The Betenoir Diet Plan*

One day not too long ago I was lunching with my mother at some faux-N'orleans-type restaurant at Cavendish square that I cannot remember the name of. We were debating the merits of various meal options, and my mother (who is convinced that she is fat**) was sighing over the fat content of most of the items on the menu, whilst pining over creamy things and spicy bacon delights.

It was at that moment I revealed to her my system of dietary beliefs that I have held dear for- well, most of my life. It's not so much an actual diet per sè, more a collection of wildly inaccurate and illogical... I suppose one could call them superstitions, that I have somehow incorporated into my life.

Anyway, here are the rules. Learn them, live them, love them, beyotches!

1. cold food is less fattening than hot food. think about it. a lot of cold food feels less fattening. fruit, ice lollies, juice, watermelon, ice cream... er... yah.
2. spicy food is less fattening than creamy or bland food. see, now this one is just logical: seen any obese Thai people lately? or Indian folks? Firstly, the spiciness eats away at your fat. True story. also you eat less, and more slowly, because it's so spicy! SO potato wedges, curry, Nandos and tom yum soup all count as diet foods! yay!
3. the wetter the better*** except when it comes to desserts. The runnier and more liquid a food is, the less fattening. So, beer is less fattening than soup, soup is less fattening than steak. I mean, Duh!
4. Chewier is better than squishy. firstly, you burn more calories by chewing more, you can't eat it as fast, and I mean, it's chewier so it probably has more protein and fibre and stuff, right? So, mochi is better than pudding, but pudding is better than a bar of chocolate (because it's runnier, okay?) Also crunchy foods are good- see lettuce, cucumber, cabbages and Crunchies.
   
5. if it tastes bad, it's good. this is one of things I thinm we all know subconsciously. Spinach is healthier than potatos, cod liver oil is healthiest of all. the only exception to this rule is poop, but then again who eats poop, right?****
6. the slower you eat, the better do I even have to explain this one? slower eating means more chewing, and also the stomach acid gets less diluted so it crappifies the food more effectively which is good for your metabolism.
7. lighter is better than heavier meringues good! meat loaf bad! See, these foods have more air in them and air contains zero calories.
   

there are more, many, many more, but at the moment they elude me. these are the main ones though, and as insane as they are, I feel compelled to stick by them. In any case, if anyone who doesn't have the metabolism of a mayfly wants to try them out and report the results here, I think we could make a lot of money...I mean, do a lot of good.

* not recommended for diabetics, people who actually want to lose weight, or New Zealanders.
** she is not, except for her giant boobs, which are giant¹
*** see what I did there? nice, huh?
**** well, except for each and every one of my exes, HAHAHAHAHA!²

¹ she's totally going to kill me now. umm...Happy Birthday for tomorrow mom!
² that's probably only funny to me, huh?

Enough Already.

This rain is putting a dampener on my spirits. This winter seems to have dragged on rather interminably, but for the most part is actually quite cheerful, with chilly days best spent under the covers with a DVD and hot chocolate*. It's nice to take hot showers and baths, although some idiot insisted on turning down my geyser because it was "too hot", so now the water is never hot enough. However, the current level of wetness puring from the sky, combined with thunder**, is quite misery-inducing. Being carless, I end up doing a lot of commuting during pissing-downs, and having wet feet for a considerable part of my day. I don't think that this is particularly healthy or hygenic***, and it's also uncomfortable.

Frankly, I'm bored. Nobody wants to go out and do anything, everyone is cocooning, and it's too wet, wild 'n windy to have much fun. I'm getting cabin fever, and my laundry won't dry. And I'm tired of wearing layers, and choosing interesting outfits that nobody sees under the piles of sweaters, scarves and jackets.

It would be nice if I could wash my hair and get it dry in under two hours, and if the humidity and rain didn't immediately bring on the supreme frizziness and weird hair angles of winter. I get super-annoyed when I spend 2 hours getting my hair ultra-straight and sleek and then 5 minutes outside gives me asylum-head****. I'd like to wear a dress, and sandals, or even-gasp- shorts.

