Welcome to the world, Naomi-chan.

On Sunday morning my friend Miss Ruthie gave birth (by cesarean section) to a 5-pound girl called Naomi. She's a little premature and was on the ventilator for a while, but she's doing fine, and breathing on her own. Mom and baby should be home, together, by Thursday.

It's lovely. I've been overwhelmed by feelings of well-big and warm fuzzy goodwill since I got the news. And I can't believe I feel such love and affection for a little bundle of warm skin and pooping that I've never even met, nor seen. But I guess, in a way, that's partly because she's made of the best parts (I'm sure) of two good friends, and partly because I've been following her progress since she was but a little tadpole, viewed on a fuzzy scanned ultrasound printout. And partly because babies, especially other people's babies, are just plain cute and smell nice*.

I had a kind of disturbing dream though, last night. More than usual, I mean**. I was in this odd place that was half-submerged underwater, and it was night time. I was surrounded by people that were my friends (in the dream, but who do not actually exist, as far as I know), and there was this woman there; very retro and 40's, with very sharp eyebrows; who asked me to microwave her baby to warm it up. I got distracted while doing so, and the baby ended up cooked..overcooked in fact, with all the grue you'd expect from a microwaved baby***. I was, to say the least, upset. And felt very guilty.

The mother was not all that upset about it, although she chastised me at first for my carelessness. But, as she said, "it happens". I still felt terrible, though, and was sad and sickened until way after I woke up, brushed my teeth, and sprayed my deodorant****. So, what's going on in my mind, eh? I mean, microwaving bebbehs...what's up with that?

* disregarding, of course, the screaming, crying and pooping, respectively.
** Although the one the night before last where my ex had a smaller waist than me and kept taunting me about it was pretty quirky too, I guess.
***it looked even worse than Amy Winehouse, or Britney's cellulitic bottom. yes, that bad.
**** I missed my underarms and hit the wall behind me: I was very sleepy.

Ongoing Birdal Research

I could probably write another long boring post about how I hate my job right now and would really like to quit, but there's the whole having to pay bills thing, and the not- sure- what- to- do- instead thing. It's all quite boring, really, and I get tired of hearing myself whine*. I'm sure everybody else does too.

So, instead I will be presenting the results of a long and intensive study on the eating habits of the birds who inhabit the area around the pond in front of the SA National Gallery**. I've been eating my lunch there for quite a while and have been feeding them various experimental substances***, and carefully noting the results. It's very scientifical.

For the purposes of this research, the term bird can be defined as noisy, usually smelly creature that poops constantly and may fly when it feels like it. We can further subdivide them into four groups: seagulls, ducks, dovepigeons**** and assorted visiting birds or AVB's. AVB's do not figure prominently in my research because they are for the most part wild birds who are much less brazen in their attempts to shriek feeders into submission.

Herewith my findings:

1) aggressiveness: Seagulls are the most blatantly aggressive of the land feeders, however ducks tend to become more aggressive once food is thrown into the pond. Both have been know to attack AVB's that might wander over to have a butcher's at what's going on. Dovepigeons are small and meek and quiet, and consequently get the lion's share of food that has fallen out of other birds' mouths while they were shrieking
2) post-feeding activities: while seagulls refuse to admit that there is no more bloody food left and continue to scream in a manner that is likely related to their childhood in the nest (seagulls are well-known to have mommy issues), dovepigeons tends to keep searching the ground for dropped scraps, and then go have a nice comfy poo somewhere. Ducks engage in a post-meal bath, with additional "plobbling" on warm days (plobbling being defined as the act of spanking your wings on the surface of the water in order to get your underarms clean).
3) preferred edible substances: birds, for the most part (and much like your intrepid researcher), seem to prefer carbohydrates; slap chips with vinegar, Simba salt-and-vinegar crisps, Fritos, sandwich crusts and Chocolate muffins being among the desired items. The occasional slice of ham or cheese will eventually be eaten. Fruit, especially Naartjies*****, as well as Oreo cookies (no frosting) are less popular, although they seem to be just fine with the dovepigeon population. Raisins, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, and facial tissues dipped in diet cola are treated with disdain.
4) appetite: especially with regards to seagulls; unending. Postulate that one could feed said birds until the become very fat and/ or explode.

Notes:Am still waiting to see a bird vomit. Wonder how that would present itself. Could be an entirely new avenue of research.

Conclusions: obviously, birds are dirty greedy bastards. Findings are obviously of great value to the world. Await riches and fame.

*although, I would like to point out that being condescended to all day when people are stressed and get pissy with me because I'm the only person in the whole world who could possibly figure out VLC media player gets tiresome.
** no, wait, come back!
*** whatever I was eating for lunch that day.
**** doves and pigeons are essentially the same bird to me, although this infuriates my mom, who reacts like I'd confused, say, Chinese and Japanese people¹.
¹who are very very different, in so many ways. Now Japanese and Korean people... much more similar. Although Korean pop music is much worse than J-pop.
***** tangerines, you foreign folk, you!

allright already, I'm posting!

