about 4 out of 5 had, by my estimation), so a substantial amount of back-tracking was necessary, too.

I eventually found the shoes I suspect he/she thought I owned, but my heels are obviously not the type to clad the feet of those climaxing for a living. Pity, that. They’re rather fantastic if I do say so myself.

Anyhow, the pics are below – I’d ask you to guess which shoe’s mine and which one’s the skank-ho’s (is that the right application of the term, Peas?) – but the plate in the mirror reflection kind of gives it away, it was right in the middle of the standard pound-my-pussy-hard-against-the-cupboard-door-after-hors-d’oeuvres scene.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

*may make this blog worthy of a nomination in the ‘Best Researched Blog’ category… No? Ok, at least I tried

Pee on the toilet seat

2007-02-21T09:47:00.000+02:00

Every week day – and more than once a day at that – I make my way to the office bathroom with mixed feelings of trepidation and fatal attraction. “Will it be there?” I wonder. “Will that mystery someone [a female, by definition] once again leave tell-tale golden droplets of urine on the toilet seat?”

And, without fail, there they are – always two drops, one always sizeably larger than the other, both always just to the left off the centre of the toilet seat from where a normal punani would rise after stationing itself strategically for a non-drip pee.

I have no set routine for dealing with this – some days, I angrily rip off a strip of toilet paper and wipe the offending liquid away; some days I (in vain) try to hold up the toilet seat and perch on the actual toilet bowl (a scary solution – only the most diligent of cleaners ever routinely wipes this surface), but alas the seat does not naturally stay up and must therefore be held up, all the way through your timid urination from a sub-clean surface and cautious concentration on not falling into the watery hell that beckons your nether regions. And some days I use the male toilet next door instead.

Apart from not being able to identify the mystery offender, I cannot find a plausible explanation for why she would routinely miss the mark. Possible scenarios that have run through my head include:

1. She is in fact a he. Either some bastard male colleague (who must be perpetually drunk or lacks 3-d vision or likes to wiggle out the last 2 drops while perching his ass on the basin a half-metre away) continually uses the female loo to spite us; or, more interestingly, one of my “female” colleagues is a transvestite, in which case, for the love of well-groomed punani’s, please have the op, lady!

2. She likes to squeeze zits while taking a piss, the problem of the too-high mirror being resolved by her not reclining fully into seated position, but rather just perching over it, and her leaning closer to the mirror for better scrutiny of her facial blemishes. During which, of course, she loses her concentration and falls forward, spilling urine onto the seat.

3. She likes to get some thigh exercises in during her daily peeing sessions, so instead of sitting, she continuously raises and lowers herself onto the seat, doing an even 20 reps each pee time. She occasionally loses her balance, tripping forward and thus sharing the contents of her bladder with the rest of us.

4. She likes to drip-dry, but given that this takes a while and her phone always rings while she’s on the loo (and she can hear it ringing on her desk from inside the bathroom), she’s never quite done before she has to rush out the loo to answer it, leaving a trail that Hansel only wished he’d dreamt up for Gretel to follow.

5. She has some toilet-caught disease and she’s so angry at the unfairness of it all that she wishes to take revenge upon innocent, unsuspecting colleagues, and actually brings a vial of her urine to the office so that once she has flawlessly (and with perfect aim) executed her urination, she can bless the toilet seat with her less-than-holy water.

I’m considering abstaining entirely from the whole ordeal and waiting the anxious 8 – 10 hours until I get home each evening.

If I were…

2007-02-19T08:57:00.000+02:00

a tea…

I’d be a lapsang souchong. You’d be in a restaurant, think “oooh! That sounds exotic” so you’d order it, take one sip, spit it out and go “shit, that’s disgusting! I can’t believe I just spent 15 bucks on this!”

a book…

I’d be Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections – everyone loves a good read about dysfunctional American society. It’s beautifully written, too – I couldn’t ever be a kak book.

a piece of furniture…

Never a table (Peas would throw me out, see)! I’d be an antique crotchety grandfather clock – the type all visitors admire, but the owners secretly despise, because they keep having to wind it up, and it keeps going off every hour, on the hour, which would exasperate them when it woke them up at 4am with their bad hangovers.

a famous person…

Definitely Winston Churchill, but less because he was a brilliant statesman, and more because he was incredibly witty, and could spell and punctuate with the best of them.

(disturbed geniuses are also appealing – Mozart, Newton, Turner, D.H. Lawrence – any of these types would suffice, too)

a sex position…

I’d be something simple and practical bringing pleasure to all parties concerned, yet not so conventional as to be dismissed as “routine”. So probably sex up against a wall or doorframe. Horny, urgent, forcefully thrusting sex. Oh yes. Oh. Yes.

an element from the periodic table of elements…

Well, this one’s a toss up, because on the one hand, I could be an electron slut like fluorine, yet on the other, I could be praseodymium so everyone would be all “huh? Never heard of that one before, lemme go look it up”. Educating the masses, you see.

an element of the other type…

I’d be wind. It howls destructively, dancing a vicious tango with trees and rooftops; it provides soothing relief to hot, salty skin; it delights pleasure-seekers flying kites, kite-surfing, or parasailing; it plays a part dispersing life by carrying plants’ seeds to new ground. I’d just rather not be the wind emanating from anyone’s ass.

a colour…

What’s that terrible muddy-brown-shit colour that no-one likes? Well, I wouldn’t be that – I’d be a tranquil, calming shade of green. A sort of avocado-meets-mint-cross-breeding-with-snow kind of green.

a cartoon character…

I’d be Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls. She’s totally me, in animation form.

a natural landform…

I’d be something vast and breathtaking, set in a stark landscape. Probably a monolithic glacier at the ice-caps, or perhaps a dune – you get to travel around a bit.

a pizza…

I’d be pizza alla formica (this would be a bit of a misnomer as nothing would look ant-like on it, but hey, it needs a name, right?) with the following toppings: pesto, artichokes (freshly grilled, of course), rocket, chunky wedges of smoked salami and parmesan shavings. You could only order it with a thin base, and you’d never, ever be allowed to order pineapple as an extra topping. Pineapple does not belong on a pizza, infidels.

a South African wine…

Oh mama! What a difficult choice! Can I alternate from one month to the next? Like be a Meinert merlot one month, a Springfield Wholeberry Cabernet the next, an Avondale Shiraz thereafter? Please? Just never anything from Spier. Ever.

Love, noxious atmosphere and newsworthy gags (oh, and yet another brief mention of the car)

2007-02-14T09:44:00.001+02:00

Move right along to the next blog if you don’t want to read yet another V-Day post. Or hover for a few minutes if you’re the kind of twisted fuck who does.

Unfortunately, I can’t satisfy the bulk of you bearing angry cynicism towards the occasion, for I am one of the lucky – perhaps even gauche – few who are deeply in love with (and at the same time feel deeply loved by) someone out there.

But let me not wax holier-than-thou lyrical shlock to any of you, for there was certainly a time when I felt the same way – and who knows, a time may come again when V-Day sends diabolical shivers down my spine for weeks preceding the event.

Suffice to say that I’ll be taking Anthony on his first road trip, heading due east for 160km (the Gilb has commanded me to drive at under 150km/h because the car doesn’t yet have 2,000km on the clock) until we hit not so much greener pastures, as we do sulphur-infused-carbon-monoxide-riddled-methane-choked ones. I’ll be bringing a special bottle of vino along to pair with the Gilb’s home-cooked meal (we don’t do dinners out on V-Day, that’s my rule), as well as my most clichéd pair of ‘romance’ knickers (you know the kind: red, lacy, hearts all over them).

Anyhow, the point of this post is not V-Day (hmmm – just realised it rhymes with ‘bidet’ – that could come in handy for angry cynical poetry of the rhyming-couplet kind) at all, but an observation I made a few days ago, stuck in the midday heat on the M1 South (back in my unconditioned Max-driving days) during that crazy traffic jam caused by the truck that fell off the Grayston Drive bridge onto the highway below – remember that?

Well, it struck me that it’s really difficult to get into the newspapers for doing something good or amazing, and much easier to get coverage for infamy. All you’d have to do is something bad like buy/borrow/steal a gun and go on a shooting spree (even then, in sunny SA you’d be vying for Page 1 with a number of rivals pulling that stunt on any given day), or something really stupid like… drive a truck off a bridge onto the highway beneath it in peak home-bound traffic in the sweltering hours of a Friday afternoon.

Seriously, that’s it. That’s all I wanted to tell you today. Now go out and make babies, all of you! (ok, and, if I wanted to get into the papers really badly, I’d do naked cartwheels in the yellow lane of the N1 South in morning Pretoria commuter traffic – there’s no way I’d even think of hurting my gorgeous new Ant for a cheap 15 minutes in the limelight).

Wow!

2007-02-12T09:44:00.000+02:00

Driving my new wheels this weekend was an almighty blast. Every time I had to be somewhere, I always offered to drive, and more than once decided the (longer) scenic route was the best route to get there. I insisted that everyone I encountered (which also included 3 strangers in separate incidents) take a look at blingtastic Ant, and was immensely thrilled with the number and audibility of the “aaah!”s and “oooh!”s the inspections extracted. [I posted a pic last week but for some reason damn Blogger stuck the pic below my last post, not above]

Somewhat aptly, my Saturday morning was spent at the MPH’07 show (Jeremy Clarkson, The Hamster and The Stig all present), where a number of things are worthy of mention:

1. They did a driving stunt sequence homage to 007, where one would naturally think the cars used would be those featured in James Bond movies. Not so. It started with a spectacular hair-raising performance by 4 Alfa 147 drivers, which, despite including some impressive hair-breadth-close fast weaving driving of expensive Italian vehicles, mostly had me on the edge of my seat thinking “for the love of Italy, please don’t let any of those Alfa’s break down on the stage!”

2. During the same sequence, 4 Caterpillars were doing some surprisingly sensual synchronised dance (if you can’t imagine Caterpillars being described as sensual, well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Words cannot possibly describe how such a feat might be achieved.) I’ve decided I need one, they’re quite handy flexible things, those Cats.

3. A flying car ended off the 007 sequence. Seriously. It was a helium balloon shaped like the new Astra, but so unbelievably lifelike that you thought it was the real thing. It had 2 tiny propellers, one behind each of the front tyres, that magically (or more precisely, by the laws of physics) lifted the rotating car about 3 storeys into the air for a few airborne minutes.

4. Jeremy’s comment about the show being Beemer-free (which elicited a lot of clapping from the audience), had me laughing because he must have noticed what a Beemer-loving country we live in. But, he really is an obnoxious fellow: you get the feeling he deliberately says things that will get him berated (gay comments, kak SA wine comments, “leaving [his] sunblock and safari suit and instead bringing [his] machine guns on his trip to SA”)

5. My new favourite insult, coined by Jeremy. He was describing his most hated vehicle, the stretch Hummer, saying that they’re usually owned by failed druglords, and are frequently seen pulling up outside dodgy clubs, where their doors open and a group of “vomiting slappers” collapse out onto the pavement. I’m definitely throwing that insult around loosely.

6. After the show, we strolled around the exhibition and saw a stand selling model cars, and, surprise surprise, I found a little Mini Cooper that I just had to buy. So now I have two!

7. Lolly Jackson’s cars on display as profligately as his strippers. I have to marvel at the need to stick tacky Teazers stickers onto multimillion rand sports cars – he really doesn’t need the extra advertising any more than his employees need breast enlargements.

Inspired by the gleam and glisten of all the buffed-up cars, I bought Diamond Guard and that black-enhancing tyre spray, which Gilb and I spent almost two hours applying to my lovely Ant. Thunder showers, if you’d be so kind as to restrict your working hours to mine, I’d really love to keep Ant in his pristine (and did I mention shiny, so very very shiny) condition for a few more days, please (I desperately want to post a picture of him in this beautiful state, but Third Roommate has borrowed my camera for a week-long holiday, and there’s no damn way I’m spending 2 hours next weekend repeating the effort).

Happy driving this week, muchachas!

Bye-bye, baby

2007-02-09T09:29:00.000+02:00

Dear Max, I know I’ve mourned over the thought of losing you before but I have to grieve again, this time because it’s real.

Even though you suspected it (you’re a sharp Corsa, I know) – I could hear you hissing and spluttering every time we entered a Mini dealership parking lot – you still put on a brave face, and were faithful to the very last minute.

You have even mysteriously been consuming petrol at a far lesser rate lately – was it to convince me you were the most efficient car on the planet, or were you so devastated at my betrayal that you lost your appetite, dear love?

No matter what happens, I want you to remember that you are the longest relationship I’ve ever had, and for the most part, the memories have been fond, even though they might have left some scars on you (and again, I’m truly truly sorry):

Do you remember adventurously mounting curbs to park on, on Friday nights back when the gay Heartland clubs were pumping? Your exhaust once took that serious beating and you ended up going to a very expensive doctor to replace it.

What about the time you went straight over the island on Jan Smuts avenue in midday traffic, very narrowly missing that swanky Merc?

Or the crater left in your passenger door when I let that nasty boy drive you home from Melville?

Or the time that dickhead tow truck driver aquaplaned from the M1 offramp into your bumper?

And, the time you dutifully stopped at a red light, when some twit in a 4x4 slammed into the back of you, and you caused more damage to his bull bars than he did to your bum? (My brave hero, you!)

All these times, you kept me safe – no bone was bruised, no skin cell so much as scraped during any of these sometimes hair-raising moments – and you kept on loyally going, continuing the journey until I arrived home unharmed.

We have traveled 138,000 very happy kilometres together, and seen some lovely places: meandering through scenic routes in Mpumalanga and KwaZulu-Natal, enjoying the views and sunsets in Cape Town, and parking outside the Oppenheimer mansion’s entrance until the guard chased us away.

And we enjoyed singing together, didn’t we? You hummed and purred as I howled along to songs like No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak”, Groove Armada’s “Superstylin’ ”, Beethoven’s Ninth, and your all-time favourite, Third Eye Blind’s “Semi-Charmed Life”.

You also liked talking (well let’s be honest – it was more like yelling) to other cars, honking your glorious horn at them for their stupid driving mistakes, especially the taxi’s and Beemers of the road.

Whoever your new partner will be, I’m sure he/she will treat you well, in all likelihood better than I did. You’re getting older now, the energetic behaviour of your youth is no longer a great idea, Max. Your wild streak must be tamed a little, at least in the beginning so you don’t frighten your poor new travelling partner.

And always remember, reverse is our favourite gear.

xXx

To thousands of smooth, traffic-free, puncture-free, scenic drives ahead, my dearest Maxibon.

Got a new friend to show you...

2007-02-09T02:19:00.000+02:00

Say good-bye to my old sweetheart, dear Max, and hellow to my new flame, Ant (as in Anthony - a name Peas ingeniously thought of):

Purchase admin

2007-02-07T09:02:00.000+02:00

It’s T – 3 (yep, should get the vehicle by Saturday, Monday at the latest), and I’ve had to look back over the past three weeks and marvel at the obscene amounts of admin involved in two large movements of my cash incurred during this time.

List of things to do to open a unit trust investment account:

1. Download application form from internet
2. Decipher form, call customer help line for assistance
3. Gather all documents to meet FICA requirements:
- copy ID book (easy)
- copy latest bank statement (easy)
- write letter explaining that I am in fact a co-lessee with Peas, to whom all bills are addressed, and who signed the lease in the first place. Peas signs (easy)
- get copy of such a bill addressed to Peas (easy, she’s quite organised in that regard)
- get copy of SARS letter with my income tax number on it – ask Dad to ask his incompetent financial adviser to find my documents and send to me (not so easy)
- over three days, make internet banking deposits into asset manager’s bank account, because of frustratingly low internet banking payment daily limits (easy, but
painstakingly slow)
- submit all documentation to asset manager, including proofs of deposits
(easy, huge sigh of relief)
- get a call from asset manager saying Peas must sign an affidavit to swear I do, in fact, live with her (f*%&!!!)
- go to bank, get declaration form for co-lessees, get Peas to sign (easy, but again, painstakingly slow: avoid going to the bank if at all possible!)
- take signed declaration form and recent bill (in Peas’ name) to bank (“No, we won’t act as commissioner of oaths for that kind of document.” “But you gave it to me in the first place. I’ve been waiting half an hour to be served.” “Sorry, go to the police station.”
- take signed declaration form and recent bill to police station for commissioner of oaths stamp. “But Peas must be here to sign. How do I know she’s not dead?” “I’m really sorry, I didn’t know. But look, this bill from last week is in her
name – she must be alive, unless you suspect she died in this past week, in which case I’d be even more distraught than I am now.” “You’re asking me to trust you –
I shouldn’t be doing this, you know.” “I’m really grateful – thank you.”
4. Resubmit forms to asset manager. (easy, but with lots of suspense)
5. Receive call from asset manager saying that all is in order (finally!)

Total time taken: 2 weeks

List of things to do to buy a car:

1. Test drive, test drive, test drive! (not always so easy, but damn fun)
2. Ask dealer(s) to put together a sales proposal (too easy – they’d try to sell it to a 5-
year old)
3. Have current car valued for trade-in (easy – they do it while you’re test driving, except
you cringe in embarrassment that you didn’t have the car cleaned beforehand and
dozens of empty water bottles, pamphlets etc are sitting in the back seat)
4. Day-dream about your new wheels
5. Complete application form for finance (decipher, call finance person for assistance)
6. Thank the dear Lord you’ve just received a raise and your salary looks more
impressive and hence more likely to be approved for finance (ironic, that)
7. Organise new insurance (a f#$%ing pain, I despise this kind of admin)
8. Cry over loss of old reliable car (difficult to detach)
9. Show off new wheels!

Total time taken: 1.2 weeks

Do you see why it’s so much easier to buy expensive toys than it is to save/invest your money? This FICA shit is a clever way to discourage you from saving and encourage careless spending of money! (and you just know the criminals have found a far more painless way to get around the rules than it is for the honest folk to comply with them – that really irritates me).

Why is it that being shown to be FICA compliant once is not enough? Every new account requires the same bloody proof! (“Why not just check with my bank if I comply?” “Uh, no. We need you to submit the forms to us.”)

After the admin ordeals above, I’m so not ever buying a house…

Car-related debates

2007-02-05T09:38:00.000+02:00

Let’s stick with this theme, shall we? If all goes according to plan, I’ll have a new car by the end of the week.

In the meantime, two car-related topics have come up in my conversations recently.

Cooling down, slowly

My friend Nan and her boyfriend have been arguing about the effect of aircon on your car’s power. He says (driving a 1.4 litre Golf) there is no discernable effect, as he can see no loss of revs – not even when trying to accelerate uphill with the aircon blasting.

The Gilb (and Nan and the rest of humanity, no doubt) believe otherwise. The Gilb says he loses 200-300 rpm if he turns the aircon on, which is especially noticeable when driving up a hill – on a flat stretch of road, no difference is really felt. I will have to experiment in my new car, as my dear Max does not have aircon.

Vaguely related: A while back, I came across an article discussing fuel efficiency and cooling down your car, regarding whether it is more fuel efficient to use aircon, or drive with your window open (creating drag). It claimed that at speeds above 70km/h, you should use aircon as it becomes more fuel efficient.

