trashd

Mooooving...

2009-02-25T14:44:00.001+02:00

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Trashd, Mark II

The Best Buddy Movie Ever.

2008-07-03T14:57:00.008+02:00

I have had a brainwave. A most fantabulous, geniurific epiphany that evanesced within the fuddled confines of my grey matter. Movie history will be changed by this, you mark my words. I will tell you, if you listen closely. And once told, you will be so excited that, like me, you will try to think of ways to convince Marvel Studios to make this most exquisite of cinematic dreams a reality.

What is it? I hear you yell, impatiently, with your mind*. It is Iron Man and Wolverine. Yes....I hear your sigh of ecstatic bliss. Yes.

Picture it** Hugh Jackman. Robert Downey Jr. Oh god, it's awesome already and I haven't even gotten to the plot points yet! Okay, right. So, Some evil bastard bad guy [yet to be decided- Galactus would do fine but Fantastic Four already gateballed*** it] is somehow threatening the world [in a manner yet to be decisded- nuclear annihilation? massive zombie mind-control? Interplanetary Engines of Destruction? Nuclearised hamsters? In any case, it's the MacGuffin]. No single Superhero can handle this alone? But who, pray tell, could rise to this task? Iron man and Wolverine are forced to pair up- very reluctantly.

They clash, initially- the smooth, flirty millionaire genius playboy and the gruff, hairy, animalistic, violent hard case****- they argue and squabble and fight for territory. But when the chips are down, they realise that they're both similar in more ways than they thought. They're decent, honorable, and tenacious, true heroes, awesome fighters. Two men of metal, with steel in their spines and iron resolve. And Adamantium in there too, yes.

Kickin' Ass!!! Takin' Names!!!

Oh, it'd totally be the Lethal Weapon******of the millenium. I would pay to see this movie, twice! I'd buy the DVD! and the Playstation game would be... I think my mind just blew.

Okay, Poll time, how many of you are totally into seeing this movie?

poll by twiigs.com

*I just really know you so well by now. Yes, you, personally. Don't look at me like that, and put down that kitten, I can see what you're up to.
** Sicily, 1943...
*** if you really want to know what that means, ask Erin.
*****nutcase? whatever, ROWR!
*****the first one, not the one with the horrible south african accents or the sequels where they were both too old for this shit.

Anger of a Not-Unreasonable Nature.

2008-06-19T11:49:00.005+02:00

kitteh via memebon.jp

I am incensed. Livid. Fuming. Enraged. Outraged. Infuriated. And quite cross. It’s been a tough couple of days*, I’m not feeling well, and I have a migraine; so the last thing I need is one of my “superiors” throwing a hissy fit because she’s standing out in the rain. Perhaps if she’d listened when I told her that David wasn’t going to get to her car for another five minutes, and had waited inside for a while, there wouldn’t have been a problem. But, no, Bytch gotta be a martyr, gotta wait in the rain and then call me on her cellphone to shrilly enquire why she was waiting in the rain. That was not a good conversation. It ended with me losing my temper** putting the phone down on her, and hastening to the ladies to scream for five minutes.

I came back, to find she had phoned me back to ream me out for putting the phone down on her. Apparently nobody does this to her. How dare I! The gall! The immaturity! The insult! So then I got a lecture, and had to apologise. My teeth quite ached from all the gritting.

With that in mind, a list of useful curses, for all occasions. Because you never know when you’re going to have to doom someone to eternal suffering through the use of dark forces and magick****.

Ye Olde Improv’d Liste of Quainte Curses.

May the gods steal your feet and replace them with radishes.
I hope your penis falls off in your oatmeal and you don’t notice and you eat it by mistake
From this moment, the songs of Celine Dion will occupy your every waking thought.
May you be infested with fleas in your anus hole, so that you must scratch there unendingly.
May your chicken always be undercooked, and toilets unavailable.
I hope you wake up with your head facing the wrong way so you can see how huge your arse is.
May life bring you nothing but Brut aftershave, sport socks and Bles Bridges CDs.
May you always vomit copiously upon your sexual partners.

*A bad time for electricity problems, I can tell you
** and I don’t lose my temper often, but when I do its ICBM*** time.
***Kaboom, beyotch.
**** I swear to god anyone who reads this and thinks I’m a Satanist: go away, you’re too stupid for this blog, you’re not wanted.