Sheesh! The demands of my fans* are unrelenting. I do, of course, exaggerate. But I have not been posting as regularly because a) I've been busy and b) I'm hella lazy. which you would know if you ever read my blog archives. But mostly I've just been under the weather and fluey and tired. Partly I blame the change of seasons: for some reason the start of spring is always a sluggish, tired time for me. Perhaps it's allergies, or my body clock adjusting, or whatever. I don't know, I'm not a registered health professional**!

In any case. Last week, as part of my mid-year resolution shtick, I joined a gym. And yesterday I had my first workout, with the nice trainer lady, who showed me the circuit. It's a ladies-only gym (so no weird pervs or those competitive scary weightlifter types who ask you what you can benchpress and aren't impressed by "15"), and has a special 30-minute workout. Short is good, right? But let yourself not be fooled: it's 30 minutes of intensity. Also, apparently all I have in my arms are noodles. Wet noodles. They tested my body fat, and I have 23% fat, which is apparently good. However I'm worried that almost a quarter of me is fat when so little of me is muscle. Am I possibly a walking skeleton, with 40 kilogrammes of bone overlaid by 11 kilos of fat? Is that mathematically correct?Wait, I forgot, there's also eight pounds of brain in there***. Damnit, all these fractions and percentages and adding and stuff are hurting. You get my point. You're smart people. Or smartasses. Or both.

Hopefully, though, I'll soon no longer be a squishy weakling, but a strong and healthy glamazon. Like Janice Dickinson, before all the surgery and Sylvester Stallone, and minus about two feet. But still scathing!

*I'm not dead Shebee, but I do sometimes feel like a Zombie around 3 in the afternoon. And I'm fully planning on becoming a member of the Glamourous undead. or at least a shambling, lolling Zombie priestess.
** Nor do I play one on television. Although I think I'd be good at it.
*** things I learned from Jerry Maguire Part 1705.

Let’s talk about genitals, shall we?

Oh good, another thing for me to have insecurities about.

This weekend I stayed over at the mum’s, house-sitting, and of course I became entranced by that most mellifluous of sirens, DSTV*. Firstly I would like to state that there is no need for that many sports channels. When you’re showing boules and darts and the annual Norwegian Mouse Toss**, at prime time, it’s time to scale back.

But my subject today *** is Dr 90210. For those of you who don’t already know, it’s a ‘reality’ show about plastic surgeons, and operations they perform, and in the case of Dr Rey, his anorexic, bobble-headed wife. In any case, there’s a sort of morbid fascination that daws me to this show…the graphic surgery scenes, the much- rougher- than- you- think- they’d- need- to- be fake boob insertions, and perfectly rational, intelligent people trying to justify for the audience why they really, really need this Botox.

I started to freak out a little, though, at the number of vaginal reconstructions. I mean... vaginal reconstructions! As far as I knew, you had to be a porn star or a mother of 12 or involved in some weird vagina-related car accident damage. But no, apparently now if your lady parts don’t look fresh out the box, you gotta hack at them with surgical steel. Nice. Also, apparently they can be too fat. I mean…seriously? You can have a too-fat ya-ya? Or it can be too …ah…flappy, and not just in a grandmotherly, “you’re 80 so what does it matter” way, no. If it aint how it used to be before the menses came a-callin’ ladies... SURGICAL STEEL!!!! HACKING!!!

Of course, being a lady, my first reaction was to start worrying. I spent at least three days eyeing my bits warily in the shower, trying to discern visible fat, or even possibly cellulite, because hey, Murphy’s law, right? This kind of behaviour was usually limited to my butt. Well, my butt and the weird blobs of fat on my back that appeared on my 25^th birthday. Also my ankles. And my Arms. But, these are normal insecurities, and I’d learned to live with them. But this…

You know, I could have gotten through my life without having to think about this.

*digital satellite TV, for you foreign type folk.
** this is what we in the biz call hyperbole, and it’s an exaggeration used to make a point. By the way I still have the flu. Just thought I’d mention it.
***hey! Got to it in under 3 paragraphs! New record!)

Plague! Plague! ding ding ding!

Ungh. For the second time this winter I seem to have caught some sort of medieval death flu. It's somewhat annoying* as this year I actually went out and got the flu injection. I managed two days of feeling not too bad but with a super-sore throat before the wobbliness and pathetic sniffling started. Fantastic. Nggggggggh. So, here I lie in my bed, bored outta my skull but too weak to actually enjoy the time off. I did manage to finish one of my library books, which is already four days overdue, so I guess it has it's benefits.

I hate being sick. I mean, really sick, where your head feels stupid and cluggy**. My immune system is lame. I would not be friends with it if I met it at a party. We would not hang out. I would laugh at it behind it's back. I would certainly not discuss America's Next Top Model with it on Wednesday mornings***. I would like to be nursed back to health with chicken soup and glossy magazines. I don't enjoy having to call into work, kowtow and present my symptoms, and then return to work as soon as possible, with everyone expressing concern that I'm okay even whilst making it quite clear that nobody else ever takes sick leave because they are all so much more dedicated than I am. Humph.