More bang for your buck

Over my driving life, I’ve made use of petrol from all petrol stations, and have observed a curious thing: some petrols (BP, Shell) get you further than others (Engen, Caltex, Sasol). At first I thought I was imagining things, so I started keeping a record of the mileage I got out of tanks filled with different petrol brands (in fact, damn! Another graph I could have displayed for my last post!), and the results consistently showed that BP and Shell (although in the latter’s case I have substantially fewer data points – their petrol stations are few and far between) get me almost 100km extra out of a tank. The fact that both these petrol brands do the trick almost confirms the observation for me, as BP and Shell share the same refinery (Natref, for those who care) which means the fuels refined there would share identical compositions (except for certain additives which are added later). Now, I know how variations in petrol can affect performance, but I have yet to do research to understand how they can affect fuel economy.

I forgot about this observation (other than subconsciously always choosing BP/Shell stations to refuel at) until the other day, when the Gilb mentioned that both he and a colleague had noticed different fuel mileages out of different petrol brands – although they said they’d noticed it with Shell only, not BP. They also claimed to notice better performance from Sasol petrol, and swear that this is not blind allegiance to their employer, but fact. (I wonder if the two factors, fuel economy and performance, are inversely related?)

I sheepishly have to admit I’ve not ever noticed a performance difference, nor did it occur to me that there even might be a discernable difference in the performance of fuels, despite the fact that I’ve seen advertising where brands have tried to differentiate themselves on the performance of their fuels. Interestingly, I’ve not seen any ads that I can remember that claim to get better mileage. In a world of ever-rising fuel prices, I find that a mighty strange thing.

Graph it!

2007-02-01T09:14:00.000+02:00

I have had a long love affair with the Cartesian plane, dating back to school days when they were first scribbled on the board by enthusiastic Maths teachers. I just love the visual depiction of how y varies as x changes – so… tangible.

Anyhow, I decided these useful things could be applied to many things outside the Maths classroom, and the first “useful” task I assigned them to was tracking my improvement in practising scales for the piano. Every week, the metronome speed would go up, with a corresponding decrease in total time taken to practise 40-odd scales twice through. My piano teacher was totally fascinated with the graphs, so much so that she overlooked the fact that I wasn’t practising them sufficiently at each speed to make me proficient at them – it was all about the steep downward slope, you understand.

Well, more recently, I decided I’d track my blog’s audience to see how many people had come across it before (the average daily readership of the blog is not doing anything exciting, the graph would be approximately a straight horizontal line over time), by monitoring how many times my blog profile has been read over time.

The results are thus:

While the graph looks pretty impressive, I have to give credit to Peas for my increasing publicity; after her winning 2 blog awards and sky-rocketing to blog fame, the fact that I am advertised as her “Itye flatmate” resulted in more hits for me, and in fact would have brought all of you current readers here in the first place (thanks Peas).

Even more recently than that, I decided this month to monitor my monthly expenditure, which gave me quite a shock, not ever having been the kind of person to budget herself. Well, R11,000 later, I realised I spend a lot more than the R8,000 I guessed I spent monthly on average. Thankfully I didn’t try this experiment out in December, I know I would have had a heart attack. Importantly, I tried not to allow my expenditure tracking to influence my spending, I just wanted to see how much I spent – whether I decide I need to cut expenses in some department is a decision to take after a few months’ tracking – after all, there could be some exceptions that pop up from month to month.

The breakdown of the expenditure items was:

Two out of the top three expense categories (rent, clothes, entertainment) are things that I guess could be curbed if I ever felt the need to decrease my expenditure, but in reality I find both rather essential… at least the dentist isn’t something that happens every month! The other thing that surprised me was the fact that petrol came in at only 6% of expenses. We whinge about the price going up all the time, but I guess to the average person living well above the breadline (and travelling regular city distances), price increases hardly make a dent on your direct expenditure.

If a car is in fact in my near future, it will become the largest single monthly expense, substantially more than rent. Food for thought.

The main challenge now is to decide what to track next – any ideas?

Car parade

2007-01-30T08:40:00.000+02:00

Yes, I know you’re all wanting to know about the weekend’s test-driving. And there are a few surprises to reveal.

Firstly, let me tell you that I’ve come to the conclusion everyone has an “expert” opinion on which car you should buy, all with valid reasons as to why their car choice is the best, but very seldom do people’s choice of best car coincide. Thus, I’ve realised, it’s a choice best made by me, for me.

With that in mind, do not criticise me for my spur-of-the-moment two-lane crossing manouevre along Beyers Naude (as did the irate drivers around me, with good reason) to pull into a Mercedes Benz showroom. (Inyoka, alas don’t get too excited, it wasn’t really the Smart I was there for). What impulsively drew my attention was the *deep breath* new A Class. I know, I know, it’s distinctively a mum’s car, but they do have the sport kit for a not-yet-a-mum-heck-not-even-married feel. What put me off was the sheer arrogance of the dealership: it’s stupid that they won’t let you drive a car right then and there, knowing you’re going to walk straight out of their shop and into a competitor’s showroom, where you might immediately drive another car and fall in love with it, and prefer their friendlier customer service, and decide “Hell, who needs a Merc anyway?” I’m still waiting for the finance guy to call me.

So, despite the sheer joy I would get from driving a car no-one on this planet would expect me to drive this car falls to the bottom of my list. (Is that a sigh of relief I hear?) Surprisingly, the Gilb is actually quite in favour of this car, citing reliability, good vehicle (if not customer) service and a nice price for what it offers as reasons to buy this ‘mobile.

Next up, we went to a Mini dealership, where I got to test drive a Chili Cooper (ladies: it was cream with a black roof; gentlemen: 17-inch rims), where I had a great time terrifying the 18-year-old child that had to ‘supervise’ me on my drive, by chatting (which for me, a certified wop, means with both hands off the steering wheel, gesticulating wildly), all the while looking sideways at the Gilb, and driving at 100 km/h down a windy suburban street. I also forced him to allow me to reverse-park (reverse is actually my favourite gear, I’ve always wanted a car that had a second reverse gear) back at the showroom. The verdict: quite a nippy little thing, but while I was set on the cream version, I’ve decided I like the Astro Black better (black but with little sparkly blue bits, giving it a midnight blue appearance), though not certain whether this should be black bottom and top, or black bottom with white top and side mirrors, and in the latter case, (dare I even think it) perhaps the white stripes down the front. I nearly fainted at the difference in the price between the Cooper and the Cooper S, so regrettably, will not be looking at that option, but the vehicle would have 17-inch rims and a sun-roof, that’s got to count for something, right? The first dealer I went to told me my instalments would be R2,132 per month – I was over the moon, expecting somewhat more – but on closer inspection the sneaky saleswoman had put in a residual value of R97,000. So I spurned her, and went to a better dealership where they gave me the full gory instalment. Fright!

Then. At the Gilb’s insistence, I tried out another car. I won’t tell you yet what this was, suffice to say it’s a slightly more upmarket (I think) competitor to the Ford Focus. It purrs like a deranged tiger, and would outrace the Mini and Merc any day. It has 6-speed transmission (the weirdo salesman asked if I’d like to try the automatic or the manual. Duh), quite a formidable exterior, although admittedly the interior is not quite as stylish as (yet infinitely more spacious than) the Mini. The excitement of buying this car is that, once again, no-one would expect me to be thinking of buying this car, but for quite the opposite reasons suggested by the Merc. Also, I’d definitely get this one in black, and would even break my no-customised-plates rule because its number plates would simply have to be: SWRT GVR. That ironic (yet simultaneously thoroughly appropriate) gimmick is almost too much to resist, and could sway the decision in this car’s favour.

Of course, no mention of my beloved Alfa. Folks, I can’t resist – much to everyone’s mystified horror, I cannot buy a car without giving my first love a test-drive first. This is the Scarlett Johansson of motor vehicles, and who wouldn’t want to ride her? (Scarlett, if you or your agent or publicity monitors are reading this, I’m sorry to objectify you like that. I worship you for so much more than your lesbian fantasy appeal. Mmmmm…)

So. No more mention of cars until the decision is made. It has to happen in the next few weeks, or not at all this year.

The experiment

2007-01-26T09:57:00.000+02:00

Excuse my potty mouth, but:

Clit-licking butt-fucking hot wet pussy penis-pounding orgy
Teen Asian anal fuckfest
Luscious lesbian lickers

There, thought ought to be enough. I just want to see whether this has any effect on my hit counter totals today.

For those of you who are horrified at my language, I apologise, especially if your boss walked past your computer screen as my site uploaded.

For those of you who came here hoping to indulge in any of the above sex romps, I apologise too. I suggest you rather go here for some action.

And a happy, kinky weekend to y’all, folks!

Cars!

2007-01-24T10:57:00.000+02:00

I feel a little bewildered at the pressure I’ve been subjected to at work, to buy a new car. Ever since my promotion (in fact, even before then), I’ve been told that my darling Max is not good enough.

“It’s not fit for someone of your status to be seen driving a Corsa, Ant”, they say. It has got to the point where I think they don’t care as much about the quality of my work as they do about the car I drive.

Sheesh.

Well, partly bowing to the pressure, and partly acknowledging that Max really is on his last legs, I’m going to start looking at a new car (but my current inclination is to go for the long-term leasing option rather than outright purchase).

If I were to spite my employer, I’d go out and buy a brand-spanking new Uno, to see the reaction. Instead, I’m going to view this as an opportunity to drive a posh car for a while. My leanings are:

Alfa 147 – truly, not a car I’d ever buy. As beautiful as this machine is, and as proud an Italian-South African as I am, I cannot deny the mechanical faults of this sexy machine. The real Alfa I’d want is the hot hot hot Brera, but I’m guessing even on rental the price is prohibitively expensive. Colour: undecided. Although terribly common, that cherry/fire-engine red is a winner, but then, being partial as I am toward green, that metallic light green looks damn fine too.

Ford Focus ST – yes, a man’s car, so what is a girl doing wanting to drive this? I can’t explain the attraction, but there’s definitely a connection between this machine and me. And while I’ll up the ante in my racy driving, I’ll never proclaim to live up to the driving antics of the men who own one. If I decided to go the buying route, this would definitely be a winner – think of all the guys who’d want to buy a second-hand one from a female driver rather than a male driver (a stereotype, but it’s true). Colour: metallic blue or the release colour, that metallic rusty orange.

Mini Cooper / 1 series BMW – okay, this might come as a shock to some, given that I always rip off beemer drivers. I’m a lot more forgiving of 1 series drivers though, because… probably because I actually like the look of this vehicle, and my friend N who drives one seems to have a great time in hers. That’s something I’ll have to run by her though – can I have the same flashy car that my good friend drives? As for the Cooper, this is a cautious choice, because I’m not sure it really suits my personality. Bold, yes, hippy retro wannabe, no. Plus, it’ll look naff parked in the basement next to Peas’ retro revival machine, Ludwig the Beetle. Mini colour: cream with dark leather interior. Beemer: no idea yet.

It’s terminal. It has nothing to do with (black) petrol attendants or power cuts.

2007-01-19T08:04:00.000+02:00

First-up, my disease: I have a serious, serious case of Google-itis. My friend went for the interview in Zurich (they call themselves ‘Zooglers’), and should know of his success any day soon. The office is a delightfully understated, traditional old-style European architecture building, with a tastefully subtle post at the entrance with an eye-level 30cm sign saying ‘Google’.

I bagged this pen from my friend, whom I ordered to pilfer as many branded items of stationery he could lay his hands on:

Our IT guys came round yesterday and were positively drooling over the writing instrument. My precious…

Then, an incident last night, to follow so many similar incidents before it. Petrol attendants have the serious hots for me. Seriously. I’ve been proposed to, asked on dates, asked to dump my ‘boring white boyfriend’, invited to parties, been given free shit (including a bunch of red roses on Valentine’s Day, rather than the customary single red rose). But last night, I experienced the most touching gesture yet. An attendant sucked rusty water out of my water tank through a dirty plastic tube for me. I was mortified.

It began with the simple request to check my oil and water (and at his insistence, my battery cells’ water level too). When he got to the water tank, he gasped when he saw how rusty orange the water was. “Madam, this is going to damage your radiator. If the water gets there, it’ll break and need seriously expensive repairs. Please let me rinse out the tank and replace it with clean water.” “Um, ok”, I said gratefully. I expected him to bring out some mechanized contraption to remove the offending water from my tank, but all he produced was a muddy two metre-long piece of tube. “No! I’ll find someone who has the proper equipment to replace the water – don’t put into your mouth!” I pleaded.

There was no stopping him, however, as he appeared genuinely concerned that my car would break down and rack up untold fortunes in repair expenses. He flushed the tank out with clean water twice over, then stuck a bottle brush into the tank to dislodge further rusty grime, then re-rinsed it again and filled it. His colleagues and the other customers watched the entire episode in amazement/disbelief/amusement. I’m a total sucker (no pun intended) for great service, so he earned himself a R20 tip. I’ll be back there again.

xxx

On an entirely different note, my frustrations at the sporadic power cuts were briefly abated yesterday when an Zimbabwean colleague told me: “It’s absolutely great that when the power goes out the whole economy shuts down in this place – that’s how you know the country’s going somewhere. In Zimbabwe, it wouldn’t have made a difference, everyone could’ve kept on working!” Viva our intermittently-electrified South Africa!

Getaway

2007-01-17T07:57:00.000+02:00

So, our company had its biannual getaway from Thursday to Sunday, which was… odd, to say the least.

For starters, the “conference facilities” of the venue consisted of a dining room from which they barred all other resort guests from entering while our desk-bound discussions were taking place (this also meant we were kicked out whenever the table had to be laid for dinner). There were no telephone lines (no 3G or cell phone reception), teleconference facilities or speedy printers in sight either.

The place was electric. On the day we arrived, a raging fire (a foreboding sign, in retrospect) was licking at the fence of the property. “All in control by the farmer next door” the managers promised. This fire raged for 2 days, and it got to the point where ash was falling out of the sky and into our hair, until a terrific bout of rain doused it. Unfortunately, this terrific bout of rain was accompanied by fearsome lightning, which struck the electricity lines and hence wiped out our only tenuous connection to the modern world. “Our farm is the highest in Mpumalanga” management cheerfully boasted. Mmm-hmmm. The next day, the generator was struck, so our laptops were left with 2-hour lifespans. (at this point I can inform you that I did not participate in any team-building events other than the first volleyball match, due to a deadline for a project on Monday. Getaway, or perhaps come along?). Somewhat mystifyingly, despite the torrential downpours, two of the surrounding hills were struck by lightning and their sparse vegetation managed to catch alight (quite a sight to behold, if you haven’t seen it happen before).

The managers (a husband-wife team) were of the temperament least suited to the hospitality industry. On arriving, they screeched at us for being an hour late, because this would set their “schedule” behind by an hour (heaven knows how difficult it is to delay a volleyball game by an hour) and smacked of our “poor team spirit”. By my and a colleague’s poor attendance of the teambuilding events, a culture of “non-commitment” was evident (hello? It’s Saturday evening and I’m working feverishly on a presentation. Not committed?)

The food was abysmally scarce. We’re talking nouvelle cuisine portions of standard, non-nouvelle cuisine foods. And they had an unnatural fondness for chicken and chips – rather disappointing considering we were in the land of trout fishing.

The barman was Congolese, with a barely working command of the English language, and even less command of bar tendering skills. “No, please don’t use the shot glass you just used for Sambuca to pour my Jamesons.” “I said a double. On the rocks. In a short glass.” “Can I please come around the bar and pour my own drink? No? Well then will you pour the drink I actually asked for, please?”

Creepiness is. The project I was so feverishly working on goes by the code name of an obscure spice. At lunch one day, some little kid comes up to me and demands to know my name. Upon enquiring what hers was, she tells me her name is the very same obscure spice’s name. “Haha. Very funny. Who told you to tell me that?” I demanded. Her pops overheard me and insisted it was her name. Frea-ky, twilight zone material.

I managed to escape the madness earlier than planned on Sunday morning, thanks to a colleague who wanted to leave before the butt-crack of dawn. As a consequence, I am still recovering from sleep-deprivation. Zzzz.

Little brainfarts

2007-01-09T10:01:00.000+02:00

Lacking anything ponderous or wildly entertaining to relate to you today, I’ve opted out for pointless factoids.

1. Do you know that some people out there hate Google? Not the folks like me, who use it simply for free searches, free email, free images of the Earth from space, free blogsites, free videos of stupid people doing stupid things, free auction site (ok, not really – that product was a downright flop). No, the IT-clever ones (probably numerous of you bloggers out there, the ones with customized, self-developed blogs that look infinitely better than my crappy site) that use Google to do countless other complicated things, and perhaps even send them recommendations for improvement. So I decided to do some crude research on the topic, using… surprise, surprise, Google as a search tool. The search for ‘ “I love Google” ’ scored “about” 139,000 readings, while ‘ “I hate Google” ’ bagged “about” 47,000 results (which equates to 1 in 4 people who publicized their feelings for the company on the Internet, claiming to hate it. Aside: I wonder if the tendency to write about Google on the Internet is skewed towards people who love Google, or hate it?)

2. A close friend, who doesn’t want me to jinx his chances, is flying to Europe this week for an interview with this same love-hate company. So, dear Google, while trawling the Internet and making a record of this blog entry, please note: I, in all my IT-phobic ignorance, adore you. Please give my wonderful, intelligent friend a job, and while you’re at it, please also give him some shares. My dear friend, in turn, please donate 1 of these golden eggs to me (but hurry, before their stock crashes). And dear Google, if you want to give me a job, I accept unconditionally (do you have an office in South America? If not, I’ll start one for you!)

3. The French term haute couture, meaning ‘high fashion’, like certain other words of theirs (heaven knows I enjoy a good South African champagne as much as the next person), is banned from general use, and may only be used by those fashion boutiques who have: a) boutique presence in Paris; b) employ at least 15 designers/clothesmakers; c) put out runway collections during every spring/summer and autumn/winter show, in which at least 35 different outfits are modelled. Pah. I’d rather take my fashion prêt-a-porter, personally.

4. Advisor vs adviser? Being someone who prides herself on her flawless spelling (of the Queen’s/O.E.D variety, I might add), I was utterly devastated to learn that advisor is actually an American form of the word, while adviser is the British form. All these years of ignorance! Relating the search for the ‘true’ spelling back to the Google love-hate relationship, I must point out one ‘quirk’ (not so much a flaw as a circumstantial eventuality): advisor had a vastly higher number of Google hits than adviser did, which points only to the fact that Google Search’s material, being websites, is heavily American-biased, and hence the ‘incorrect’ spelling proves to be far more documented than the O.E.D-accepted one.

5. Noise protection ear plugs do not serve well as aquatic ear plugs. During my first visit to the gym for the year, I braved the swimming pool with a pair kindly (yet unknowingly) sponsored by Sasol (the Gilb gets them free and has to wear them while in the plant). We were shopping at TotalSports on Saturday, and when I picked up a pair of legitimate swimming ear plugs, he told me not to waste the money: “Don’t be stupid, Liefie, mine will work just as well!” As if! The damn things kept floating out from my ears (like little lumo-orange turds in my pool lane). My cursed left ear was resultantly blocked for half the bloody day – completely disorienting.

Whew! I’m done with your education, peeps. Over and out.

The vagina is cold and dry

2007-01-04T08:51:00.000+02:00

I’m probably going to get this story a little wrong, so Timmy (the doctor who developed this diagnosis), feel free to correct me.