But mostly I'd just like to have warm dry feet.

*Nestle, not Cadbury's, which is always watery no matter how much powder you add.
** eek! the little caveman in my head say "gods in sky go boom! verr' angry.ugh!"
*** I have an idea my feet are rotting. Okay, I know they're not but the idea persists throughout the day.
**** Like bedhead, but crazy. Trust me, I worked at Valkenberg, I know asylum-head.

Revenge Fantasies and Rain on my Parade.

I've been having a stressful couple of days, workwise. Actually, they shouldn't have been stressful- it's not as crazy round here as it can be and my new über-organised system is working out well. I'm on top of things and it feels fiiine. There's nothing like feeling organised, competent and efficient to put a swing in your step and a smile on your face, is there*?

One hitch: the Evil Boss**. Man, That woman is a beyatch. This is not just my opinion btw, this is someone that everybody dislikes intensely. She's a bully, and when she's stressed or feeling under pressure she makes it her mission to make people miserable. And apparently I'm her new favourite target.

Now, I know what you're thinking, why not just ignore her, and treat her like the petty little nuisance that she is? I just can't seem to do that. She's like a tapeworm that gets under my skin and niggles at me. Freakin' niggler.

So this morning was spent in a huff, stomping around and planning various ways of performing murder. Stabbing in the face, jumping up and down on her stomach, and shoving a live octopus down her throat were all very satisfying. There may also have been some ninjaesque swordplay, but then again isn't there always? I wish I could rise above this and be adult and mature but damn I want to hit her with a shovel.

I think that would be satisfying***.

I offered to make her some tea earlier, but she declined. Obviously she realised that I was planning to gob in it.

*Well, I suppose there's sex, chocolate, fab shoes and heaps of money, but it's a close call.
** See earlier post here . May include bitterness and anger, not for sensitive readers.
*** you know, until the arrest and trial and prison and stuff. Although I'd totally be the prison psycho¹.
¹apparently I no longer suppress my anger.

The Falcon: Running Hog Wild in Italy, and soon.

Because I'm lazy, herewith an excerpt of a skype conversation with The Falcon* edited for brevity** and spelling, of course. Read on at your own risk.

The Falcon : Well I never! Drugs? I couldn't even name a drug.
betenoir : ...
The Falcon : Hmm. Cocaine would technically be going buck wild. But I am afraid of cocaine.
betenoir : rock n' roll? starting a band?
The Falcon : ALWAYS ROCK N' ROLL! I am ALWAYS STARTING A BAND!
betenoir : ..can I be in it?
The Falcon : No. Yes. Maybe. I know you can sing, but I want to be lead singer.
betenoir : bitch. I'll be the “occasional, need-a-girl-for-this-song singer”
The Falcon : Goddamn though, you were good in Guys and Dolls. Did I ever tell you that?
betenoir : no. thank you.
The Falcon : You can sing backup.
The Falcon : But you will not be paid.
betenoir : fuck you, I won't sing backup

betenoir : I will be the sex appeal
The Falcon : You'd better! Or learn to play the keytar.
betenoir : I will draw the crowds.
betenoir : I will be Nico
The Falcon : I hate Nico.
betenoir : I will DRAWL in a GERMAN ACCENT!!!

betenoir : it’s fine. We’ll fight on stage. It will play well.
The Falcon : Okay. You can be more like Karen O.
betenoir : Okay
The Falcon : Except backup.
betenoir : screw you! I’ll be backup if I can stand in front!
The Falcon : You will stand to the side and a little back. But you can do arm motions.

betenoir : I’ll learn an instrument
The Falcon : Do arm motions as you play the keytar.
betenoir : bass guitar
The Falcon : No, I play bass.
The Falcon : And during concerts we play recorded tracks of me playing bass.
betenoir : why?
The Falcon : Because my bass is unstoppable...We already have a guitarist.
betenoir : who is our guitarist? why not have more than one?
The Falcon : We already have three if we need them.
The Falcon : Drums. We need a drummer.
betenoir : I can do drums
The Falcon : All right, you're on drums.