Anyway. Sickness = poo. Wah wah wah. Next post will be more interesting, I promise. I might even tell you about the four-hour car journey in which Bret deliberated on several names for his penis, and finally setteled on 'Humphrey Gobart'. Long story. Although upon reflection that really is the gist of it.

* well, it would be if I could feel emotion right now, but all I feel is icky.
** listen people, I'm not too sure why I'm blogging and my vocabulary is all whotsitified. Your patience is appreciated.
*** I love Janice Dickinson. I've read both her books. She's scathing. I wish I could be more scathing. It would bring me immense joy. Also, longer legs would be nice.

Resolutions… of a Sort.

Well, it’s halfway through the year and heading over the hump and soon it’ll be next year, before we even know it. Weird how some years seem to drag on forever, and other fly past in a way that leaves everybody kind of dazed, hanging around at a new years’ party mumbling “where did the time go” to each other. I notice that the time does go faster as you get older*. This is not the topic of this post.**.

I’ve decided that I need to make a few changes in my life, to generate a bit more positivity and just be healthier. And stuff. You know, just an attempt to enrich my existence, in a non-hippy-balancing-my-chakra-feng-shui way. Really I just whine and mope way too much for my liking. So, in an effort to become more shiny and successful:

1. Join a gym. Exercise regularly. This one is a little bit Bridget Jones, but I really do need to start getting exercise that isn’t just climbing stairs or walking to work and home again I’d like to attempt Pilates class. I want to be both firm and supple. I’d like this to be based solely on a desire for health and strength but mostly it’s all about having a smokin’ bikini body. Which is linked to:

2. Drink less coffee, drink at least a litre of water a day, eat fruit. Because cellulite is bad. I‘ve had cellulite since I was 13, and I can manage to keep it at bay by watching judiciously doing the above. The downside is the constant peeing, but it can’t be helped.***

3. Attempt to find a job that I am better suited for**** (and hopefully that has a boss that doesn’t relate to me as if I were fecal matter, or decaying dairy produce). It would be nice if I could do things I normally do for fun, like photography or writing. Natural light and fresh air would also not be awful. Of course I have no idea how to go about this one. You know how some people are self-starters and just make opportunities for themselves? I’m the opposite of those people. Also I’m verging on hermitude. So, if any of you have ideas or contacts…I’m not too proud for handouts. No, really, I’m not.

4. Get out of my apartment, and move somewhere less expensive, with fewer screaming, thumping, door-slamming types. Possibly a flatshare. Actually, this could be a good one if I could find someone with pets I could colonise. You know, use them for affection, give them treats, but not actually have to deal with vet’s bills or poopage? Niiiiiiiiice.

5. Do the crossword. In pen. I used to do this every day and it gave me immense satisfaction and a sense of self-worth. Also I think it might look good on my CV, which could help with the job thing, surely?

Well, well. This post is getting a bit long, isn’t it? I should probably stop here. Also, and let’s be brutally honest here, the less there is to do, the more likely I am to actually have realistic chance of achieving it.

*actually we did a cool module about this in psych306f, which showed that we measure time by time that has already passed, therefore the longer you’ve lived the shorter time seems by comparison. We also studied the nature of time in sociology
** although if it was I could go on for a fair bit: I also did a sociology module o the nature of time: really, it’s just a social construct we use to make sense of our environment and fleeting, possibly pointless existences. Order in the chaos and all that. I got a first for that module, obviously.
***road trips become a bit of a pain though.
**** or, to be precise, that is better suited to me.

Sad Puppy.

Ugh. I was in a perfectly good mood this morning, and now I'm blue like a smurf. A sad, sad smurf. Sufficit to say work has not been all fun and cupcakes today, and I'm frustrated, and tired, and would much rather be out playing with a puppy. Somehow now my mood has taken a turn for the morose, and I'm feeling rather "why even bother" about the whole thing. I ate these days- I start thinking I'm useless and lame and friendless and talentless. My photos suck, my blog is boring, My eyes are all puffy and apparently I'm whiny and self-pitying.

Don't think I haven't noticed.

I wish I had a puppy, or a bunny, or a hedgehog. Something to cuddle*. Something to love me and give me affection. Pets are great in that they generally don't care how much of a loser you are**. Sometimes they even like you better that way. Unwashed, even. Although to be fair all that pooping is a bit of a deterrent. Someone needs to find some means of providing affection and adoration without bucketloads of poop and/ or shoe-chewage and/or expense.

But for now I can't afford a pet, so I guess I'm going to have to rely on moping around, listening to Morrisey (or Sea Change), and drinking cocktails. Although with my current budget, those cocktails are going to be made out of beer***.

* I've heard that hedgies are actually more cuddle-able than they look. And their noses are pink!
** well, except for cats. they have higher standards.
*** siiiiiiiiiiiigh!