As one of the intern doctors at the Barberton hospital last year, Timmy came to notice that whenever a female patient was admitted and a nurse had seen her first, no matter what her complaint was (headache, stomach cramps, coughing up blood etc) they would always write on her hospital form thingy (I can’t think of the technical name right now) “the vagina is warm and moist”.

Timmy found this extremely bizarre, and complained to everyone (except the offending nurses, of course) that this was an idiotic thing to report. “Only tell me if the vagina is cold and dry, then she has a problem!!!”

Of course, the joke did not stop there. Timmy decided that if a patient’s vagina was cold and dry and he was trying to revive her by “going at it hammer and tongs” (you have to do it by going at it hammer and tongs, he tells me) but the vagina remained cold and dry, then she was either dead or a lesbian. In fact, they now callously use the phrase “the vagina is cold and dry” to say a patient (male/female) is dead. As in “how was your call last night, Timmy?” “Oh, I had two cold and dry vaginas”.

Oh, our kind-hearted and sensitive doctors, eh? God bless ‘em.

A muddy New Year

2007-01-02T09:38:00.000+02:00

Well, well, well. Happy New Year’s to all of you – let’s hope a fantastic 2007 lies ahead!

What did Santa put in your stockings? My stash comprised of three tea drinking-related gifts (sigh! Twinings, when will you take notice of me? I’m your best SA advertisement, after all), a Wine magazine subscription (yay! Finally!), some food goodies and an interesting selection of books, among other bizarre presents.

The post-Christmas days were spent in various parts of a very wet Mpumalanga. After a very, very food-filled Christmas and Boxing Day, I headed up to Barberton to visit doctor friends wrapping up their internship year at that town’s hospital where… we gorged ourselves silly on more food/alcohol to while away the hours that couldn’t be spent doing sunny-weather activities like hikes or sight-seeing.

The Gilb joined me there so we could move on to Sabie to meet up with his crew of friends for a New Year’s weekend of camping. Of course, two alarm bells were ringing in my head: one, his rabble of friends, as adorable as they are, are equally disorganized planners; and two, the rain did not seem to be letting up. Anyhow, we arrived at the camping place (Merry Pebbles) which was teeming with mostly Afrikaans, mostly fat families in tent setups that would rival any Jones’s ones. See the pic below for the average Joe’s tent setup:

As you can see, we’re talking hectic camping kit to make camping familes feel like they’re practically in their homes (and I don’t doubt that some of them were quite literally in their, ahem, mobile homes). Bringing a satellite dish on your camping holiday? Why not just check into a hotel and save yourselves the effort of pitching tents?

We named ourselves the amateur campers, which no doubt is the sniggering thought that crossed our every neighbour’s mind. Refer to the pic below for our camp setup:

We happened to pick a spot destined to become the muddiest on the site, and randomly arranged our tents around a central area which was to be our little lounge (alas, totally exposed to the elements). When the rain picked up, we were inspired to use our firewood (what good is it in wet weather, anyway?) for the better purpose of laying a haphazard wooden floor so that we could walk on soggy planks rather than muddy ground. When the rain got even heavier, we managed to dig up a tarpaulin to dangle from a nearby tree trunk to protect our scarce cutlery/crockery stash (particularly our cups, which were necessary to drink our copious volumes of alcohol from). Despite the rain, I must confess we did get some sight-seeing activity in: we went to the Sudwala caves (highly recommended, if you haven’t been) and Mac-Mac Pools (where I embarrassingly tried to force myself to jump from the mini waterfall into the pools below, much to the amusement of a crowd of onlookers coaxing me to take the mere 2m plunge, with me panicking because I couldn’t see into the murky water and was terrified I’d land on rocks. My pride eventually overcame my terror, however, and I was so cheered on by the strangers that I even managed a second plunge). We also managed to get two rounds of floating down the ice-cold Sabie river in rubber tubes (drunk, interfering with fishermen’s attempts to extract fish from the water, and repeatedly uttering terrifying profanities accidentally in front of conservative old folk and innocent fragile little children) before the heavens ripped apart to release depressingly constant heavy showers on our parade. Our attempt on New Year’s Eve to make a potjie was thus thwarted, so we grudgingly accepted defeat (all our neighbours were staring at us from the comfort of their cozy, dry gazebo tents, the nosy bastards), got dressed for a partytjie in the town, had an early dinner at Spur (the only place that would take us without a prior booking at this advanced stage of the New Year’s Eve festivities), then made our way to the sports bar that was rumoured to be the best place to celebrate the occasion. We danced like crazy people to the terrible Sokkie treffers the dj insisted on playing, and the Gilb even relented and taught me how to sokkie (I even managed to follow his lead for a bit). So we celebrated the turning of the year in style with mulleted lonely old people, pregnant teenagers, sweaty overweight couples and aggro Buffalo-shoed pool players. A genuinely great evening that was marred only by the discovery, when we got back to the campsite, that the Gilb’s and my tent was not actually that waterproof, so we landed up sleeping (if you can actually call it that) in his car, then getting up surprisingly early to pack up hastily and get the fuck out of the miserably muddy site and back to the land of the comfortably dry.

And so here I am, back in the land of the comfortably dry, and already wishing I could trade the work day for the mud…

Last post for 2006!

2006-12-22T10:13:00.000+02:00

It’s been a weird year for the world, as well as for me. Humanity seems to be moving further and further away from tolerance and closer and closer to dropping another nuclear bomb on our own planet. Talk about cutting your nose off to spite your face, eh?

Anyhow, Time Magazine’s Person of the Year for 2006 is “you”. An article from the magazine (edition for 25th December 2006) says it far better than I can, so here are some excerpts that got me thinking:

“But look at 2006 through a different lens and you'll see another story, one that isn't about conflict or great men. It's a story about community and collaboration on a scale never seen before. It's about the cosmic compendium of knowledge Wikipedia and the million-channel people's network YouTube and the online metropolis MySpace. It's about the many wresting power from the few and helping one another for nothing and how that will not only change the world, but also change the way the world changes.”

“The tool that makes this possible is the World Wide Web. Not the Web that Tim Berners-Lee hacked together (15 years ago, according to Wikipedia) as a way for scientists to share research. It's not even the overhyped dotcom Web of the late 1990s. The new Web is a very different thing. It's a tool for bringing together the small contributions of millions of people and making them matter. Silicon Valley consultants call it Web 2.0, as if it were a new version of some old software. But it's really a revolution.”

“…for seizing the reins of the global media, for founding and framing the new digital democracy, for working for nothing and beating the pros at their own game, TIME's Person of the Year for 2006 is you.”
“Sure, it's a mistake to romanticize all this any more than is strictly necessary. Web 2.0 harnesses the stupidity of crowds as well as its wisdom. Some of the comments on YouTube make you weep for the future of humanity just for the spelling alone, never mind the obscenity and the naked hatred.”

Two things struck me about this choice of Person of the Year (POTY). For starters, is this lack of an individual POTY a sorry condemnation that all those people in power chose to do terrible things, rather than terribly good things, this year? And secondly, does “you” include all 6 billion of us? Or only those that blogged, posted videos or in some way contributed to online publications? We live in a world where the majority of people do not have access to the Internet, so does this “magnanimous” gesture of Time Magazine’s exclude them? The answer is that it has to. So, while I thought they made a great choice for POTY – there is no denying that participatory journalism will to some extent (I’m just not sure how great an extent that is) revolutionise the media and entertainment industry (of course, reality tv falls into this category too, along with the home-made YouTube efforts) – I somehow feel saddened by the fact that this choice highlights the growing divide between the haves and the have-nots. In fact, the Internet has probably been one of the greatest causes of that expanding gulf.

However, living with Peas, I can hardly deny the power of the blogger. During the course of the year she has: won two blogging awards; got into hot water for her name-and-shame exposure of her insurance company’s attempt to have non-original parts fitted to her car; been vitriolically written about in a newspaper; and even been interviewed on air. Hundreds of people frantically keep hitting the refresh button on their permanently-open www.mushypeasontoast.blogspot.com window to see if she has graced their comments to her post with a reply – she’s a brand in her own right.

But I digress – for a reflective post on my year, I have managed to say nothing at all about it. So I’ll sum it up in one sentence: it has not turned out to be the year I imagined it would be in December 2005, but it has actually been a rather good one anyway. I’ve named it the ‘year of the mini-holiday’, due to my numerous weekend trips to different places in and around South Africa – and that means it had to have been good, right? For the rest of it, I will not dwell upon it here. My energy is far better spent thinking about the year ahead, which I hope to name ‘the year of change’. But more about that in the future…

So, a very merry Christmas and a fuddled, yet hangover-free New Year’s to all of you! Thank you to my bloggy acquaintances for all your posts and comments on mine: you’ve entertained me, taught me loads, and provided me with ample distraction from my work. Have safe and wonderful holidays, and I look forward to all the stories in the New Year!

Oddballs at the gym

2006-12-21T10:07:00.000+02:00

Damnit! I've got no time to blog today (so what am I busy doing?) but I simply had to share something with you - the FINAL post for 2006 will come tomorrow (you know the drill, where you have to look back on the year in a philosophical kind of way).

Anyhow, I got myself into a gym frenzy - I've been going every weekday since Thursday last week (except for Monday due to excessive weekend antics), and I even went this morning, despite waking up with mild stomach cramps (could it be the alcohol from last night?? Never!), which have since got a lot worse. Anyhow, the crazy community that is the Old Eds Virgin Active members has provided a good number of laughs over the past few days. I've seen 60-something year olds wearing lycra hot pants and crop tops, this gym nut who has been there every day I've been there (and I can comfortably say that unironically - I know this little burst of gym attendance won't last very long into next year if my past track record is anything to go by) completely overdoing it on every machine (and using most of them incorrectly), and on Monday, what I thought was the cherry on top - an old white man swimming... in his peach-coloured Speedo... which came up to his waist... and was tied with a pieve of elastic over it.

But then... this morning after my shower, mid-cramp, I was standing at a basin doing my hair, when this woman comes up, sweaty from her work-out, pulls off her (sweaty, smelly) top, and proceeds to wash just her underarms with water from the tap. She then goes directly to her locker, and gets changed for work. Yeuch!

Mkay, that's all for now, folks - back to work :)

Stinky behaviour at the stinky dam

2006-12-18T08:40:00.000+02:00

Q: What’s drunk, foul-tempered and stumbles like a cripple who’s lost her crutches?

A: Third World Ant at Hartbeespoort after a few tokes and two thirds of a bottle of vodka mixed with grapefruit juice in a ratio of 1:2.

It was one of those weekends – the ones where you’re determined to make a big one of it, and end up toasted in bed by 8pm (in my defence, though, we started knocking them back at 11am). Quite sad, actually. I swear this is: truly the last time I smoke and drink simultaneously; truly the last time I get so drunk I terrorise the host’s dog with a very long stick that he couldn’t possibly fetch; truly the last time I wander off in search of a pool and accidentally wake up passed out in someone else’s yard.

The Gilb tells me I abused him (slapped him twice for no apparent reason) and after getting fed up with my drunken antics, cunningly got me into bed at 8. He says he pleaded with me for a while to retire to the bedroom (“no! I’sh perfectshly fine, damnit!”) and then used reverse psychology to do the trick (“I’m a little tired and I want to go lie down for a bit!” he said. “Oh, okay! In that case I’ll join you for a bit!”) So he half-carried me home, tucked me into bed, lay there until I fell asleep and then returned to the party. “Finally, a man who knows how to control you” one of my sympathetic friends told me after I recounted the story.

[Two of my friends pulled through from about 2-5, thankfully they left before total chaos ensued and I only threw my name in front of the Gilb’s friends later.]

On a complete aside, the Gilb tells me if he were pressed to pick a lover from the options of Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger (Brokeback Mountain cast) he’d pick Jake. I’m astounded by that choice, I had him pegged as the Heath type, myself. When I asked why, he said Jake was prettier. Though he hastened to add he’d want to see the size of their penises. I retorted with “true – you’d definitely want the smaller one up there” to which his incredulous reply was “are you crazy? I’d want to feel filled. It’s all about the depth, you know.” Okay, so he outgayed me there. On the bright side, if we ever got a chance to swing with that couple, there’d be no argument – I’d take Heath in an instant.

On another complete aside, I just realised I have two friend couples whose names rhyme. Xxxxed and Xxxxed, and Xxxan and Xxxan. What are the odds? I have now renamed these pairs the rhyming couplets.

Infucktions to enter an office park

2006-12-13T09:17:00.000+02:00

You know how, when you’ve reached the end of some laborious task and you suddenly realise you’ve made some stuff up, and being so loathe to start the task afresh, you find a way to patch it up, Band-Aid style?

In reality of course, the Band-Aid sticks out like the sore thumb itself and is all anyone else ever really notices, so you know you should’ve saved yourself the scorn and put in the effort by redoing the whole thing, 100% properly the second time round.

Well, I have this feeling frequently, so it fills me with immense glee to be able to point out someone else’s Band-Aid for a change, and hopefully you’ll agree this problem would truly have been better fixed (in fact truly only have been fixed) by starting the task over from scratch.

Refer to the picture beneath: this is the entrance to our new office park, a building in which the developer has made a number of priceless errors (hopefully not highly pricey errors as we have bought a sectional title from them and hence would be forking out the cash to fix any of their building blunders). No blunder quite outdoes this entrance, however.

You see, folks, in South Africa, we drive on the left hand side of the road. Which means that when one enters an office park – no different than the one pictured above – one expects, quite rightly (or is that leftly?), to enter the park by remaining in the left-hand lane of the road (which is especially important if a vehicle were to be exiting the park from their left-hand lane, i.e. your right-hand lane). This is unfortunately not the case in practice, as you have to veer to the right lane in both of the possible scenarios: a) if you are a visitor and need to get the guard’s attention, you need to maneuvre yourself into the right-hand lane to speak to him, and he inevitably opens the right-hand boom post to let you in as it involves the least effort on his part; and b) if you have an access card and need to swipe it to enter without the boom guard’s assistance, you must do as in a) because they installed the fucking swipey machine thingy on the right hand side of the entrance.

If one must give the twits credit, then it is for at least being consistently stupid – for the swipey machine thingy is also in the right-hand lane as you exit the complex. It is thus not inconceivable that two cars (one entering and one exiting the complex simultaneously) might be able to avoid getting in each other’s way, because both would be on their respective wrong sides of the road.

But the silliness could not stop there. Some tenants/owners in the park must have complained about the required violation of driving codes, because the developer attempted to “fix” it – not in the ideal start-from-scratch-and-rip-out-the-swipey-thingies-and-reinstall-them-on-the-correct-side-of-the-road manner, but rather in the ill-advised short-cut Band-Aid manner.

The painted signals on the road is the “solution” to their error.

I hereby formally offer a Chocolate Log to anyone who can intelligibly explain how this solution works – Third Roommate and I pondered it extensively yesterday afternoon, and it delights me to see the nervous and bewildered reaction of anyone approaching the signs for the first time.

In my mind, the marks are intended to cause a bumper cars road-rage incident, where two approaching cars are both expected to yield for the other car (approaching in the same lane), daring the other car to make the first move and switch to the other lane, at which point the other car retaliates by doing the same thing, then bang! [Beemer and Merc bumpers merge] and kaboom! [ego’s entangle] and pow! thwack! kkkruuunch! [a Sandton trendy capoeira-style punch-up ensues]

Ideas, anyone?

Forbidden relationships

2006-12-11T11:08:00.000+02:00

I’ve been dating the Gilb for four years now, and have finally come to accept that there is a huge stigma attached to our union – that is, the union of a white English-speaking South African and a white Afrikaans-speaking South African.

My experience has led me to believe that this stigma is greater than that I would experience if I were dating a non-white South African, a foreigner from some ‘frowned-upon’ nation (e.g. North Korea) or perhaps even a female.

I can’t begin to list the number of times I’ve met people and started chatting to them, during which the inevitable question “Do you have a boyfriend?” pops up, after which further elaboration reveals that he is Afrikaans, and the response has been “Why on earth are you dating someone who’s Afrikaans?”

It’s like English people think they’re better than Afrikaners – maybe because they have formed the misconceived notions that they’re:

1) smarter (I can guarantee that the Gilb is a lot smarter than at least 90% of these people I’ve spoken to), or

2) better looking (hell no, not in my mind anyway), or

3) more open-minded (nope, I sure as hell would not be dating someone I thought was a racist or a bigot of any kind; besides, English colonial history does not paint a picture of a nation being any more tolerant of indigenous people than Afrikaans history is), or

4) classier (class is overrated if it equates to being snobbish, assuming that having money makes you being a better human being, or assuming that you can judge a person because the job they perform in society is ‘beneath you’)

Of course, I get similar hostility from black people about dating an Afrikaner – and here, it is understandably harder for me to be angry at their prejudice – but I have always been comforted by the fact that any of these people who have subsequently met the Gilb have very quickly realised you can’t judge everybody by their cultural backgrounds – sometimes, you find you have more in common with them than you do with people of your own ‘kind’. (Which is precisely what happened for me and the Gilb – we just clicked in a way that none of our previous partners from our own cultural backgrounds has done for us before).

What makes me more ashamed about the whole thing is that no Afrikaans person I’ve ever spoken to has ever shown the remotest concern that one of ‘theirs’ has strayed from the path to date one of ‘ours’. Why can’t us Engelse show the same tolerance?

Frazzled

2006-12-06T16:58:00.000+02:00

My recent promotion has changed my workdays (and dare I add weekend days) quite substantially.

The average day thus far looks like this:

9am – 12: Admin
12 – 6: Checking over other people’s work, dishing out other people’s work, meetings with seniors/managers to decide what other work needs to be done
6 – 12pm: Doing my own work!
12pm – 12:20: every other day, mustering the energy to write up a new blog post.

I have a SPLITTING headache today, and I am starving. Why? I haven’t had the time to go do any food shopping, so I’ve spent the day living on Endearmints (yesterday’s lunch was equally fun – my 5 last cherry tomatoes).

I can’t WAIT for the weekend – another humdinger in the Poenda, where I can curl up in my boyfriend’s arms and feel mildly sorry for myself.

Tis the season for fashion folly

2006-12-04T16:55:00.000+02:00

It’s that time of the year – frenzied elbowing in a horde of shoppers frantically trying to get through their shopping list of Christmas prezzies. I decided to brave Suhnd-tuhn City on Saturday, dragging an unwilling boyfriend in tow, to put a serious dent in my shopping list (and in my wallet too, I might add).

Doing anything on Saturday morning was quite a feat, thanks to the revelry of the office Christmas party on Friday night (whose smart idea was it to choose stroh-rum based cocktails as welcome drinks? And all the tequilas? Eh?) Unfortunately, the Gilb’s party also took place on Friday night, so I couldn’t wear my smashing white-and-silver ensemble with reindeer antlers in the Poenda, instead I wore it to mine (and of course spilt a fair amount of the red stroh-rum devil’s juice down the front of the dress). Anyway, the point of this digression is that I woke up still drunk on Saturday morning, and decided to put on an outfit that I thought I could wear straight from Suhnd-tuhn City to the Christmas party I had that afternoon. This outfit consisted of: my fabulous new Vans shoes (black with pink hippo’s all over them), black with baby-blue trim Roxy hot hot hot pants (got to show off the Moz tan while it’s still there, after all), and a rainbow-striped top with a large porno hole nestled between my boobs, Fred and Elsa (the Gilb insists I wear a bikini top under this, so I automatically do, these days, so it’s no longer so porno, I promise you). Anyhow, he didn’t say anything until we got to the centre, at which point the shakes had begun to set in and I was feeling extremely sorry for myself, and had begun to notice the stares I was getting. “Did you dress in the dark this morning, Liefie?” he bluntly, yet politely, asked. Oops. At least I had the good sense to leave the reindeer antlers in the car. One Babalas juice (Kauai) and Danish custard tart later, I was feeling marginally better, and the shopping spree could ensue.