The Falcon : But you have to drum slutty.
betenoir : drum slutty?
betenoir : what, like with my boobs hanging out, and my bra strap showing?
The Falcon : You'll figure it out.
betenoir : can we still fight on stage?
The Falcon : Sure, sure.
betenoir : sweet.

* this is what happens when you let people choose their own pseudonyms.
** yes, this is the shorter version.

I know the Feeling...

It hasn't happened to me, and I hope it doesn't. I think I've been lucky in that my little blog isn't wildly famous*, or particularly offensive (well, as far as I can tell). But I've noticed that as soon as a blog starts getting a little more well-known, the haters start popping up.

Some of them are the more rational kind, who object to a specific post, find a statement offensive, or perhaps just dislike the writing style. Whatever the case may be, they present their arguments in somewhat more measured terms, probably because they want to strike a balance between getting their (annoyed) point/ opinion across, and seeming like some sort of harping fishwife loony.

Which brings us to the harping-fishwife-loony quotient of the blog-commenting population. With their misspelled, spewed invective and ranting diatribes, there's more than a whiff of the Springer** about them. See, they'll take personal offense at everything the blogger says, and spam the comments section with vitriol, of the "your so fat + ugly + stupid, why r u people even reading this sh^&, U R A LOZER PIG FRIED SPINACH EVIL, I h8 this blog u r a waste of air in the internet, ppl if we stop rdng nw s/he will hav 2 quit!"***variety.

They will then copy-past this comment a few dozen times. Every day. Ad infinitum. Over the protests of the people who are actually enjoying reading that blog. It's some sort of modern conundrum that people will force themselves to read blogs they hate, seemingly for the pleasure of getting their hate on. Because as far as I know, it's all still voluntary... right?

*yet...my plans for world domination have been laid and include ice-cream..but more of that later, minions.
** as in Jerry, not as in the dogs. Dogs are cool. Although I expected Springers to be more... bouncy, frankly.
*** sic.

...for want of a comedy the kingdom was lost.

I’ve started watching 7de Laan. Let me qualify that statement: it’s better than Isidingo, which is just unwatchable and might well start reincarnating people soon, the way it’s heading. M-net is no longer doing Open Time (although I'm assured Egoli is still doddering around like some sort of very conservative zombie), etv have some sort of ur-Backstage codswallop and sabc1 has B&B aka The Bold, a show which often makes me wonder if I’m high, because not one minute of that show has any semblance of reality.*

Now, firstly, what happened to this timeslot? It used to be prime time: comedy shows, the occasional good drama, a talk show here and there, and a little sport. Soaps came earlier, for the housewives**, I think was the general idea. They started around four and never extended past five thirty.

Obviously, things have changed. Apparently the masses like nothing better than to come home after a long day at work, and settle down to… a soap opera.

In any case, as soapies do, 7de Laan is shaking things up- Dezi is being a faithless wife (but she has such great hair though, really shiny) and the new-but-actually-returning guy is starting a Grand Romance with the cute boutique girl. He even showed her his pigeons. But something is brewing- he has the flu. Which means he’s going to die, or something. In the meantime, to ramp up the emotional content, we have to suffer through their hugely romantic dates.

Which are awful. It’s kind of icky to watch a real date in progress: PDA’s people, get a room! But being forced to watch the gooey cooing and canoodling of “lovebirds”*** merely to press home the point of how pure and vast their love is, so that the tragedy that’s sure to hit them is even more…well, tragic….it makes me want to drink many, many Alcohol.

In any case: I need to not have to watch 7de Laan any more A change needs to be made. I’d even settle for a game show. Although if it involves Fiona Coyne, I’m outta here.