Unrealistic Birthday Expectations

2008-06-11T15:58:00.011+02:00

Kitteh via memebon.jp

In the grand tradition of the Romans, the Vikings, and Pirate Bob, I like to celebrate my birthday in style, and also by being showered with gifts. I don't mind what sort of gifts as long as they aren't groceries- it's more the spirit of the thing. Although, I was given a pot of mini highlighters by someone for my 30th birthday, which left me a bit nonplussed. Once you hit 30 the implication is that you can buy your own highlighters, and I haven't really used them much since uni anyway...

In any case. with two weeks to go, people are starting to make enquiries of the "what do you want, you materialistic cow* sort. With that in mind, here is my by-now-sort-of-annual list of birthday desires, in order from most likely and realistic to most extreme example of my lack of perspective.

Large box of After Eight Mints** or Lindt Poivre Intense.
Pillsbury Brownie Mix, although if you can track down some Betty Crocker Choc fudge Brownie mix, that would be AWESOME!!!!
Selection of Cactus Pups from ToiToy at the waterfront.
Vouchers/ gift cards from Exclusive books, Readers' Den or Zoom (shoeeeeeees!!!).
Sandman 3- Dream Country by Neil Gaiman.
Preacher 2- Until the End of the World by Garth Ennis.
Fake Wayfarer sunglasses from YDE (black or cherry red frames).
An electric blanket for a 3/4 bed. It's cold!
Three-way foldable reflector (white silver and gold).
Nintendo DS plus Nintendogs or WarioWare.
Canon Eos 450d with wide-angle lens.
Chloe Inez Box Clutch or Lady Dior Avenue Bag in orange .
Tickets to Tokyo plus accomodation for ten days at the Keio Plaza (I like the Keio Plaza), so I can visit some people.

Oh, and, uh, world peace. And stuff.

*this is not rudeness, merely a statement of truth. although materialistoc ninja zombie pirate would be more accurate.
** Nom Nom Nom.

A Short Story to Break the Monotony.

2008-05-28T15:17:00.003+02:00

At first, life was nothing but the peaceful warm embrace of her sisters. For thirty years, they were inseparable, so alike as to be indistinguishable, never apart, as close as close could be. They never argued or fought or squabbled, like other sisters might. She could not imagine life beyond this warm embrace, could not imagine a life apart from them.

But then, all too soon and without warning, the day of her leaving came. She had no choice, it seemed. Fate had chosen this path for her, and like her sisters before her, she felt herself drawn out into the big, wide spaces of the world. Everything seemed bigger, vaster, echoing caverns, darkness, the vast unknown. She journeyed for what seemed an eternity before she found a place to rest, a place she hoped could be her home.

And for a time, it was peaceful there. Lonely, without her sisters, but the solitude had its own charms; the silence its own sweet music. She wrapped herself in thoughts of her sisters, and of the vast world around her, and of the future, and what it might hold.

She could not have imagined; not in her most vivid nightmares; what was to come. Suddenly, they were there; seemingly millions of them, their blind lust threatening to overwhelm her, invading her with their thrusting, prodding, biting. Never before had she felt such an agony, felt such uncaring maleness, such unending assault.

Abruptly, it ended. As swiftly as they had appeared, they were gone, leaving but one of their member; he the victor, she the prize. Forever joined, forever changed, they two had become something…other. She grew used to the idea, after a fashion, and consoled herself that the worst had happened, and perhaps her peace would return. Time passed, and she began to feel a certain sense of peace and wholeness. It was not to last.

A rending, a tearing, a ripping, an unholy fission of her very being. Torn in two, suffering an agony of confusion, she cried out at he unholy affliction, and wondered how much more torture she would have to endure. She turned, gasped, saw a mirror image of her very being. Warmth flooded through her, a quickening, recognition of some elusive truth. Around her were new sisters; but, no, not sisters, they were clones of herself. At first one, then three, then dozens, hundreds, millions, bound together.

A change was coming. Soon they would be born, as something new and strange and wonderful. But no matter what happened, she knew this- she would never be alone again.

I Definitely Wouldn't Wear Some Lameass Cape.

2008-05-26T08:00:00.000+02:00

Image via memebon.jp

I think about things. All sorts of things. All the time. I have one major obsession which pleases me no end, which is time travel- namely, what would happen if Iwas plunked, say, in the 17th century. Or if someone from the 17th century was droppped of in modern-day Cape Town. I think that would be pretty mindblowing. For them, at least. And it would (you have to agree) be so totally awesome to be some sort of kick-ass, ass-kicking time-travelling operative, policing temporal rifts. Or something.