I was back to my normal scathing self (quite hypocritical given my hideous outfit) and had time to look around at the delightful creatures walking around Suhnd-tuhn City, which always brings a smile to my face. Exhibit A: the ridiculously long queue outside Haagen-Dasz. I mean, really. Sure, you have to try it if you haven’t before, but will you wait half an hour in a queue for a scoop of R19 ice cream? I’m willing to bet that in three months’ time, when everyone who’s willing to pay that price has done so once for the novelty, the shop will close down because they realize that the novelty wears off quite quickly for South Africans (evidenced by McDonald’s, Ratanga Junction too). Exhibit B: the kugel who was working at the shop where I bought Peas’ Christmas gift. For starters, I could barely understand her kugelly accent. Then, her nails were getting in the way of handling Peas’ gift without damaging it. But the absolute pearler was when she leaned over to pick up something and I saw the tattoo on the small of her back – the Bad Girl clothing range logo, complete with halo. Uuuuurrrrggghhh!

I emerged relatively unscathed from the present-fest (and might I add with some damn fine gifts in my Santa bag), then proceeded to another Christmas party where my weak resolve saw me switch from cranberry iced tea to cranberry iced tea and vodka pretty quickly. Happily, the hangover was nothing like Friday night’s; though I expect there are many lurking around the corner… bottoms up, folks!

Tea with the Queen

2006-11-30T18:03:00.000+02:00

Inspired by my tag in my last post, I remembered how much a great wish of mine it is to have tea with the Queen of Britain. Why, you ask? When you could be bedding the (in)famous Robbie Williams, sharing the stage with the White Stripes, partying it up with Paris/Lindsay/Kimberley/Nicole, reading out history-changing speeches from Capitol Hill? Why would you rather choose to have a comparatively mundane cuppa with the monarch of a once-great empire?

A number of reasons, really:

1) You love Earl Grey tea. You REALLY love Earl Grey tea.

2) You love being in the company of those who also really love Earl Grey. Although I’ve not personally asked the Queen about her feelings for England’s best export (and neither have I seen it documented anywhere) she simply HAS TO love Earl Grey tea. It’s in her contract somewhere, I’m pretty sure. I hope she won’t blanch at the sight of me drinking it like a pleb, though… (Shock! Horror! A dash of sugar plus milk!)

3) Buckingham Palace is not that far from Twinings’ head office so there is a greater chance you will bump into someone influential from Twinings (perhaps even coincidentally a joint guest at our little tea party) who you can brown-nose to the point of earning yourself a lifetime supply of free Earl Grey (alright, throw in a few crates of Darjeeling and Irish Breakfast too, please)

4) Another random punter you might bump into is Prince William, that delicious little blue-blood who’s just begging for a bit of corruption to his untarnished image. Yummy! (and famous and wealthy and smart – quite a catch, I should think)

5) Nice silverware and fine bone china lying about for prestidigitators such as myself to nick – I’m not the immoral kind of person who’d swipe these to sell for a fortune on eBay, mind you, I just like the occasional memento.

6) The opportunity to talk hoity-toity with someone who (literally) speaks the Queen’s English. We’d be all:

TWA: Dear Elizabeth! This scone transcends all scones that ever preceded it! How utterly scrumptious!

QEII: *blushing* Why thank you, kind TWA. I am most humbled to be in your presence. (okay, that one’s a stretch)

TWA: Oh, don’t be silly, Lizzie, there is no other place on this planet that I could even comprehend of being right now… say, could I have another cuppa?

QEII: Certainly dear. Hubert, Maximillion? Where the devil have they got to? The help is not quite what it used to be, you understand.

TWA: *exaggerated sigh* Ah, yes, the help. No matter, I’ll go pour for the both of us. [and zap! prestidigitation! Cake fork up the left hand sleeve, sugar spoon up the right)]

QEII: Yes, you simply can’t trust them these days…

TWA: *brief grimace at the stab of remorse running through my left knee* Well, uh, yes. Now tell me all about your thoughts on pension reform in pseudocapitalist former colonial outposts…

[let’s hope some Twinings guy reads this huge product endorsement and sends me that lifetime supply, and let’s hope too that the Queen doesn’t read this. She doesn’t blog, does she?]

On the matter of tea parties, a while ago I mentioned that I was reading Martin Gardner’s The Annotated Alice, which goes into great detail on every possible topic that could be discussed relating to Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. I plan to tell you about the immense geekiness of some of our fellow Earth inhabitants and the anal-ytical lengths they will go to to interpret fantastical things in literature. But that’s for next time. I will leave you with the Mad Hatter’s famous unanswered riddle from the mad tea-party of Chapter 7: why is a raven like a writing-desk? Of course, the annotated book attempts to answer the riddle, but I’ll give you a sleepless night or five to ponder it…

Tagged!

2006-11-28T10:22:00.000+02:00

Peas tagged me on Friday, requesting a list of ten waitrons I would want to serve her guests at a fantasy dinner (she claims she tagged me to do my own fantasy dinner list, but that’s not what I understood from reading her request)

What kind of fantasy dinner doesn’t go down without some kind of skandaal? Some lust to get the juices flowing, some bile to aid the digestion process.

So, for the fantasy dinner from hell/heaven (up to you to decide which), the guest/waitron combinations are:

1) Peas – Paris Hilton. Because it’d be glorious to watch the heiress having to serve on anyone. (A great episode for The Simple Life, perhaps?) And because Peas loathes her every inch of flesh, so some spitting commentary is bound to pass between them
2) Alicia Keyes – Scarlett Johannson. While Peas can drool over her lesbian fantasy, I can lust after mine. Can you imagine how delectable she’ll look in a French maid’s outfit? Mmmm-mmmmm…
3) Jake Gyllenhaal – Me. While not actually as much a fan as Peas is, it’ll make her green with envy! I’ll wear my lucky underwear just in case… Plus, I have to be there for reasons stated in #2. Menage?
4) The Queen – actually my favourite personality in Peas’ list, largely because she’ll sure as hell enjoy a good cup o’ Earl Grey. Peas, please ensure there’s some damn good china lying about to serve it in, mkay? But who to serve her… I know! Our favourite neighbour, Bob Mugabe! “Slave of the colonial empire, would you be a dear and pour me a second cuppa?” “Take your England and shove it, old hag!” “Oh I already have, my dear, right up where your sun don’t shine! Now hop to it, with a quarter teaspoon of sugar!”
5) Eddie Izzard – Billy Connolly, obviously. The professional rivalry would result in some fine, fine quips, and the dear Queen chuckling so hard she’ll spill hot tea all over Bob, whose third-degree burns he’ll find hard to have attended to in Zim.
3) Tchaikovsky – Hitler. Because the thought of waiting on a gay communist would absolutely infuriate him. Plus, his funny soldier march routine will be quite entertaining while he’s trying to balance a tray of champagne flutes in one hand.
7) Michael Bolton – a real toughie, this one. So I’m going to say Jenna Jameson, and hope that will bring some entertainment factor out of this dull dinner choice (sorry Peas!)
8) Chris Rock – as though this party couldn’t get any more inflammatory: Kramer from Seinfeld, who was recently accused of making racist comments in public, to which Mr Rock replied in a statement that if the two were ever to meet, the situation would result in fisticuffs. Hmmmm… we might need a doctor on the scene?
9) Michael Naicker – there are too many funny people at this infernal fantasy dinner, so let’s dampen the mood a bit. We’ve got a mix of men and women, blacks and whites, gays and straights, sexies and unsexies… but no-one astoundingly intelligent or physically disabled. So let’s roll these two attributes into one package, in the form of Stephen Hawking (if I were going to be un-PC about the affair, I’d make a joke about how funny it would be to see him carrying in a tray on his wheelchair, but I’ll leave that hot potato to Mike Naick)
10) Twakkie/Corne – Corne/Twakkie. Because this duo would be only half as funny if it was only half represented.

(Jam and Rev, wanna have a go at listing ten hot topics of conversation that will go down at this sordid party?)

Finally… the holiday pics

2006-11-24T09:20:00.000+02:00

First up, a moment to brag: I’ve just been promoted at work! Hopefully, along with the huge load of additional responsibility, comes a big fat pay increase (I’ve yet to see the offer).

Secondly, the holiday photos. I was hoping to get hold of everyone else’s before putting things up here because there’s bound to be far better pics than mine floating around, but it seems that’s going to be far too long a wait. So here’s a brief Ant tour of Mozambique (bloody blogger won't let me put up more photo's than these):

Maputo is much like a run-down Joburg CBD by the sea…

The towns have colourful markets (mercado) where you get to haggle with the locals over their opportunistically inflated prices (“Quanto custa? Caro! Caro!”) and gag on the smell of rotting fish.

For R160 a night (Baobab Lodge, Vilanculos), you get to sleep in a chalet that boasts views like this every morning…

The Mozambican government is making the islands off Vilanculos (like this one, Bazaruto) an exclusive holiday getaway with only upmarket accommodation available. Thankfully, transport by dhow to these islands is so dodgy (and hence cheap) that riff-raff like us could still afford day visits to these beautiful islands with their sublime views.

In Barra, the coconut palm-riddled playground of Gautengers fed up with Christmas in Cape Town, the sky was having another orgasm.

Small things amuse numb (and yes, probably small) minds

2006-11-22T09:05:00.000+02:00

In the midst of ludicrous deadlines and my brain working on autopilot, I have spared my grey matter any unnecessary effort in dreaming up a thought-provoking post for today, and have opted more for a trivial anecdote – although one that kept me smiling for a good portion of the five-hour workshop session I sat in on with a client yesterday.

You see, the top management from the client was assembled in one room, discussing all manner of ambitious plans for the future, and yet my mind’s primary focus was… her shoes. To aid in your visualisation of the scene, I present you with my crude diagram:

The choice of purple for the depiction of the leather uppers is not accidental, I must add. But it was not this that drew my attention – no, it was the rubber elastic bands (yellow on the right foot, red on the left) which inexplicably – yet obviously deliberately – each foot-clad shoe had squeezed itself into.

Why?

Did she not like the clickety-clackety noise they made? Then don’t buy slip-in high heels, for that is part of the reason for their existence!

Did she forget to wash her feet yesterday morning and was embarrassed a slip-on would dangle from her foot, exposing a sordidly filthy sole to the other managers? Then wear closed shoes! (or just wash your feet)

Maybe her feet smell badly in those shoes, so she didn’t want a whiff of stinky to get out – again, don’t wear the shoes, lady!

And let’s not get started on the choice of 2 differently-coloured elastic bands – and those colours being red and yellow against lurid purple shoes – to solve the mysterious problem… I simply can’t wait to see her next ensemble!

Mud pies

2006-11-20T09:41:00.000+02:00

After years of threatening to do so, I finally hauled my ass (and dragged the Gilb’s too, of course) to the Ficksburg Cherry Festival – thanks to my sis and Mom’s hiking club, which arranged the trip.

We met up with the rest of the tour group at 9pm on Friday (my Mom’s friend drove us there at a painstakingly slow average speed of 90 km/h. “In England no-one drives like these hooligans!” was her reply to our pleas to accelerate to the speed limit). We awoke to a miserably drizzly Saturday morning, drove out to a Fouriesberg cherry farm (quaintly named Loskop), where we determinedly marched out onto the farm and tried to get our entrance fee’s worth of (wet) cherry picking/eating, then drove into Ficksburg for the (soggy) festivities. Not armed with umbrellas or raincoats, the Gilb and I made a nifty solution: we emptied out the white promo packets they gave us at the entrance, and used them as hats to keep our expensive Joburg hairstyles intact (we looked alarmingly KKK, but all in the name of frizz-free hairdays, I say). The day’s memorability was greatly enhanced by having to slodge and shluck through ankle-deep mud – half of the visitors abandoned their shoes, the other half bought those yukky plastic crocs thingies that were on sale at a few of the stalls.

Now, call me a born-and-bred Gauteng-a-leng, but I expected much more from the festival in terms of taking advantage of the economic opportunities afforded by such an event. For one, there were no umbrellas being sold at the entrance (in Jozi, on the first day of summer rains, the traffic intersection salesmen are all fully stocked – and I would have paid virtually anything at that point for a brolly), but more importantly, there was no cherry pie, cherry strudel, cherry cheesecake, cherry sorbet, cherry hot chocolate, cherry syrup, glacéd cherries etc in sight. One thing there was in reasonable quantities (and varieties) was cherry alcohol.

So I made the most of the limited diversity of cherry products and bought what forms I could. The spoils of my spree include:

Cherries (the simplest and arguably best form)
Cherry rolls (sweetened dried boiled cherry pulp flattened into sheets and rolled for a snack)
Cherry jam
Cherry sweets
Cherry liqueur
Cherry wine
Normal wine (sigh! Bought MORE wine! Couldn’t resist – there was a wine-tasting tent and I found some bargains)
Cherry cider (they ran out of cups, so we bought a 2lt bottle full, and they warned us “keep opening the top to let out the carbon dioxide – the cider’s still fermenting! It’ll get stronger and stronger if you keep it for a while!” We didn’t – very thirsty, you understand
Cherry vinegar (got the last bottle!)

Highlights of the festival included solving the mystery of what happened to tv star from my childhood Amanda Forrow, who we spotted doing a Pick ‘n Pay cooking demonstration; and a blind kid singing kak boeremusiek choons dreadfully on stage (some dude commented in passing on how admirable his performance was, to which my tactless yet hilarious boyfriend responded “not only is he blind, but completely tone-deaf, too”).

On Sunday we did a hike in some breathtakingly beautiful Fouriesburg mountains, then stopped off in Clarens on our way back to Jozi (again, our return journey took us an inexplicable 5 hours)… and here we are again at the start of what promises to be a hectic work week. Gimme mud any day.

Big mouth, small brain

2006-11-14T18:12:00.000+02:00

There is one lesson I just seem not to be able to drum into my head. And it’s an important lesson, which from time to time it burns me because of my big fat mouth.

Like today. Suffice to say I’m ashamed of myself, and it serves me right.

The lesson? Never repeat anything anyone tells you to any person that you would hate the original storyteller to find out you told. Complicated? Not really. So why can’t I follow this simple principle? Why do I feel the need to tell people things, knowing that there’s a risk the person who originally entrusted me with the information could find out and be disappointed in my need to gossip?

Arrgh. Bad, bad (and stupid) Ant.

Bye-bye Mozambique!

2006-11-13T10:24:00.000+02:00

Hello blogosphere, did you miss me at all? Whew – what a holiday. I can’t think how it could have in any way been improved upon (other than being a longer holiday of course). We did Maputo, Coconut Bay, Vilankulo (along with 2 islands, Margaruque and Bazaruto) and Ponta da Barra, in 2 Land Rovers (Fat Lizzie and the Blue Bunny, or Team A and Team B as our Landie rechristened them), with 5 Saffa’s (the usual: rude, crass, cocky) and 3 Kanooks a.k.a. Canadians (friendly, polite, obliging).

To summarise, a list of the low- and highlights of the trip:

1. Horas. Directly translated from Portuguese, this innocent word means nothing more than ‘hours’. But juvenility dictated that this word be used to mean ‘whores’, so it was with immense glee that we frequently saw ’24 horas’, ‘super horas’ and ‘ultima horas’ signs plastered all over the shopfronts of little stores in every town. Of course, on a night excursion to a popular pub/dance club/strip club street in Maputo, we saw real horas aplenty – they groped the men’s crotches unashamedly and expectantly joined them at the bar, demanding drinks be bought for them. Every venue we went into had mirrors plastered on every possible surface, which the locals danced in front of in hypnotic reverie. And the strip club we went to had a full-on naked lap dance on the stage – I think that more than sufficiently covers the Gilb’s strip club allowance for life!

2. Corrupt cops (oink piggy piggy!) I offered to drive the Landie on a particularly potholed stretch of road, and was duly rewarded by being pulled over for ‘speeding’ by a cop who claimed I was going 71km/h in a 60kmh zone. “No bloody way I was!” I screeched, “the reason I know I was definitely going under 60 was because all the oncoming cars were flashing me to warn me you were ahead!” Realising that I wasn’t about to give in as easily as he’d imagined, he made me leave a friend (and my driver’s licence) with him, drive back up the road and come back to him so he could re-measure my speed and prove his equipment wasn’t faulty. I was so nervous carrying out this ridiculous task that I stalled twice while turning around to come back to him, and when I returned, he showed me the new speed the meter had recorded, which was not far off being accurate. I persisted in my protests, and he grew tired of his game, so he released me, my friend and my driver’s licence, telling my friend “Wow! Your friend is a very argumentative woman!” Suck on that, piggies!

3. Cerebos (‘see how it runs’). Our codename for diarrhoea, which we experienced aplenty. ‘nuff said.

4. Stickiness. If it wasn’t sweat from the 30-plus degree temperatures, then it was sunblock, Tabard or sea water. I’ve never showered so much in my life!

5. Speaking to the locals in Portuguese. I borrowed a friend’s ‘Learn (Brazilian) Portguese in 60 Days’ book, and we had great fun stringing conversations together from the bizarre sentences it chose to teach us. We managed to wangle some of these sentences into our conversations with Mozambicans, much to their bewilderment. Here’s a sample conversation:

Perigo! Ele siaou sem pecheu!
A escola este aberta? Diga-me a verdade!
Onde este cervao e lenha per fogo?
Por favour, camarao e lulas e peixe e pao e batatas frites! Obrigado!
Levar isto ixo!

This useful banter translates to:

Danger! He left without his hat!
Is the school open? Tell me the truth!
Where is charcoal and wood for fire?
Prawns and calamari and fish and bread and French fries please! Thanks!
Carry this rubbish!

Interestingly, we noticed that all the advertising billboards are in Portuguese – none in the local African languages spoken in Mozambique.

6. The cheap local beer – Laurentina and 2M (no idea how to spell it but presumably ‘Dois M’ meaning 2 m’s in Portuguese). We found cheap shops/stalls selling cases of the stuff, and returned to these on an almost daily basis to buy 3 more crates each time. I have developed a mini beer boep, which will hopefully vanish in the next few weeks. I also bought a 5 lt bottle of imported Portuguese ‘table wine’ which the Kanooks tucked into too eagerly one evening, only to discover its malignant after effects the following morning – suffice to say I had to finish the bottle myself over the course of the next few evenings.

7. Fish fish fish! (actually, peixe, peixe, peixe!) During our 5-day Ponta da Barra stay, enterprising locals correctly guessed we’d want to eat seafood, and so caught the things in the morning and brought them to us to haggle suitable prices for. We got barracuda (4kg), prawns, crayfish, calamari fresh each morning (of course, our haggling down the prices had little effect – the bastards still managed to shnaai us each time on the weight of the fish by using inaccurate scales, hiding ice between the fish in the bags etc etc).