*although Brooke’s “Pirate Booty” shirt was pretty funny.
**because once you decide to be a stay at home mom there’s nothing you like better than watching the impetuous behaviour of beautiful frivolous, wealthy loonies. It’s, like, a law!
*** the forced, unnatural romance of Mills&Boon novels. Which I have never read. Just heard about. Obviously.

Boringest Days So Far.

Yesterday, I had my informal six-month employee review. Basically I'm doing a good job ("what you do is wonderful, and spot-on...") but I'm disorganised("when you do them"). Hmmm. Also the Untidiness of My Desk came up, as it has been bothering "people". Oh, I cannot guess who that could be. Oh who would have mentioned this*. A Mystery. In any case, I did protest this point, as I have been pretty good about the tidying of the papers and moving the random bits of obsolete equipment to where they can't be seen... as much. So that's a win. Oh, and also I apparently spend too much time on the Interweb. Pah. "Define too much time", I would have said, had I been the innately cooler, more rebellious person I am in my head. But I didn't. But I thought it.

So, the last few days have been a blur of trying to look more organised, which it is hard not to be, as it is so quiet. I've been able to get through a multitude of tasks I haven't had time for but are, I guess, important. I've been bloody cataloguing all the DVDs, VHS cassettes, and cd's in my office**. With descriptions. Seemingly an easy task, except most of the cassettes are hand-labelled, with maybe one post-it bearing a scribbled nametag. So, lots of IMDB research and finding obscure dutch film sites***.

So, that's done. Although I'm sure they'll find some way to make it need more work out into it. I can feel it in my bindles. In the meantime You'll find me doing a stocktake, and then maybe when I'm done I can find something to collate.

Do you think it's wrong to order a beer while I'm working?

*this, children, is what we call Sarcasm. Or perhaps Dramatic Irony. Fine line, fine line.
** and there are lots. Many of them, oddly, in Czech.
**Not porn, you dirty-minded reprobates!!!

Smiling Confidence, I hear you ask.

Yesterday, I hit Woolies' for a Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread and lemony sparkling mineral water. I needed a sugary pick-me up, see, because I was feeling particularly grey and iffy*. I attribute this to the mussels I ate the night before, which were, coincidentally, the first mussels I've had since I returned from Japan. I dawdled along to the till, my iPod blaring (if I remember correctly) something by White Rose Movement. Oh, also, my hair was doing the thing whereby it expands into my personal space and risks being Punished**.

So, I hand over my money, half in another world***, noting vaguely that the teller has called me sweetie about three times. Resolve not to take it personally. Then she busts out with:"oh, such smiling confidence! Sweetie."

Wha-ha? Was my approximate reaction. "really? I was smiling?"
"yes! and with such confidence!", she replied, intimating vaguely that this was not necessarily a good thing, "Sweetie".
"oh, okay. Because I don't feel confident..."
"Well, it was a really big smile. You seemed so proud. Sweetie."

So, I walked out, gnawing on my Caramel Millionaire's Shortbread, which is never as good as you think it's going to be, right? And I was more than a little disturbed. Is this how it is? Am I not the person I thought I was? have I been exuding charm, confidence and friendliness, the whole time I thought was an established curmudgeon? This would, of course, explain all the random strangers, homeless people and crazies who strike up conversations with me when I'm (supposedly) doing Unapproachable Bitch.

This unconscious charm offensive, and external mantle of confidence would, you see, mean I'm turning into my mother****. Oh, god, do I bat my eyelashes and twinkle at people?

------

I would also like this opportunity to mock an advert which names Skip***** as an "international washing powder" OOOOH! Fancy! it's an international washing powder! That's almost like being a designer label!

* oh, crap, the half I didn't eat is still in my pocket. Note to self: do not wash jacket with chocolate still contained therein.
**not a typo.
*** actually, make it three-quarters.
**** hey, it works for her, but she likes not being a cranky little sod.
***** or Surf, or whatev, it's a washing powder, it makes bubbles, it smells okay.