In anycase, that's a topic for another day. yesterday I was walking through the gardens, and I realised something...a little disconcerting. Something that rocked me to my very foundations, challenged everything I ever thought I knew or understood about myself, and the kind of person I am. It was epiphanic*.

I realised that if I had the power of invisibility**, I would be a criminal. Sorry mom, but I would totally bash that girl about the head and run away with her cute coat. I would raid shoe stores under the noses of the staff and pillage and plunder the Apple store. I would embark on a life of criminal fashionista-ing, and be the best dressed, most black-hearted villainess in the history of invisible ladies with a penchant for frippery and accessorisation.

Also, there would be many amusing pranks played upon the unsuspecting peoples of the lands. Childish japes involving floating hats and jellies. Things of that sort.

I am a bad, bad person.

*finally I get to use my extended vocabulary! Perspicacious! Onomatopaeic! Corpulent Ovarian Tittivation! Yar!
** or to stop time. or BOTH! THAT WOULD BE SO SWEEEEEEEEET!

40-year-Old Socialite and Dog...

2008-05-22T10:58:00.006+02:00

... Actually, no. It's a 15-year-old Lohan sister. And Dog. Lately every photo of Ali Lohan I see is mildly disturbing, as she seems not just to be older than her crazy eating-disorderly, drunken slightly-unwashed-looking Courtney-Lovesque sister; but older than her white-trash stage mom.

Partly it's the heavy makeup. It's certainly skillful, no smudged eyeliner and badly-applied foundation. No crazy eyeshadow colours. Nothing an actual teenager would apply. It's not even that heavy- although it must be, for all those freckles to just magically vanish. Basically, they've taken a cute, freckled, fresh-faced teen and turned her into someone considerably older. With boring hair. And pasty skin. I'd undersand if they did this to sexify her- you know, add a little strumpetification, make her look more legal and less lolita... But she's someone's waspy Mom now. You just know she drives out to wine farms on the weekends, drives a Volvo and thins Bree is the most realistic of the Desperate girls.

I suppose this must be some sort of reaction to her mom and sister. She's certainly veered wildly towards the opposite end of the spectrum. Nobody in their right minds could apply the words trashy, slutty or "badly manicured" here. and her sister could learn a lot about eyebrow grooming from her*.

And her dog is certainly cute.

*badly groomed eyebrows indiate a generally laissez-faire attitude towards life, don't you agree?

I was on vacation, and then I was lazy.

2008-05-12T12:15:00.010+02:00

kitteh via memebon.jp

Right, well, there goes that set of good intentions out of the window. Honestly. There's something about wintry weather that just saps you of energy and motivation and drives you only towards the snugglydom of your bed, and the warm comforts of hot chocolate and snack foods.

My man and I spent took leave between the long weekends and snuck away to Knysna for a some romantical times. It was long overdue as he had been working very hard and I was just frazzled and bored by the drudgery of working life. We spent a lovely few days (not enough) feeding elephants*, visiting the wolf sanctuary (great bunnies there, by the way), snuggling up to the fire in the evenings, eating outdoors, and generallly hugging trees and acting like tourists. It was a fantastic holiday and at least two weeks too short.

It was hard coming back, though. There's nothing quite like that first Monday morning back. Especially when winter has struck over the holiday: it's pitch black night when you wake up, your circadian rythms are all wonky, you've forgotten all the important details you needed to remember, and the coffee isn't nearly strong enough for your needs.

Somehow, though, the feeling of bliss managed to last at least until Wednesday, and my patience and sense of fortitude has yet to wear thin. Perhaps it's because the last few months have ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity in my office, initiated by my new, more efficient**, more effective super-robot-office-ninja***-me. Perhaps it's because of my new more stylish hairstlye (Cate Blanchett even stole it for the new Indy movie). Perhaps it's because I watched the Final Cut of Blade Runner last night.

But right now, not even the teenagers can irk me.

*be warned, their snot is smelly, and there's lots of it.
** not really, but if you act in a certain way people are more likely to believe you.
***"Office Ninja"(noun): one wh ois capable and indispensible in the many secret realms of the office****, and never lets the ball drop- the sword either.
**** double-sided photocopying, powerpoint, photoshop.

I IZ HAVE DEATH FLU PLAGUE!

2008-04-24T16:13:00.008+02:00

kitteh via memebon.jp

Oh doh.