8. Local art. Somehow, you never buy as much in your own country as you do in others, but heck, I like to think I’m doing my bit for the SADC by supporting the Mozambican economy. I bought tons of bangles, batiks, an oil painting, and two beautiful yet infernally delicate long, thin wooden bird sculptures that we had to go to great effort to pack safely every time we loaded and drove the Landie.

9. Suntan! Being the freak Italian that I am, my complexion more closely resembles an ‘English rose’ than an olive-skinned Mediterranean. Except at the moment, because I’ve managed to pick up a remarkable tan – it’s miniskirts and strappy tops all the way until it disappears!

10. Muffled sex. And plenty of it. Because our accommodation never allowed for the Gilb and I to be very casual about it, we had to be sneaky and quiet – unfortunately the furniture usually wasn’t as obliging!

And that was that. I’ll put up a picture or two as soon as I’ve had a chance to look through them and pick out the goodies.

For now though, it’s back to the daily slog in the office. Sigh! And happy Monday to all of you!

obrigado

2006-10-27T08:24:00.000+02:00

Hi everyone!
This is Peas On Toast reporting directly from the Western Front, or rather transcribing via telephone as The Ant drives on towards the Mozambican border with The Gilb and some of her other mates.

Bless. She wanted me to inform all of you that she'll be back on Monday 13 November. She's doing the Mozambican thing for two weeks, the little bitch. (I love you guy, but you know, some of us are still stuck in an office with a dying plant and an editor that is out to destroy me.)

Her route starts off in Maputo, then they all head onto Inhambane-Barra, up to Vilankulos with a possible stint on the Bazaruto Archipelago...sigh. I did this exact trip December last year. It's lovely. And no doubt her peachy Itye skin will come back bronzed and beautiful.

So folks, my flatmate is MIA until then. She wanted me to say g'bye on her behalf. I'm impressed they left so early this morning too. Since she was at Winex last night as well.
I'm sure she'll have sme interesting stories to tell on her return.

Keep grooving and stay away from small dogs.
This is Peas On Toast signing off for Third World Ant.
xxxxx

Boxes are poor containers for people

2006-10-20T09:01:00.000+02:00

People are seldom what they seem. You get to know someone, and slowly but surely – without realising it – you categorise their personalities, eccentricities, even expected behaviours under certain circumstances, into little boxes. Because that is the person as you’ve always experienced them to be, you make the assumption that that is the person they will always continue to be.

This assumption is especially invalid when the person is not someone particularly close to you, hence is likely to be someone you only see in certain circumstances (which is therefore one small experience of their presumably multifaceted selves).

A good example of such a person is a work colleague. You only see them at the office, befriend them in the context of your work environment, and feel little need to see them after hours. As a result, you build your whole mental picture of your colleague as a person based entirely on his/her demeanor/appearance in the office. The danger of doing this, of course, is that you end up only seeing what you want to see, even when evidence to the contrary is rapping you over the knuckles like a convent nun with a ruler (much like a parent in denial that their offspring has just come home from a party on ecstasy, even though they’re exhibiting the classic symptoms like their pupils being the size of N11 potholes and they’re anxiously grinding their teeth to a fine powder).

If you think I’m being deliberately cryptic about what I’m trying to say, you’re correct. It’s too sensational for me to write in this very public forum, but suffice to say I’m flummoxed – although not in a bad way, actually a pleasant one.

Ps: happy weekend y’all. Believe it or not, I’ve got my first bachelorette party tomorrow. And it’s going to be one of those gloriously cheesy lingerie parties, followed by a trip to TeasHERS (which I’ll not be attending due to the more promising prospect of oral satisfaction at a friend’s dinner party). No surprises for guessing that the bachelors’, also taking place tomorrow, will be ending at Teasers next door/downstairs. Quaint, isn’t it?

A calculation gone wrong; calling all physicists for help

2006-10-19T09:11:00.000+02:00

3rm and I have now been diligently doing our morning running ritual for about 7 weeks (not all consecutively, given my propensity to fall ill from time to time) and it has reached that point where arguments ensue (which for me and him is an inevitability) about how best to improve.

His desire: to tone up. Mine: to get fit. His goal: to sprint 4.6 bloody kilometres (half of that is uphill). Mine: to run 8-10 km without feeling dead afterwards.

So, this research was all prompted by a huge (breathless) screaming match we had while lugging our exhausted bodies back up Oxford Rd, much to the bewilderment/amusement of commuters waiting for their public transport at the robot.

The argument

3rm: to tone your muscles, you’ve got to damage them with harsh exercise, causing them to build up scar tissue which is more solid than regular tissue. So we need to speed up our run radically, [insert unnecessary curse words here].

Ant: eeuw. Why? To get fit, you just need to run long distances, it doesn’t matter whether you speed up drastically, you just need to keep the heart beating at an elevated level for a reasonable period of time, [retort with equally vile battery of cussing].

3rm: No! We must go faster and do anaerobic exercise, $%*^(&$!

Ant: You can’t keep up anaerobic exercise levels that long buddy, trust me. Let’s do it the way nature intended, ok? There’s a reason that complex life evolved on this planet, and one of the main reasons for that is oxygen, you [bleep bleep bleeeeeeeeeeeeeep].

Of course, the answer is that neither of us is right nor wrong – the right type of exercise depends on what we want to achieve by exercising in the first place. I do like to think that I’m more right [naturally] but I can even justify my claim: aerobic (i.e. oxygen-burning) exercise is best suited for low-intensity exercise over a longer period of time, and I don’t think that a 4.6 km run can ever be short enough for people of our fitness level to be realistically maintained anaerobically (i.e. without burning oxygen).

The two types of energy consumption are also interchangeable, so that during a relatively fast-paced run, you’ll be using the lactic acid (anaerobic metabolism) cycle to some extent, with the aerobic cycle dominating (and vice versa for high-intensity burst of activity, e.g. a sprint, weight lifting, jumping). The trick is to find the correct exercise intensity level at which any lactate produced from the lactic acid cycle is rapidly and thoroughly consumed by your body – you don’t want this accumulating in the muscles as it leads to cramp, and thus has a detrimental effect on muscle function. The good news is that the more training you do, the greater this so-called lactate threshold (or anaerobic threshold) becomes – i.e. you will be able to train at higher exercise intensity levels before lactate builds up in your body, causing cramps. 3rm and I have certainly seen evidence of this, as we are now able to run the whole uphill portion without stopping to catch our breath anymore. I just don’t see the need to escalate our pleasant run to a sprint – I’d rather run further.

Out of interest, I also wanted to see what causes the greater consumption of energy (for a weight-loss perspective, a measure neither of us is using) – an increase in speed or distance. So I’m going to do the dangerous thing and put some equations up for all the geeky (and more scientifically adept) people to scrutinize. Warning: my physics is somewhat lacking (so if I’m using the wrong equations, please speak up and enlighten me):

For the effect of speed:

E = 1/2 mv^2 (energy consumed = 1/2 x mass of the body x velocity squared)

For a 10% increase in velocity:

E = 1/2 m (1.10v)^2

i.e. E = 1/2 mv^2 x (1.21) (taking the factor of 1.21 out to the end)

i.e. a 10% increase in velocity results in a 1.21 times greater energy consumption, which for those of you have forgotten all your high-school maths, is a 21% increase in energy consumption.

For the effect of distance:

W = Fs (Work done, which can be equated to energy transferred, = force x distance run)

What I’m going to be ignoring in my calculations is the effect of friction, which adds a significant amount to the extra work that needs to be done to keep moving)

For a 10% increase in distance:

W = F . (1.10s) (assuming your force, dependent on your mass and acceleration, is constant)

Therefore W = (Fs). (1.10)

i.e. a 10% increase in distance equates to a 10% increase in work done (or energy consumed, but like I said, this excludes the work done to overcome friction)

I guess these results make sense if you look at the equations – the speed equation is a power relationship between work and speed/velocity, whereas it’s a linear relationship for work and distance. You can even investigate this the lazy way – when next you’re in the gym, memorise your kJ consumption rate at each speed you run at, plot it on a graph and voila! You’ve plotted your first parabola since Matric.

Of course, I’ve just spotted a major omission in the velocity calculation – there’s no accounting for the length of time for which this velocity is kept up, which will obviously impact on the total energy consumed. I’m guessing you’d have to plot v^2 against time, and the area underneath it (multiplied by half your mass) would be equal to the total energy consumed – but this means the energy is a factor of 2 variables now, and… I give up. I hope one of you can help me.

So, it seems I’ve strayed from the original intent of this post – to disprove 3rm. I guess we’re both right, and if it is a weight-loss objective you have in mind, I’ve unsuccessfully sort-of proved that speeding up is more effective than running further, given a similar percentage improvement in either.

Oh bother. Being a bad scientist sucks.

I kill cute little puppies

2006-10-17T09:20:00.000+02:00

The irony of the contrast of this post’s title with my previous apparently tree-hugging one is not lost on me, believe me. Once again, the universe selects a large unwieldy sombrero and shovels it down my throat. Oh yes creation, I noticed.

But let’s not let this be entirely morbid, for there are happy things to report too.

Spur of the moment birthday visits…

…are the type of event that end in puppy pancakes. An off-the-cuff decision on Wednesday morning last week saw me grab my toothbrush as I was leaving for work, and discuss later that day with the Gilb the possibility of me driving through to the Poenda that evening to celebrate his birthday with him. As luck / fate would have it, two things conspired to make sure it was possible for me to leave early enough to avoid the 4:30 East-bound traffic gridlock: my big boss wasn’t in the office that day, and my manager with whom I was meant to have a 2-4pm meeting was off sick. Score!

Delirious with glee, I zoomed off (minor setback: caught in traffic after all due to almighty accident on the N12) and reached the delightful town at the thoroughly respectable hour of 5pm. I was overjoyed to see that he was legitimately making use of his birthday gift (I’m all for practical gifts these days, so I got him a goose-down duvet with tasteful yet very manly duvet and pillow case covers, even matching ones for me so that when I come through carrying my own pillow as I usually do, I can match the ensemble too. Décor geek!).

Anyhow, not having packed anything more than a toothbrush meant that I had to go to Gilb’s chosen birthday celebration venue of choice – Alley Catz, a dodgy pool club – in my corporate power-bitch garb while everyone else was wearing jeans and t-shirts. Teetering around a pool table in stilettos does not do wonders for the poor soles, I must tell you (and does even less for your pool skills, I’m convinced). Substantial drinking helped dull the pain, and the girls and I developed a new shooter which we called “October 11th”. If anyone ever offers you one, for the love of your tastebuds, don’t accept. Jack Daniels and Dalgado (creamy coconut liqueur) do not a successful concoction make.

After a really pleasant late night out, 4:45am came all too soon, so bleary-eyed after far too few hours of sleep, I was cruising down a quiet road just outside the Poenda at 140 km/h, to get back to Jozi before the traffic became unbearable. Out of the blue, 3 golden retrievers appear less than 10m ahead of me in the middle of nowhere, sitting in the road. Not just any golden retrievers, mind you, but specifically the kind that have gorgeously groomed silky shiny hair and rich chocolatey brown eyes that warm your heart when you stare into them. In a cold split second I made a calculated decision: if I swerved, my momentum would still carry me directly over the dogs, and I’d not be able to avoid losing control of the car either. If I continued… at least the latter could be avoided. And so I did. Two of the dogs got out of the way, one (the youngest, naturally) didn’t. So I hit it, grimacing at the sickening dull thud, and in shock, burst into tears. What disappoints me is less my hitting the dog (its owners should not let them wander around near a highway), and more the fact that I didn’t stop to assess the carnage. My thought at the time was that since there wasn’t a house within sight, there was no-one to inform that I had murdered their puppy. And worse, if the dog was really badly injured but not dead, would I have had the guts to do the humane thing and put it properly out of its misery? (I’m quite sure the answer is no). What didn’t occur to me then was that the dog may have had a name tag, so I could have at least contacted the owners, or I could have taken it to a vet, got it ‘repaired’ and donated it to the Gilb pet fund (Peas and I are technically not allowed pets in our building, besides it’d be cruel to keep a dog locked up inside all day). So I drove straight on, dwelled on my depravity for the rest of the day, and then got over it.

Dress: circa 1980’s…

…the theme for the party I attended on Saturday night with Peas ‘n pals. My outfit consisted of a lumo pink wool mini skirt; a black three-quarter sleeved, round-necked, shoulder-padded, Blingola-sized gold-buttoned jacket; a thin purple/navy/white/pink/yellow satin striped scarf; and gold shoes. The look: Amway executive – cum – Alitalia air hostess (although to my thorough dismay I was asked twice whether I was French!) I was bombarded with the highly creative pick-up lines of “Can I have the chicken, please?” and “What’s the onboard entertainment tonight?” and “Are we there yet?”, but then I did little to stem this irritating line of questioning with my please-locate-the-nearest-exit-to-you and how-to-use-your-oxygen-mask and Whoah-there’s-some-turbulence-up-ahead dance moves. Trés kitsch, I know. (And thanks to a dare from Peas, I’m actually wearing the outfit to the office today – have already received a compliment, if you can believe it!)

What was awesome about the party was the attention to detail: the hosts had stuck a Twister mat onto a wall, and lifted someone up to play on it – sideways and airborne, of course; they had got slush puppy machines to serve slush margaritas from; a bout of impressive breakdancing broke out; someone came dressed as Jacques Costeau (a rather liberal interpretation of the ‘circa’ of the theme there, methinks).

A boys’ weekend of heavy drinking, smoking and some golf…

…leads to the best sex of your life thus far. Ever. ‘Nuff said. Perhaps I should not bitch about the Gilb’s birthday weekend gallivant to a golf resort with a whole bunch of guys (girls not allowed), but instead encourage it. Hmmm….

Who’s the biggest emitter of them all?

2006-10-11T09:31:00.000+02:00

First off, happy birthday baby! Mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa! I spent a precious three minutes developing a work of art to mark your entry into the rank of the 26-year-olds:

Next up, an educational piece (I’m in the mood for personal knowledge enhancement, so bear with me). With all the hoo-ha about carbon emissions, the new buzzword is carbon footprints. So let me enlighten you all…

What is a carbon footprint?

Carbon Footprint is a measure of the impact human activities have on the environment in terms of the amount of green house gases produced, measured in units of carbon dioxide.

Carbon footprint = direct (primary) + indirect (secondary) footprint

The primary footprint constitutes our direct emission of carbon dioxide from the consumption of fossil fuels (for use in the home and transportation).

The secondary footprint measures carbon dioxide emissions from the whole lifecycle of products we use (during their manufacture and break down).

How do I reduce my footprint?

Primary footprint: aeroplanes = bad! Ground-based public transport = good! (and you all mocked the Gautrain, sis on you!). Bumming regular lifts with tjommies traveling the same route as you = good! Time to turn off the gas, sever your electricity connections and buy solar panels.

Secondary footprint: Bottled water = kak. You get quality water from your tap, so why encourage the unnecessary burning of fuel to make the plastic container and transport the stuff from Franschhoek to your mouth? Any food from another country = kak. For transport reasons (i.e. consumption of fuels) we should stick to food made/grown locally (perhaps the government should have used this excuse when putting quotas on imported Chinese textiles?) So local really is lekker!

This website lists a number of ways to reduce your emissions, most amusing of which is “See if your employer will allow you to work from home one day a week.” “C’mon boss! Do it for our planet!” Not in this lifetime, I’m afraid…

Third World Ant’s footprint is ginormous for such a little insect

Calculate your own carbon footprint

Seems like I’m naai’ing the world with my profligate use of a private car and holiday flights (the values for the secondary footprint have all been assumed by the calculator). Scarily, environmentalists claim that to stop global warming, the average individual carbon dioxide emission needs to be reduced to 2,500 kg/year. That’s a sixth of my current consumption! I’m going to have to ask to work from home from Monday to Friday at this rate! (I must say though, that scientifically, environmentalists are a dodgy lot – they fail to back up most of their claims with credible scientific experimentation. I certainly do not doubt the gist of their claims, just the empirical accuracy thereof).

So how now, thou polluting cows? I’m not sure myself – there’s so much talk about the need for global adoption of environmentally friendly processes, but no-one taking serious measures to cut their own emissions. The problem lies in the fact that being pro-environment is perceived to be expensive – operating cheap and dirty is seen to line the pockets of shareholders with much thicker wads of profit. Till that perception/fact is changed, I can’t see anything improving noticeably any time soon.

Jeeks, jeeks everywhere

2006-10-10T09:41:00.000+02:00

Frightfully slow on the uptake, I wanted to tell you about the ‘Jeek’ Dinner Peas dragged me along to last Thursday, even though the hype has long since moved on (as it will, almost a week later!)

I do have a few brief comments to make on the event:

- Had a proud moment (every few minutes, in fact) when my blog was inexplicably shown on a large screen, along with some other blogs, although unfortunately always right after Peas’ one (it felt exactly like when you get called onto the stage for your varsity degree and the person before you has won all the prizes and their citation takes 5 minutes, while yours takes a mere 30 seconds). But momentary fame, nonetheless.

- Regaled to us was an awesome story about the power of blogging, as used in a world-first marketing initiative by our local wine label, Stormhoek. Read about it here. I was so enthralled with it, that I wrote an email to Wine magazine, recommending they write a huge article on it, noting that it certainly speaks to the young, IT-savvy market they are so desperately trying to appeal to. The editor’s response? “We have actually carried the story in Wine, albeit as a small news piece”. And this is a prime example of why the wine industry in SA has failed to cross the divide and appeal to broader markets than the dwindling population of wealthy old white folk – if the wine media can’t do it, then what hope can the winefarms have?

- Met a sprightly German fellow by the name of Heinrich, who begged me to tell you all about his downloadable cellphone cartoons. So to all 0.00000083% of planet Earth’s population who browse here, be sure to check out his cute little cellphone dude at www.bunandbunee.com Hope this helps, dear boy!

- Peas and I were constantly asked if we were really geeks (or jeeks, as the cool geeks call themselves). I mean, what? Do we look like cool people or something? Does a jeek really have to be heavily IT inclined to be allowed into the clan of the cool uncools? And for that matter, do we not look heavily IT inclined? (okay, there’s no fooling anyone on that last point, you just have to look at my blog template to convince yourself otherwise)

In other weekend news:

Had my first-ever dinner out with the Gilb’s family (he’s come out often enough with mine, which is predictably a rowdy, overindulgent and expensive affair). I tell you, getting conversation out of his father is like pulling teeth! I rattled on about everything and nothing to fill the quiet void, until unwittingly, he saved me by saying to the owner of the restaurant: “Hey, you go to Mozambique often – any advice for these two?” This dude then launched into a 45-minute lecture on everything from accidentally running over little kids (“Whatever you do, don’t stop! There’ll be trouble if you stop!”) to how you need to deflate your 4x4’s tyres to 0.9 bar when riding up steep dunes. He spoke all the way through dessert, until we politely stood up to leave. He won’t ever know how grateful I was for the arb information…

My Saturday was pretty moody, 100% caused by myself. 3rm had asked me a while back to check with the Gilb if we could all go to Lollipop Lounge (strip club in Randburg) on Saturday, and after the Gilb put up a protest about not really wanting to go (he’s never been before, claims he doesn’t see the point), I basically forced him into it. I even made him ensure he had enough cash on him to get a lap dance. But as the day progressed, I grew less certain of my own desire to attend with him, for two reasons: a) no guy would truly prefer to have his girlfriend present at a strip club with him, it would seriously dampen the mood; and b) do I really want to see some (probably frightfully hot Eastern European) chick grinding her pelvis on his lap? For reason (a) I declared that I would not be joining him, and would rather find alternative entertainment plans for the evening, but for reason (b) I got more and more sulky. Yes, it was irrational and inconsistent of me, but logic could not convince me otherwise. By a small miracle, the plans were unraveled due to 3rm’s large night out on Friday, for vague details of which, kindly refer to the following point.

Four of my single friends had napovers this weekend (and yes, J, staying out with him until 6am is pretty much a napover). I’m not allowed to say more, unfortunately – gagged, not unlike the M&G frequently is. The point is, spring is in the air, hormones are running high, and my whiney mates are all shacking up, for which I’m eternally grateful – just shut the hell up about there not being anyone for you on this planet, and make the most of it will y’all?

Notwithstanding my Saturday protestations, I’m having a particularly “I love Gilb to bits” pining week – the kind where his being in Sepoenda sucks unbearably. The one thing that will help me cope of course, is the fact that the dolt decided he’d spend this entire up-coming weekend – no other weekend, folks, than the one immediately after his birthday, which is tomorrow – with a herd of boys playing golf near Hartebeespoort Dam. So, like, um, I’ll just cancel the nice treat I had lined up for you, then. Sometimes two wrongs do make a right. Muahahaha!

Doctors suck

2006-10-05T09:04:00.000+02:00

Most of them, that is. And this is not a statement I can make without pissing off a number of my close friends, who are in their community service year of medicine and ready to be unleashed on the world to do the same thing as the protagonists of this post’s title (be doctors, hopefully not suck, that is).

It is my general aim in life to avoid going to the doctor (and I should be specific here: I mean the GP; my encounters with surgeons are thankfully rare, but in all cases, necessary) like the plague: not because I am afraid of them, not because I don’t fall sick from time to time, but because for the large part, I don’t believe they add any value to my life. The dentist, yes – he does preventative maintenance on my teeth, removes the inevitable plaque build-up, reinforces the enamel with fluoride and whitens them. I make twice-annual appointments, I go to his office, I wait about five minutes to see him, he does his work, I see the pleasing manifestations thereof, I pay him his rather large bill quite willingly. I am a happy dentist customer – in fact, I look forward to my visits.

So why can it not be the same with the GP? Not having been since 1999 (except in the case where I needed a renewed prescription for something) I think I forgot all the reasons why I despised them so much, but I will now relate these to you, so that you can share in my ire (do not attempt to appease me please, I want to be pissed off. Thanks).

What time was my appointment again?

I arrived at 9am (technically 8:55am) yesterday morning for my 9am appointment – that’s what people in the business world do when they make meeting times. If you want me there for 9am, then I’ll be there for 9am. If you don’t want to see me until 9:40am, then kindly inform me before the fact that this will be the case. I was told mine was the first appointment of the day, so why on earth was he seeing another patient before me? (“Was it a sudden emergency?” I asked of the receptionist. “No, just his first appointment,” she replied.) Oh. So you book two people, make one wait while you see the other one, boot them out after a certain amount of time, shuffle the next one in, see them for some amount of time, kick them out, herd the next one in ad infinitum (actually, only until 4:30pm. Heaven forbid you expect your doctor, who is actually a businessman trading in his medical services, to put in the occasional late evening. Only people in the real business world have to do that, you see. Us poor lowly un-MBBCh’d creatures.). What really grates my cheese about this was the nonchalance of the receptionist – she looked at me in a very surprised fashion when I suggested I might have other important things to do that day, and acted like I should have expected to wait for the appointment. She didn’t come anywhere near offering an apology for the delay (neither did the doctor, for that matter). If I’d left, they’d probably still have had the nerve to charge me my consultation fee for failing to cancel the appointment less than 24 hours before it occurred, but I’m pretty sure I’d not be able to convince them to pay me for my lost time – it’s not like I don’t have an income to earn, after all. Or is it that my job is less important than yours?

I’m going to prescribe something for you, whether you need it or not

My doctor friends have confirmed this for me – a GP will bow to your whims and prescribe drugs whether you need them or not, because it feels psychologically better as a patient to know you haven’t forked out your consultation fee for nothing – you’re getting hard-core schedule 5 stuff to zap your ailment, whether or not you need it. Antibiotics for a (virally induced) cold? “In case you develop a bacterial infection now that your immune system is a little down” they’ll whimper. In my mind, drugs are usually designed to treat stuff, not prevent it from infecting you. What you really need to be told is “stop whining, if it’s a sick note you want, I can write a fake one up for you” or “stop dressing like an Oxford Rd hooker at night in the middle of winter – put on a goddamn jersey!” or “take Medlemon and sleep it off, you big baby.”

And we wonder why it is that super drug-resistant bug strains develop (hello XDR!) when we prescribe strong drugs to people who don’t really need them, hence don’t take them properly, hence expose their existing bugs to weaker-than-required levels of the drugs, which in turn develop immunities to them.

[But I must be fair and say that this wasn’t the case with my infection yesterday – of course, in some instances, drugs are truly required (although I did pose to him that it was entirely possible my body would clear itself of the infection on its own, that’s what our immune system is for, after all, isn’t it?)]

I’m going to get all self-righteous on your wayward ass

Now, I expect a GP to tell me all the possible pertinent information about the drugs he’s just so happily prescribed for me. I shouldn’t have to conjure up for him some rather likely scenarios that might be happening in my life to check whether or not the drugs will affect it. Unfortunately, the only way I ever really learn the contraindications of a drug is by reading the package inserts, which are vastly more informative (if somewhat too liberally peppered with medical jargon). See, I’ve learnt that some medication doesn’t go too well with other medication. A while back, when I went on the Pill, the doctor (gynae in that instance) never bothered to tell me that antibiotics reduce its effectiveness. Knowing how frequently doctors prescribe antibiotics, and knowing that people generally fall sick with colds/flu once or twice a year, it is not a highly unlikely event that I’d be taking antibiotics at some point in the future, and accidentally find myself pregnant because the Pill suddenly stopped working. Fortunately, that didn’t happen because I have learnt always to read the damn package insert and look up the words I don’t understand.

Anyhow, back to my appointment yesterday: I waited for him to ask what other medication I might be on, or what other medical problems I might have, in the event that there might be some contraindications for my prescribed drugs (I also asked for anti-malarials, I’m going to Mozam in late October/November). I know for a fact that Larium should not be prescribed to people with certain mental problems, but he wasn’t concerned enough to ask about my mental health. I also know that 10-20% of people on anti-malarials (that’s 1 in 5, not a small percentage at all) suffer side-effects from them, but I had to ask what the side-effects were before he thought to tell me. And the cherry on top, I asked “don’t some antibiotics have any possible effect on any other medication I might be taking?” So he replies: “no, not really, you’re not on the Pill are you?” in a disapproving voice. Now that’s one hell of an assumption to make, and one hell of a judgement to cast. Incompetence is what we call it in the real world.

All things fnu-related

2006-10-03T09:16:00.000+02:00

If you don’t know, don’t ask.

1. I have some kidney-related illness. It must be terminal – this amount of pain cannot be survived, surely. It feels like someone is using my kidneys as punching bags, my pee is electric highlighter pink and is accompanied by a stinging sensation. It all started while I was sitting on the loo – more about that in point #2 – at the Jolly. Being marginally inebriated, I thought that I must have stretched funnily when I stood up, because there was a bolt of pain in my lower back, on the left side. That pain persisted all through the night, which kept poor Gilb up (when he’s in Jozi over weekends, on extremely rare occasions he’ll spend Sunday night here too and leave on Monday at 4:30am. Being a creature of comfort, it is extremely important to him that he feels he has a good night’s rest. Being a creature who enjoys his company, I aim to ensure he’s as happy as can be when staying over on a Sunday night – my rolling around and constant getting up last night did little convince him to entertain the idea on an on-going basis. But I digress, vastly). Knowing how concerned you all are about my wellbeing, I’ll keep you painstakingly informed of the developments. Hopefully getting a chance to see the doctor tomorrow.

2. At a birthday lunch on Sunday, the topic of conversation turned to the use of public toilets, largely because I admitted to needing an urgent pee at the Zoo Lake the other day, and remarked on how all the loo seats had been stolen. “You didn’t actually use the toilet, did you?” some girls asked, horrified. “Hell yes, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. Fortunately I had some old used tissues on me to serve as toilet paper – there was none in the bathroom.” What emerged was one of two possibilities: a) I am far, far too lax about hygiene concerns in public places (as you’ll remember, my chief concern is about being heard doing my business in the toilet) and risk picking up hepatitis or some dreaded venereal disease (ohmygod! I just realised – what if the infection described in point #1 is a result of this callous excretory behaviour?); or b) some girls are just far too ahem, anal, about using public loos. Two of the girls carry a spray from Dischem that you can use to clean the seat – and one of those girls still then hovers over the toilet bowl! Another drives home from work about twice a day to potty in the happy comfort of her own bathroom (admittedly only 10 minutes away from her office). What this kind of behaviour is making evident to me is the reason for the phenomenon of very long queues always found in ladies’ loos in public places – girls are frantically spritzing, wiping and hovering – a small fraction of this time is actually consumed with the business of relieving oneself. And then there’s the saga of not touching the toilet door handle, washing your hands without touching the taps, drying your hands thoroughly, and barging through the bathroom door by kicking with your foot (this handle is also dirty) while hoping no-one is going to be knocked out on the other side. It’s almost a better idea for these lasses not to wash their hands at all after using the loo, methinks (okay, just joking – if there’s one hygiene practice I’m fussy about, it’s that. Wash your hands. Always.)

3. Our new office development, which our company will occupy from the beginning of next month, have abnormally low toilets. I never noticed it at the beginning, but my boss took one look at them the other day, and declared them unfit for grown-up use. Turns out there are SABS standards for the height of a toilet seat from the ground, and ours are 2cm below the minimum accepted height. So for the time being, we’ll be practicing the bathroom limbo. How low can you go?

4. I have decided I hate La Senza underwear. While it looks gorgeous, it’s scratchy and uncomfortable. The little extra crotch piece (this must have a proper name – anyone?) is cut wrong and sewn in at 6 precarious points. The underwear inevitably shuffles its way right up your backside, too – if I’d wanted a g-string, I’d have bought one, thank you very much. Ugh. (random aside: the toilet crew of point #2 inform me that La Senza is a Canadian brand. I thought that Italian designers would have had more design prowess, so I’m relieved that they have been absolved of this fashion crime.)

May all your bathroom endeavours be clean and peaceful, y’all…

Your chance to be an advice columnist

2006-09-28T09:02:00.000+02:00

I, along with all my friends, have been reeling in shock at the revelation that a couple in my close circle of friends have called their wedding off, and in fact have seemingly ended their relationship. I was to be a bridesmaid at this union of what I deemed to be one of the best matches of man and woman, and needless to say recent events have made me revisit the notion of blissful eternal coupledom with a healthy dose of cynicism.

Now, let me state very clearly at the outset that the Gilb and I are a generally very happy pair – yes, frustrated by the fact that a significant portion of our lives together have been maintained over a long distance, what with me in CT for nine months for work, and now him in Secunda indefinitely since April for the same reason – and maybe that’s because we haven’t spent enough continuous time in each other’s company for things to go too awry; most of the times we get to see each other, we spend very amiably, grateful for the opportunity to interact through that greatest of the five senses, touch.

But even so, there are a number of worrying questions that go through my head, and I’m positive through the head of every person in a relationship, whatever stage it is at. Given the break up of my good friends’ supposedly very strong pairing, naturally these questions have dominated my thoughts this week:

1 – It is nigh on impossible that two people will ever contribute exactly equally to the development, growth and sustenance of a relationship. At what point is one person doing too much and the other too little?

2 – No two people’s wants and needs will ever coincide in perfect harmony, so compromise from both parties is certainly required. How much compromise is okay? How much should you be putting your needs ahead or behind of your relationship’s, or even your partner’s, needs?

3 – On the topic of compromise, how much should you be willing to change your ways and attitudes to improve the harmony of the relationship? What are acceptable things to ask your partner to change, and indeed, to be expected to change about yourself?

4 – When cracks and strains do start to show, how much time should you dedicate to relationship maintenance and repair? If after significant effort, things still appear not to be improving, how do you know whether to stick it out longer or admit defeat, and move on?

All answers are welcome, enlighten me oh learned (and perhaps more experienced) ones…

Yawn… an awesome long weekend

2006-09-27T09:13:00.000+02:00

Somewhat predictably, the weekend was fabulous. After all, if you take a boyfriend and girlfriend who have not seen each other properly over the past 5 weeks, stick them in a city they haven’t explored in yonks, and give them a bonus weekend day, how could it not be?

So, the lowdown:

Friday – arrive later than expected in Durbs (sigh… when will they see to the “rotational delays” so frequently cited as excuses?), and to both my dismay (at the lost opportunity to embarrass the Gilb) and relief (at not having to fight with golf clubs for seat space), the rental car is upgraded from a Chevy Spark 800cc to a Golf. That’s not all that’s upgraded: the room we booked in a La Lucia backpackers is improved too, at no extra cost. Shweet! Dinner at a nearby Italian trattoria, and retire to bed like an old (randy) couple at the thoroughly respectable hour of 11pm.

Saturday – breakfast at the harbour followed by a stroll down the colourful Promenade, the de riguer tourist trip to Gateway (because I stupidly forgot to bring a cozzie, and oops, found some Avril Lavigne-wannabe Vans shoes – black with pink hippo’s, how could I possibly resist?), the de rigeur walk on the beach. Then a movie (Miami Vice, loved it) and the de rigeur dinner at a pukka Indian restaurant. Advice: some cultural cuisine specialities are really acquired tastes to be left to those with the necessary experience under the belt. I ordered the only exotic drink on the menu, a milkshake (Bombay Shake) that was pink with floaty green squishy aniseed-tasting bits (Fear Factor, behold!), thankfully was denied the starter of my choice (“out of leaves, madame”), and after the damn fine curry, stuffed a handful of the Indian after-dinner-mint equivalent in my mouth. Which consisted of many different seeds, mixed with hundreds and thousands, and tasted like perfume. So revolting I couldn’t bring myself to swallow, yet too many people around to spit it out. The Gilb had a mighty enjoyable ten minutes dawdling over paying the bill before we could leave and I could spit it out in the bushes on the pavement. Retire to bed like an old (randy) couple at the thoroughly respectable hour of 12pm.

Sunday – quick dash to uShaka to see what all the fuss is about (verdict: if you’re purely interested in the aquarium, the Two Oceans in CT wins hands down, although the dolphinarium thing, while being a highly Americanised for of entertainment, was admittedly very enjoyable), followed by a golf day for the Gilb and his old golfing buddy in Amanzimtoti, while I lazed away the five hours with his girlfriend (we couldn’t be more worlds apart if we tried) and 3-year old son, watching Shrek on dvd THREE TIMES. Yes, as you may have suspected, it’s far less entertaining from viewings 2 onwards, but at least it kills time when all you’ve got in common with the lass you’re stuck with is the fact that you both have ovaries. Five long hours later, the boys returned, braaing and more drinking commenced, and the evening improved. Retire to bed like an old (randy) couple at the thoroughly respectable hour of 11:30pm.

Monday – my turn to catch up with friends, this time a doctor doing her community service in Scottburgh. She’s fallen in love with an abandoned five-month old baby who she’s practically fostering until suitable adoption parents are found. Interesting story: the baby was born to a black prostitute who is suspected of blackmailing the wealthy white (married, and familied) businessman with whom the child was conceived. Why else would some dude pay maintenance fees to a prostitute? Anyhow, as a result of the shambles with the parents, the perfectly healthy baby’s adoption process is being hampered (apparently four families want to have her) and the poor thing is living in a ward with sick babies. Taz has fallen in love with the child (who unfortunately only responds to the nickname “Poopsie” and not her real name Melody, which is entirely Taz’s fault) and takes her home regularly. The Gilb, a man normally in fear of such concepts as “marriage” and “children”, took a huge liking to Melody, and I now have photo’s of him nursing the non-white baby to use in an enjoyable shock-the-parents moment – “Ag tannie en oom, kyk vir Gilb met sy pragtige [out-of-wedlock] kleurling babatjie!”

The one major downer of the weekend was news that two good friends have put their marriage plans – and indeed, relationship – on hold. Major respect to the lass for her courageous action, and no doubt more to follow in my next post. Processing, you understand.

Smiles in, frowns out

2006-09-22T09:02:00.000+02:00

To hell with it – despite the bad things that have happened in recent days, I’m not going to let the week end on a bad note. There are a fair number of good things that are happening/have happened, so let me don my familiar garb of eternal optimist:

1. I’m flying down to Durbs with the Gilb for the long weekend. After visiting very briefly for the Durban July (the first official visit since 1999) I decided I had to come and check out the SA city that has arguably changed the most in recent years. The Gilb, can you believe it, has never been. So amid all the friend-visiting, I’m hoping to get some decent sight-seeing in. And have a damn fine curry or five, while we’re at it.

2. The week that has past feels like a four-day week instead of the customary five-day slog. Aided mostly by Wednesday’s sojourn at a day spa, comprising a marathon destressing rub-and-scrub-seven-treatments session for me and all my colleagues.

We arrived at Montecasino at the butt-crack of dawn, caught a bus to the resort (Mangwanana, somewhere out Hartebeespoort Dam way) and were ordered to disrobe before breakfast (which of course at these places consisted of muesli and fruit). All in all, there were about 50 visitors, each one wrapped in a white towel robe with matching slippers. It felt like a pyjama party – only far more diverse than the standard kind, as this one was attended by some 50-something CEO types, alongside Sandton kugels, alongside expectant mothers, alongside rowdy twenty-something boozy types (us, of course).

It’s a great concept, actually – it achieves more successfully what the government’s expanded public works programme has tried to do – create jobs. Only in this case, the jobs are permanent, the skills are real and the clients actually feel they’re getting something for their money. About 300 local people were trained up to become masseuses, and the place is open 7 days a week, with day and night spa treatments available. Oh, and you have a limitless supply of alcohol on hand.

The day went pretty much as follows:

a. Shuffle to the table in your gowns, be fed.
b. Order an alcoholic beverage.
c. Shuffle off to some outside lapa where a masseuse slathers some body part in oils and creams and rubs you vigorously while you doze.
d. After 45 minutes, a drum sounds, you awake from your happy slumber and shuffle back to the table in your gowns.

And this process was repeated seven times! Every inch of my body was paid far more attention than it has received in at least the past year, and it saddens me to think they will have to wait for another similar experience before receiving the same attention again.

What totally cracked me up was the fact that everyone shuffled around at the same time, in the same white robe, in a zombie-like reverie, slaves to the bright black-and-orange clad masseuses – it had either a cult (Cult of the White Robe, we called it) or a psychiatric ward vibe going.

3. Like Gabrielle from Desperate Housewives, I feel all broody like a mother at the minute. St Stithians sent me a copy of the report of the Matric pupil I mentor, and I’m all proud of him for his achievements, and I have really enjoyed reading the comments his teachers have made about him. I will have to give him a stern talking to, however, as the area in which he has performed least well is Science, which is just not acceptable for my mentee. So I shall castigate him over a milkshake or something (he can’t have it all harsh, can he?) in the next few days…

4. For all my misgivings about Jacob Zuma, the man can only really start to distress me at the end of next year, when in all likelihood he’ll be elected ANC President. So why stress about it now? Denial is a powerful, powerful drug, and if he’s knocking it back, then why can’t I?

5. After not hearing from my bloody best mate in Vancouver for ages, teasnob’s Mom called me to tell me he had the good sense and common decency to send Timmy and me a postcard during his US cavort. And not a damn moment too soon, dear boy, for I shall have skinned you alive on our Mozambican holiday next month… (and ps: pretty please bring me a really tacky – but cheap, I know your finances won’t allow more – American gift. Like steal a pro-/anti-Bush poster from somewhere!)

6. Speaking of Mozambique, I finally stopped being polite about the refund of my now 10-month-old ticket for my ill-fated trip there in December of last year. On Monday, I lost my temper, demanded names of managers and threatened to sue, and voila! The money will be deposited into my bank account by this coming Monday, and the travel agency will wait for the airline to refund them the money. So my poor month will finally receive a little dole treatment.

Ok, with all this positivity I feel I am entitled to one bitch point, mkay?

7. My fourth and final visit to the dentist this month (and a very large part of the reason I need a dole supplement) has been extended to a fifth. The dude ensconced an incisor in filling and bond to prevent it from “crumbling away” (I had an abcess there in primary school which killed the nerve, and dead teeth inevitably return to ashes, I have been informed), but in so doing has completely changed the shape of the tooth so it now looks noticeably unlike its partner. Worse, it’s been enlarged to the point that I can’t squeeze floss between it and one of its neighbours, which does not do my OCD oral hygiene tendencies any good.

Right. I’m bloggily spent, I hope you have super-duper long weekends, and take a moment to appreciate your SA heritage, regardless of your political beliefs or the country you now call home. For it is truly a lovely, lovely spot on this Earth.

PS: Happy birthday for yesterday Rev! If the f*&%ing Internet had been working properly yesterday, I’d have been able to comment on your site. Mwa!

Stunned

2006-09-21T09:09:00.000+02:00

I was going to tell you all about my leisurely day at a spa yesterday, but two things have happened that have seriously dampened my mood:

1 - Jacob Zuma's charges have been dismissed
2 - Richard Hammond (one of the presenters of my beloved Top Gear) is in a critical condition in hospital after a crash while shooting an episode for the series.

Bleh. No more to say today.

Fun with heat exchangers

2006-09-18T09:29:00.000+02:00

I spent a generally quiet weekend in Secunda, the principal highlight of which was my much-anticipated tour of the Sasol facility. Due to the fact that most energy-related companies in SA are considered ‘strategic assets’ on account of the fact that they have no competitors – and hence if they are bombed, such attack would result in serious disruptions to the country’s day-to-day running – the security at Sasol is pretty high. The Gilb waited for me outside entrance Charlie 1, and after smothering him silly with kisses by way of greeting, we approached the fearsome gatekeeper at the “key point facility” where he proceeded to explain that he wanted to give his… friend a tour of Sasol (“I asked my supervisor Liefie, he said that was the best way to convince them to let you in!”). What. Ever.

The first thing that smacks you about this place as you pass the gates is the veneer of safety plastered over everything. “Safety first” your cell phone tower signal proclaims. “I work safe for my family” signs obscure your visibility as you drive down the plant’s roads (“Thank you for working safely”, they say as you leave the plant). And the cherry on top, all of the little gifts they give to staff (such as a torch-cum-screwdriver, an overnight bag) have “Safe and beautiful for my family” emblazoned on them. They have electronic billboards counting the number of accident-free hours worked and the current accident rate. Given the number of deaths the company experiences each year, I guess it’s hardly surprising they’re obsessive about it. They have speeding limits, and you can even get fined for not wearing a seatbelt as you’re driving around the plant.

Anyway, the Gilb drove me around the gigantic premises, and it was really cute to see how puffed up with pride he was when showing me the maze of pipes and smoke stacks and fractional distillation columns and flares and pumps and heat exchangers and tanks and and and. “I worked on that heat exchanger over there!” he proclaimed. “See that flare – it’s burning quite cleanly, that means today they’re burning hydrogen!” “Liefie look over there – that’s where they crush the coal before sending it to the gassifier!”

The place truly is amazing, I have to concede. So here are some random little facts about the Secunda plant of the company that produces 38% of the country’s petrol (for which it becomes profitable when Brent Crude sells anywhere above $22 per barrel):

1. The Secunda plant employs 8,000 people and 6,000 contractors
2. Secunda residents have the highest per capita GDP generation in the country
3. The plant alone – excluding any offices, mines and empty land – spans a whopping 4 km by 2km
4. It produces 160,000 barrels of petrol per day
5. The plant is split into two identical sides: east and west, each producing both diesel and petrol
6. The only non-identical thing about the plant is that one of the smoke stack chimneys is 1m taller than its partner, to break some height record for smoke stacks
7. The fact that the plant reeks of chemicals and all staff are required to wear protective ear muffs means that one can fart with smelly abandon and not be caught in the act, the Gilb happily informs me.

Oddly, while the overall 4-weeks’ maintenance shutdown is officially over, not all the units of the plant are up and running yet. Which means that for those that are running, the excess products that can’t be stored or fed into the next stage of the process are being burned. Yes ladies and gentlemen, Sasol is currently burning away petrol precursors – I say, give me the damn stuff for free and I’ll refine the shit myself!

The rest of the weekend was mostly quietly spent snuggling up on a couch due to the miserable weather, bar a foray into the town for dinner on Friday, a visit to the Graceland driving range where I got to show off my profound lack of golfing skills (oh yes, in my mini-mini-mini skirt), and a stop at the video store.

And I finally got to witness the rumoured violence of the town’s male inhabitants – one of the Gilb’s housemates kissed a girl at a dodgy pool bar, and one of her friends was so upset about this that he felt the need to punch him on the eye socket and lip. Small-town rage, go figure.

The Fat Post

2006-09-14T10:05:00.000+02:00

Okay: first things first – happy birthday Peas! Sorry you’re not in Jozi to celebrate, but something tells me you’re having a grand old time with the Rhodents! Hugs and kisses, I’m glad you decided to jump on the bandwagon and join the 26-ers.

Now, on to the subject of the title:

In my mind, I’ve always been 56 (kilograms, that is) not 57. In fact, I still feel 56. Unfortunately, all evidence to the contrary…

It all started, not on a dark and stormy night as most such horror stories aptly begin, but rather on the pleasant evening after my birthday picnic before we hit the Colon. I asked 3rm if my usually hot blue pants looked smashing, and he said “errrr… no. definitely not” (he’s horribly honest like that). Okay I thought, they’ve just come out of the wash, they’ve obviously shrunk a little, I’ll stretch them out some other time when rude 3rm is not about.

Then, the other day, I decided to go to gym (primarily because I couldn’t face up to the thought of showering in our very blocked-drained shower), and as an after-thought, I stood on the scale. Let me say outright that I do not believe in weighing yourself – it’s more about how your clothes fit you and how toned you look (and of course how fit you feel); the number on the scale has a very rough correlation to all of this. But I thought, hell Ant, you haven’t weighed yourself in about 3 years, let’s see what it says. Thinking, of course, that it would show what I have always thought was my approximate weight in recent times – 56ish kg. Especially since 3rm and I have been running quite regularly for the past two weeks – I thought there might even be a nice surprise in store with me coming in closer to 55ish. Not so at all. “57,4!” the heartless scale boasted. Still, ever the optimist, I assumed this was all due to the fact that it wasn’t first thing in the morning, and I’d consumed practically a litre of water after my workout in thirst.

But then, because I’m slow at reaching conclusions and the universe is unrelenting in its need to humiliate me, my mysterious expansion was revealed to me elsewhere. On Sunday, 3rm and I went shopping for Peas’ gift in Rosebank, and naturally I got distracted by The Space, and even more naturally I found two dresses I wanted to try on. So I did what I would normally do, which is take the items in a size 34 (a.k.a. size 10), drag 3rm to the change room and parade the said garb in front of him. Except the first dress was toight (damn these designers! They can never stick to conventional sizings! – see how slow I can be?), and the second even toighter (um, that’s weird. It’s a different designer, I’ve just had a number of similar experiences recently – could that mean it’s me? But then that would mean… gasp! That would mean that I’m… I’m…) And so the penny dropped. Denial is a powerful, powerful thing.

So in Cape Town on Tuesday, I broke a rule of mine: it’s my policy not to buy any item of clothing thinking “it’ll fit me properly when I lose weight” – we all know it’s rare that you do, and the clothes just end up never being worn. But my irrational rationale told me to buy the mini-mini-mini skirt (in a size 36 of course, but this I’m positive is cut too small, and I’m sticking by this whether you believe me or not) and force myself to wear it in public. I’d be so self-conscious about the fact that I looked 57 in it, that this would give me the oomph to shed the dastardly kilo and then cavort around in it as a heavenly 56. Anyone buying my logic? 3rm, I hope you realise this means we can’t ever stop running - in fact, I think we aught to up our daily efforts by a km or two!

PS: unrelated, but certainly worth mentioning – I hope you all heard the news that Australians have gone on the rampage following news of Steve Irwin’s death – dozens of stingrays have been found needlessly slaughtered on Australia’s beaches as humans felt the need to take their revenge for Steve’s death. Stop the madness!

PPS: do you pronounce “kilometer” with the “kilo” bit as you would in “kilogram”, or is the emphasis on the “o”? It drives me truly mental that it shouldn’t follow convention with other “kilo” pronunciations.

Diary of a day in CT

2006-09-13T09:08:00.000+02:00

I spent a fabulous day in Cape Town yesterday, all for the very important meeting with our company’s website designers to finalise its content… this is how the day went – if only every Tuesday could be as pleasant:

4:30 – wake up! Wash, change, drag an assortment of bags and folders to the car, head to the airport. Try an experiment: test airport security by leaving my Leatherwoman in a zipped pocket in my bag

6:15 – Kulula my way to CT (first time in my experience that any Kulula flight’s left on time!), head on to Imperial Cars to pick up my pond-scum rental, only to be informed that I’ve been given a free upgrade (Ford Ikon, hardly an upgrade if you ask me, but hey, had a free radio. Plus a bag of mints – shweet!) Given my need to stare at Table Mountain at every possible second (even if it involves frequent 180 degree turns of my head) I decide to upgrade the rental premium to reduce the excess in case of an accident

8:30 – 9:25 – staring at the magic mountain while dodging scary CT drivers (and I do believe their taxi drivers have finally caught up with the full suite of bad manners and illegal road maneuvers that our Jozi ones are famed for)

9:25 – 9:30 – marveling at how much Long Street has changed since I last was there in the middle of last year – it now sports more upmarket stores such as Caroline’s Fine Wines and Gourmet Burgers, but I was relieved to see that that reliably dodgy old institution, Mr Pickwicks, is still around (how much longer, I wonder – the rent will probably shoot up soon)

9:30 – 10:15 – meeting with the website designers in Kloof St. I’m so damn organised, it took a lot less time than anticipated (although I’ll not pass this information on to my boss!)

10:15 – 11:00 – shopping on Kloof! Despite the fact that I have less that zero money this month (anticipated cost of 4 x dentist visits this month = R10,000; car service just cost me R6,500; gifts & birthday costs = R800; Gilb anniversary gift = reasonably pricey; long weekend in Durbs = probably R2,500) I felt the need to burn even bigger holes in my credit card. This little shop called Nylon on Kloof had some great deals, which coupled with the fact I scored a date with the manager (obviously unable and disinclined to accept), made me feel obliged make to a purchase (or two). The goods: a silver flower-shaped ring, and a mini-mini-mini denim pleated skirt (more on this purchase in the ‘Fat Post’, to follow later this week).

11:00 – 11:20 – staring at the magic mountain while dodging scary CT drivers en route to Kirstenbosch, where I can see the other side of the magic mountain.

11:20 – 1:00 – walk around Kirstenbosch, often backwards, staring at the magic mountain – are you starting to get the picture that I’m a little obsessed? Keep the sea, I say, gee net vir Jozi die Tafel asseblief! Chuckle at the colourful language of dozens of coloured grannies who mysteriously descend on the gardens in a large, noisy group.

1:00 – 2:00 – eat lunch at the coffee shop, every now and then doing you-know-what to look at the you-know-what. Sigh! So beautiful! Get immensely disappointed at a call informing me that Peas’ friends had decided to cancel the real surprise I had planned for her last night (I’ll get you yet, Peas!), but recover rapidly because the beautiful mountain does wonders for my mood.

2:00 – 4:00 – play the dutiful employee (and geeky yuppie) by whipping out my laptop, positioning myself in full view of the lovely hunk of famous CT rock, and working solidly for 2 hours (probably got more done than I would do in Jozi in 5 hours, thanks to the absence of the Internet)

4:00 – 4:30 – staring at the magic mountain while dodging scary CT drivers en route to the airport (yes, all good things come to an end).

4:30 – 8:30 – get seriously close to finally finishing Paul Theroux’s “The Mosquito Coast”, which I promised myself I would complete before starting on my much-awaited “The Annotated Alice” – 60 pages to go.

8:30 – emerge from the airport to my familiar and much-beloved Jozi skyline, with my Leatherwoman still firmly in my possession – seems airport security’s a little slack, eh?

10:30 – try to devise good reasons to go back to CT to have another absolutely critical meeting with the website designers (nothing convincing as yet… any ideas?)

Strange sights

2006-09-11T09:04:00.000+02:00

Perhaps it was because I was in a reflective mood this weekend that I saw a number of things that affected me when normally I might have spent less time dwelling on them; perhaps because in the ‘new South Africa’ the more positive ones among us believe that the average Joe on the street is a little better off than they were before 1994; perhaps because I have a sense that I’m wasting my life being insignificant when I have had the privilege of an upbringing that provided me all that I ever needed and a thorough formal education spanning 17 years, when most South Africans have gone lacking and struggle to imagine a world tomorrow when they’ll be safer, less hungry, and more equal.

Whatever the reason, some hard-hitting realities have shattered the rose-tinted glasses I naïvely plastered to my eyes.

I teach Science classes in Alex on alternate Saturday mornings to Grade 11 and 12 pupils from schools in the area who want extra lessons to assist them through their mediocre educations, and maybe even to escape the realities of their shack-bound lives. A few weeks ago, although I had not yet started the Chemistry syllabus, because Matric prelims were looming ahead, I gave the kids a practice paper on all the sections covered in Chemistry. One quarter of the class put their heads down and started working on it, while the other three quarters stared at me blankly. When I asked what was wrong, it turned out that these kids had not done any Chemistry at all in class this year, and when I asked what they were going to do in their exams, they shrugged. Yes ladies and gentlemen, pupils at 3 schools in Alex have only had half the Science education it is their entitlement to receive. I wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all, but that would achieve nothing. So now I’m pondering the value of arranging weekend workshops to get them through the syllabus to give them a fair chance at passing their exams, and speaking to the Gauteng Department of Education to get those schools into the shit they deserve to drown in, but you’ll forgive my skepticism at the success of either of these endeavours.

Being in the same room as these children makes you forget that your worlds are so far removed from each other, and that this room you share will be the only thing you ever have in common – yes, you know that technically they must live in shacks – but in the same room as you, wearing clothes you might even wear yourself, it really doesn’t hit home. This past Saturday, I did what I usually do before class begins – I went upstairs to the bathrooms to fill a glass with water (speaking loudly for 2 hours always leaves me parched and my throat sore), but unlike usually, the door to the bathroom was closed. So I opened it, to find three naked girls washing themselves from the basin. They had clogged the drain with toilet paper in lieu of basin plugs, and were all soaped up. Startled, I apologised for interrupting, filled my glass from an unused basin, and walked out. You forget that living in a shack means no electricity, no water, probably no sewerage. You see your pupils in a wide-eyed new light; these kids wash themselves from a bucket of water filled from a neighbourhood tap, these kids perpetually smell urine and shit in the ‘streets’ of their ‘suburbs’, these kids grow up unsupervised having to fend for themselves while their parents are out trying to make money, if they’re the lucky ones, that is.

What didn’t help to lighten my mood was the fact that on Saturday night, while driving home from the theatre, I saw a number of police cars huddled on the side of Oxford Rd. As I drove past, I saw fifteen-odd very nervous-looking Indian youngsters standing on one side of the road, and the body of a black man lying in the street, covered by a plastic sheet. Now I’m not presuming the youngsters were guilty of anything – hell, perhaps the guy jumped very suddenly into the street before the driver could do anything to stop in time. What got me is that this man was there dead, alone. No-one to claim his corpse, to mourn his loss – if such people existed, they were unknowingly awaiting his return in a shack somewhere. I know that if such an unfortunate accident were to befall me, there’d be a reasonable number of concerned relatives/friends on the scene, because I am not an invisible no-one – I have a cell phone, a credit card, a driver’s licence, a salary slip.

But before I create the impression that it was all bad, bad, bad (too late, maybe!) some of this weekend’s observations made me smile… one night last week, Peas and I were paging through the lastest Cosmo and commenting on how we didn’t get the whole new rage with gladiator sandals. At our joint party on Friday night, I unwrapped a gift from Peas’ mother, to find just these – in metallic dusty pink, nogal. Peas and I traded knowing glances while I concealed howls of laughter, but I wore them on Saturday and must concede that the damn things are growing on me (Peas says they look good on me because I don’t have large calves, but much more on that later this week).

When I woke up early on Saturday morning (for the Science lesson) I heard a tapping noise from the lounge. I went to see what it was, and found that a mossie starling had made its way through the window and could not find it again to get back out. It took a good 15 minutes for the dumb thing to figure out that it was only probing half of the window ledge and that the gateway to freedom lay to its left – it is really evident where the phrase “bird-brain” comes from.

Finally, while driving through to gym on Sunday morning (a futile exercise, as I discovered Old Ed’s is closed until the end of October for an upgrade) I saw a man going for a run through the streets of Houghton… pushing his baby in a pram. Eh? I’m pretty sure that’s not what his wife had in mind when she kicked him out the door and told him to take the little tike off her hands for an hour!

Working girl interrupted

2006-09-07T09:09:00.000+02:00

I must concede that it’s a weird fantasy, but it’s a fantasy nonetheless. Not in the kinky sexual way, just something I oddly daydream frequently about: proposition an Oxford Rd prostitute… to have a conversation.

In my ‘fantasy’, I’ll stop by the Rosebank Zone Seattle, and buy 2 hot drinks (Earl Grey for me, naturally, and most likely a cappuccino for her), then cruise the streets to find a suitable conversation partner. The one that’ll grab my attention won’t be the loudest and crassest, she’ll have a feigned sense of confidence about her that she believes will convince all her customers she’s in charge (after seeing Monster I can’t really imagine this always being the case).

Then I’ll sit her down – under the most luridly bright streetlight, where there’s less risk of her attacking me for my money – and give her an interview.

I imagine the conversation will go something like this (if any reader out there has been in the trade before then you’re of course welcome to correct her imagined responses):

Me: So… what’s your name?

Oxford Rd Prozzie (ORP): Angelica. But you can call me Baby, girl!

Me: Um… thanks, but this isn’t that kind of conversation.

ORP: Then why the fuck have you pulled me from the street, girl, I could be doing business right now!

Me: I don’t really know. You looked lonely, like you could do with some company. Not to say you wouldn’t be swamped with opportunities from passers-by if I wasn’t talking to you now, of course. But also, you looked like you needed a cuppa…ccino, that is. It must be really cold wearing that pleather-mock-croc-hot-pink mini skirt and backless purple sequined top, and your feet must be really sore in those chunky clear plastic platforms, plus your voice must need soothing from all the jibes you screech at cars driving past you.

ORP: Well, fine. I’ll sit here for 5 minutes with you, but as soon as a client comes past, I’m off.

Me: Who are your typical clients, then?

ORP: Anyone, really – from rich married guys to boozy beggars who feel the need to splurge their day’s collections on some lovin’.

Me: I see. And which type of client do you prefer?

ORP: Actually, the beggars. The rich guys are more demanding, and they treat you like you’re a worthless piece of shit.

Me: Why do they come to you then, if they don’t respect you?

ORP: To control someone without fear of being judged. To order someone around who won’t disobey them, who will make them feel powerful because they can buy her body.

Me: Do you charge rich and poor men the same prices?

ORP: In this area, you have to, otherwise the rich guys will go to the competition – those bitches Fiona and Krystal in the next road would do anything to steal my clients.

Me: So it’s all about who’s cheapest, then? Nothing about appearance or prowess?

ORP: Mostly. There’s also some element of “which street is the quietest where no-one will see me pick her up” involved.

Me: I see. And where do they take you?

ORP: Oh, we just do the transaction one or two roads down from Oxford, where the coppers won’t find us.

Me: And what do these transactions normally involve?

ORP: My you’re a nosy one! Nothing you haven’t done before, I suspect: hand jobs, blow jobs, regular and anal sex.

Me: Ok. You like doing all of those things, or you just have to comply with what they demand?

ORP: Honey, I aint got the luxury of choice. You gotta avoid all possibility of violence, so you just get on and do what they ask of you, take your money and get back on the street.

Me: Uh-huh. Not a very pleasant job, by the sounds of it. Why do you sell your body?

ORP: It’s not my first choice, but it pays better than anything else. What job is ever thoroughly enjoyable, after all? Plus, my regulars treat me special [sic] from time to time… roses and shit.

Me: Have any of your regulars fallen in love with you? Or you with them?

ORP: The beggars do – they feel they’ve failed in all other areas of their lives, so the bit of attention they get from me becomes their only real connection to other people. As for my regulars, I treat them all like I love them – they like that. They get very jealous when another client arrives during their love parade.

Me: So any sex tips for a less worldy lover like me?

But before she answers, a Beemer with tinted windows will approach, and she’ll jump up to sell her wares to the wary solicitor. I’ll sigh, drink the last sip of Earl Grey (by now cold) and carry on with my life pretty much in the same way as I would have if I hadn’t had that conversation.

Parties, parties and more parties

2006-09-04T09:14:00.000+02:00

Okay, I’m feeling a little embarrassed right now, because people must be thinking “who does she think she is that she needs to have three birthday parties?” And I’m thinking the same damn thing.

Party #1: Before taking me out to dinner on Friday night, The Gilb insists I wear my aubergine-purple dress and black boots (one of his favourite outfits) then proceeds to shag me rotten in it, in a bout of ‘doorframe sex’, let’s call it. Heavenly. Then he took me to the fabulous Singing Fig in Norwood, which was splendid too (marred only briefly by his need to tell me that he had to upgrade his cellphone 3G subscription from 500MB to 1GB because he needed it to download more porn – now I’m not against his need to perv over strange pussies, but really, it’s my birthday and our fourth anniversary, let’s rather flatter me tonight, mkay?). Towards the end of dinner, odd things happen. 3rm calls him to ask how our dinner is going (clue 1). I’m thinking, that’s sweet, but why the fuck does he care? Then Gilb suggests that seeing as we’re in Norwood, let’s go out for a drink, and I tell him that’s a totally bizarre suggestion, he never wants to go out after dinner for a drink (clue 2). He replies with a “but baby (never been a fan of this moniker but we started calling each other ‘baby’ mockingly a few weeks ago and now it’s stuck – anyway, I digress), I’m only going to see you for less than 24 hours, so let’s go for a drink together.” My retort was “but baby, you know I’ll be just as happy if we go home right now and shag!” “Well let’s go for a drink and then we can shag!” “Okay, but that’s still really weird of you.” So he drives down the road ‘looking’ for somewhere to go for a drink, and decides that the best place is New York Café. So we walk inside and I see a friend of mine (clue 3) and I exclaim “Oh my God! What are the odds?” And then I see another friend of mine (clue 4) sitting at the same table as him (clue 5) and think that’s bizarre, those two don’t really know each other and would never go out in the same company. And then I saw Peas and 3rm, and then – only then – did I click. “Surprise!” they all screeched, and I was beaming from ear to ear at the unexpectedness of it all. Suffice to say I should not put CSI on the top of my “jobs I’d really be good at” list. So that was cool – was given two bottles of Chilean wine (good call! You’re so invited to my future winefarm’s guesthouse) and the Annotated Alice, which I’ve been pestering 3rm to buy me. The evening was pleasant (unfortunately distracted by some dodgy black dude at the counter who unwittingly dragged me into a conversation and who said he needed “one white woman” and wouldn’t accept the fact that woman might not be me, especially as my boyfriend was standing just a few metres away. He just wouldn’t go away, so I managed to drag my boyfriend into the conversation, and I ended up laughing because the guy hugged the Gilb at the end of the evening, not realising the Gilb is an Afrikaner, and this dude “hates Afrikaners”). Back home for more conventional-type sex, and very welcome sleep.

Party #2: On Saturday morning the Gilb reveals his second surprise, a massage somewhere in Sandton, but I asked to have it moved to next weekend because he wasn’t going to have one with me and our hours together were few (he’s on shifts at Sasol at the moment, they’re in the middle of maintenance shut-downs). So we did breakfast, frantically shopped for my picnic later that day, and then he departed for the unattractive town I have come to wish I could spend more time in (I did threaten to call his supervisor and tell him I’d handcuffed my boyfriend to the bed and wasn’t letting him go till the next morning, but Gilb would have none of it). Peas and I made our way to Zoo Lake, were joined by C, and picked a spot to set up camp (somewhere wandering coppers wouldn’t stumble to find us drinking in public), and my crowd started drifting in – along with one of Peas’ not-so-secret admirers, as it turned out, damn freaky. We had an absolutely fabulous afternoon, I managed to put in reasonable chat time with most of the groups there, and allowed Peas to twist my arm into doing the Colon with her that night. A few others agreed to join us, and we continued our drinking into the evening. Peas and I not only strangled cats but succeeded in undoing most of Noah’s work, on the karaoke floor (of course, the Spice Girls and Roxette weren’t too happy with our homage, either), and managed to find a suitable wall to pole-dance against – being the entrance to the bathrooms – much to the dismay of the poor would-be bladder-relievers we accosted as they tried to pass through our ‘porn curtain’. More drinking, more dancing, some dodging of Peas’ exes, failed dates and Haahd Paaahk Haarh people I don’t necessarily want to see in social settings (I also discovered the reason why so many former fellow schoolmates hang out there, two ex-HPH students own the place), and eventually home after one hell of a long day.

So that’s two down, third (and last) party happens this Friday to celebrate in conjunction with Peas our 26-year old-hood.

Best party moments

2006-09-01T11:18:00.000+02:00

Okay, so I’m 26. Breathe, Ant, breathe. Coping. Sort of. Looking forward to the Gilb’s surprise tonight, and the big picnic tomorrow, even if I’m going to be a whole day into being 26 by then – let’s hope no-one notices.

Instead of moping, I’m going to try and be positive about the whole affair by taking a trip down memory lane – remembering the magic birthday moments. (Before I do that though, let me shout a HUGE thank you to Peas, who has given me an iPod, a lurid pink one, of course! Mwa babe, love you!)

19: threw a biggie at my parents’ house, where the last thing I remember was jumping off the roof and (presumably) landing in the pool – something I’d never had the courage to do sober. Apparently, hero M was so concerned that I’d wake up with a killer headache the next morning that he forced me to get up after passing out on my bed – while everyone was still there – and make me drink water. His report back is that I don’t chew my pizza properly. Later that evening when my memory returned, so did my parents. “Where’s Ant?” my Dad demanded, trying to barge into my room. “Uh-uh-uh, you can’t go in there, I’m protecting her from anyone who tries to disturb her,” Timmy told them bravely (Dutch courage, methinks), blocking the doorway. Ah, good friends…

20? Dunno?

21: Had a swish brunch at the Joburg Country Club, to which I wore a chainmail backless top with the British flag on it – they can’t kick the hostess out for under-dressing, I reasoned. And the hair was Lamborghini red. My Dad sweetly demanded that everyone gather outside for photos, but he kept taking the pics when people weren’t ready, so I’ve got group pics with me re-adjusting my boobs, Nan watching me, people knocking back champers, people losing their balance, random people, but none with everyone serenely facing the camera. A damn good birthday prezzie-wise, though!

22: After having met the Gilb a few weeks before and kerfoefeling a number of times before then too, he finally asked me (and I do believe I’d locked us in the bathroom, shame on me being antisocial at my own party) if we were official and he could call me his girlfriend (this, after asking me to move my party from the Friday to the Saturday because G.A.S.S. was having a really great party that evening – naturally I told him where to go stick it. Ironically, this is the club where we first met). The theme of my party was bizarre: your worst item of clothing, and all foods cheese-related. Huh? We’re talking leopard print meets cream cheese & chives-flavoured chips, brie and camembert, cheese cake. Due to my enjoyment of experimenting by mixing different social groups, I used to have a great track record of hooking people up (yes, used to consider myself to be quite a Cupid, I did – these days most of them are hitched), and big parties at my parents’ place often resorted in random kerfoefeling. On this birthday, it was the stunner doctor and the in-denial actuary-wannabe, getting far too cosy… in the pantry… on a bag of dog chunks! Kid you not. (at another party at the house later that year, I got chucked into the pool at 3am, tried to go into my room to change because it was freezing, and the same guilty couple had locked themselves into my room bumping uglies and saying things to each other that still make me blush today, but let’s not go there).

23: Can’t remember what the hell I did this year, except it coincided with my one-year anniversary, for which we went to the closing-down party of “our place”, G.A.S.S. But I had to have thrown a big party on the other weekend night, I wouldn’t have let it pass without it.

24: Picnic #1. Got a large assortment of friends together, headed on to the Witwatersrand Botanical Gardens for a good old-fashioned picnic. Made a huge container full of chocolate sauce for the equally huge pile of brownies – while driving to the gardens, I spilt some of the sauce onto my passenger seat (didn’t notice till the next morning. The car cleaners had great fun removing it from the seat a month later, I recall). While carrying the container to the picnic spot, I didn’t notice that the stuff was pouring all over the front of my yellow and light green outfit. Safe to say, I was the pleb of the party, if not the park. Jen-Jen licked the chocolate sauce off my left breast cos the Gilb was too embarrassed to do it in public; I bumped into Peas and accidentally rubbed chocolate onto her, which she then vigorously tried to rub off back onto me in what looked like an extremely kinky session; people milled about getting stoned. Good times!

25: By this stage, I was making big dosh, so I decided to splash out with a ‘gentlemen and escorts’ (not the Rivonia Rd specials, the invitation specified) theme at Wine on the Square in Nelson Mandela Square. Was meant to be a rather hoity-toity affair, but it’s hard to be hoity-toity when your hair is the colour of a Caribbean sunset. Yes, I decided I’d surprise my guests by arriving as a blonde, but learnt the hard way that hair doesn’t go blonde straight from blue-black. The bigger setback to my hoity-toitiness was a gift of cigars, from which I inhaled, after a large amount of alcohol – and the following hours are mostly a mystery. The as-yet-unnamed Third Roommate and I apparently engaged in a shockingly loud argument, which spanned the last hours of our evening in Sandton and all the hours we subsequently spent in Norwood. Oh, and two friends got fresh in the dodgy latter establishment’s bathroom hallway, I remember that.

26: a blank page, at the moment. Yes, anything’s possible, but I rather suspect it will entail consumption of vast quantities of food and alcohol, fending off beggars and some mild sunburn. (and that’s just party #1, Peas and I are throwing a joint one next week Friday, too).

So. The birthday theme is now well done and dusted, and life must go on. Look out for the same drivel in a year’s time. But for now, happy weekend, and bring on Spring!

A self indulgent moment, if you don’t mind

2006-08-30T18:01:00.000+02:00

Oh bother. Fuck. I hate this particular time of year, it’s inevitable that while everyone gets cheerier and cheerier at the prospect of finding a new Spring lay (or making use of their current one(s) a lot more) I get broody – no, not for kids, but broody like a storm grumbling on the horizon starting its inexorable parade across the sky to piss on your party.

See, it’s that time of year when you get to tell people your year count on planet Earth has gone up another digit. And you look back on what was meant to be accomplished in those 365 (or even worse: 366) days, and on what has been accomplished, and you realize you’ve disappointed yourself again. Now, the Gilb partially ruined my self-absorbed depression by sending me an SMS on Monday saying “Baby! Keep Friday evening and Saturday morning open for me as I’ll be treating you for many things! Mwa!” – after all, it’s not possible to be in a bad mood when you get that, right? And I always distract myself from this annual reflection (deflection from reflection, if you will) by throwing a moerse party to absorb myself in the details of planning said event, but come two days before the time, it’s no longer postponeable (mmm… Word doesn’t like that one). So here goes, the “to-do” and “got done” lists.

To do

1. Move in with the Gilb, so we could finally “test” whether this long-term relationship is actually going to go anywhere
2. Get a promotion
3. Do a wine course
4. Go on a really fabulous holiday (this is an annual goal)
5. Learn German
6. Get cracking on that damn book I’m meant to write

Got done

1. Almost succeeded in ending my relationship with the Gilb, thanks to my utter stupidity. And the universe paid me back by moving him 170km away. Fair’s fair, I guess. But I did move out of home (finally!) and in with crazy Peas. Which makes this failed goal a lot easier to bear. (thanks Peas!)
2. Got a promotion (tick)
3. Did two wine courses (tick, bonus tick)
4. Go on a really fabulous holiday – hasn’t happened; have had a few memorable brief breaks, going to have to hope that the October/November Mozambique trip makes up for that
5. Bought the tapes, listened to them a few times en route to Pretoria on my last client contract (was meant to be a twice-daily thing, to while away the two hours’ drive between Jozi, there and back), then got bored. Then bought a German/English book, read two pages, then got bored again. Think I need lessons to see me through to vaguely conversant.
6. Got many Page 1’s lying about, but let’s face it, they’re not going anywhere. Will have to think a lot harder about what needs doing to make my efforts extend themselves on to pages 2 to n.

Okay, so 3 out of 6 (half a point for moving in with Peas, half a point for the bonus wine course – cutting myself some slack here) isn’t a total failure, I guess. But I am concerned that the achievements (and even the goals) get smaller and smaller every year – doesn’t that worry you, too? I’m going to hedge my bets and not say another about my goals for next year (though I’ll no doubt wax lyrical on this here blog if any are attained).

Right, going to suck this misery up, and put on a brave face for tomorrow. To cheer myself up, and give you some more blah to read, I’m going to compile a post of memorable past birthdays (like I said, they always have to be an ‘event’).

So good-bye to life as a 25-year old, hello 26…

The repercussions of getting very drunk on a Sunday night

2006-08-29T08:09:00.000+02:00

1. You’ll abandon the people you were actually meant to be there with in favour of strangers (sorry Peas for not aiding you in ending the date a lot earlier than it did, sorry Nan and Eily, who after not seeing you for a few months, I should’ve spoken to a hell of a lot more). Yes, when drunk, you love strangers, and you’re amazed you never realised how much they love you back. So, you’ll exploit the fact you’re wearing a t-shirt that says “I was discovered in the dusty streets of Soweto” to start a conversation. Everyone wants to talk to someone who proclaims that, don’t they?

2. You’ll convince yourself that every table of strangers at the Jolly contains a potentially great new friend. So you’ll engage as many tables as possible in conversation. You’ll ask questions about people’s deepest darkest secrets, and in return learn that someone cheats on his girlfriend twice a week because she only sleeps with him once every two weeks.

3. You’ll be told by the barman to stop doing a one-legged dance on a stool holding a Guiness in your hand… who will then return and tell all the other people trying to better your effort to get off the damn barstools please, and throw you another really hairy eyeball.

4. You’ll bump into long-lost mates from varsity, then try and show off one of them’s strength (he does “no-holds barred” fighting, I think it’s called – no rules, attack your opponent on any body part you like) by insisting he pick you up on the palm of one hand like he used to at varsity (when you were probably 5kg lighter), much to the not-so-amazement of your onlookers. (still fucking cool, if you ask me).

4. On account of the fact that everyone’s so generous, you’ll take them up on every drink offer. Which means you get so rat-arsed, you embarrassingly have to accept your really strong friends’ offer to follow you home. You spend a while trying to find your car, don’t recognise them waiting for you in their really swanky car (in their case, an instance of brains meeting brawn. Not fair!), but eventually make it to your place in one piece.

5. You’ll double-check your appointments for the next morning, and thank God you had the good sense to make your first meeting for 9:30, not 9am. Because that extra half-hour of sleep will go down really well.

6. You’ll get up at 7:30 as planned, feeling dreadful, but determined to get through all the client’s client interviews you have lined up for the day (yes, the same task that saw me wearing a Sasko skirt to a competitor’s company) and learn valuable insights for your client. You’ll double-check the details of the first meeting to remind yourself what’s in store (that means a quick re-look at the appointment time. Still says 9:30. Relief – you didn’t fuck up).

7. En route to your first meeting, which should be made in comfortable time because you’re so well organised, you get a call. “Is there a lot of traffic on the road?” the secretary enquires. “Um, no – thanks for asking. I’ll be there in perfect time” you reply. “The meeting was meant to start 20 minutes ago.” D’oh! “In my diary it says 9:30” you insist. But you curse silently to yourself that you’re now making the Financial Director of one of SA’s four big banks wait for you. Gulp.

8. You arrive at the place, check your bloody diary, which now says the meeting started at 9am. Shit. The dude’s going to be furious, he probably has back-to-back meetings lined up for the whole day, and you’ve kept him waiting for 25 precious minutes that could be spent negotiating a company takeover or something equally important.

9. You apologise profusely – the secretary looks at you suspiciously – you sit down at the table, and the man starts firing questions at you. “How long have you worked at this company?” “What job did you have before that?” “Where did you study?” “What did you study?” And you’re thinking, shit, this man doesn’t think I’m capable of doing my job (in the condition I was in, probably true) – he was expecting someone a lot older, someone whose background was in Actuarial Science, someone without a major hangover. You get quite nervous, to the extent that when you pick up your glass to pour water in it, in order that you may soak your parched, parched tongue, your hand shakes ridiculously (although you’re not sure whether it’s from the booze or the nerves). So you ask him “Why the interrogation? I’m here to ask you the questions.” Turns out he loves the fact you studied Chemistry, he thinks those are the perfect skills for the job – after all, his ex-wife is a Chemistry lecturer who gets head-hunted all over the world – even the fact that you’ve got Italian heritage is great. So after the interview, which rapidly becomes much more pleasant, he drags you to the Head of Strategy, where he waxes lyrical about you and your employer, and gets the Head of Strategy excited about your company. So now you’re a saleswoman, too!

Moral of the story: get as much Sunday-night Rogering in as you can, it’s good for business!