I am not feeling very well. Not well at all, I must say. I seem to have contracted the devil anger death flu.I have been laid low, weeping and moaning and having very weird dreams that I am a mutant genetic experiment with unrealised powers, and I must find the first of my kind in Australia with the help of a rogue scientist and also my friend Gallagher (who come to think of it I haven't heard from in a while) before the evil corporation that created us wipes us out...

Or something. Not very clear on the details of that one. There was a nice picnic, though...

In any case, I came to realise I don't enjoy being sick. Give me a nice migraine or a strained muscle any day. But feverishness and "the Lurgy" just make me miserable. Miserable and stupid*. Miserable, stupid, and clumsy.

Also, repetitious.

I seem to get a flu now every Autumn; rain or shine, minamiafurika or nihon. last year, like a good girl, I got the flu injection. It gave me the flu. People laugh when I tell them, but it's not funny**. And do I get sympathy? Well, yes. But not at work. I somehow got finagled into coming in today, "no matter how sick you are", to work on a very important project, except that then the person who made me promise to come in buggered off without even a wisp of a hint of working on said extremely important project. So I could have stayed in bed.

Ta for that.

But I will have my revenge. I have breathed on everything.....

* you should have seen the spelling on this thing before I checked it eight times.
**It's not. Stop that.

I know, I know, I know.

2008-04-18T10:34:00.005+02:00

kitteh via memebon.jp

Really, I've been lax. So lax. But you know how it is. Seasons change, your body goes all floopy, your work drains you, and all you do in your free moments is readonline comics and sneer at your coffee. Speaking of which, I'll be right back.

Okay, so, I don't really have a topic for today. It's been one of those days. I awoke, went to the loo, and toilet wouldn't stop flushing. As far as I know, it might still be flushing. The Flatmate had left her cellphone at home, and the landlord had gone out. What to do, what to do? Panic, apparently. And then go to work. And try to get hold of the flatmate at her workplace. No luck. Panic some more. Eat Pronutro.

That kind of day.

This always seems to happen to me. This kind of non-stop-flushing issue. This is the second straight apartment that this has happened to me. It's disconcerting. Am I some sort of toilet jinx? That's a very specific way to have bad luck. I've never had any other sorts of plumbing problems...

All of this is ditracting me from the real problem at hand: my lax blogging of late. I'm going to have to do better about it. Even if it means posting my toilet issues.

...it's the sighing that kills me.

2008-04-09T10:28:00.004+02:00

There are people in the world who probably think of themselves as nonconfrontational. These people are actually passive-aggressive, and Iwish I could hit them, but I can't.

Don't get me wrong, everyone has a little bit of the PA in them, myself included. but there's a time and a place, no? I've noticed a lot of very random PA behaviour lately. If you're on public transpiort and someone sits on the empty seat next to you, don't roll your eyes and make clicking sounds. You are not a San tribesman*.

If you if you are in a supermarket queue and the person ahead of you is delayed because the debit-card machine disconnects, do not sigh and mutter under your breath! Similarly, if you are waiting to pay for parking and the person ahead of you can't get the machine to accept any of their money and they're 50 cents short, bursting into a frenzy of breath-sucking, tongue-clicking, muttering and eye-rolling is NOT HELPFUL!!! If you're in that much of a hurry**, LEND US THE DAMN 50 CENTS!

Becaus if i have to listen to one person near me engage in any sort of repeated, melodramatic sighing, I am going to bust a cap in their ass! Well maybe only in my head. But it's annoying, not to mention ill-mannered and childish. Let's all work together to eradicate this scourge. Let's make very day "smack a PA**** in the eye day".

* unless you are, but they're not famed for their passive-aggressiveness. Except for that one guy.
** seriously, where are you all headed to at 11pm on a saturday night? Tiger Tiger*** will wait for you.
*** shudder. that place gives me the creeps.
****Please don't go out there and hit a personal assistant. Okay?

boredy-bored-bored.

2008-03-28T09:53:00.005+02:00

You may, perchance, be wondering, what I've been up to. And why I haven't posted. I'll tell you: treacle. My brain has become treacle. Sticky, sticky, treacle. Sweet. Yummy. Good on toast, perhaps. But no use for writing.

Office life has been slow of late, due to all the important people (ie anyone who gives me tasks) being in Israel, I have had very few demands on my time. So, bored am I. And, bugger it, it's tiring!!!! I get home and am dead sleepy. Frankly, I'd rather spend all day running around being busy than surfung facebook and begging people to let me help them do stuff. Zzzz.

Here are some of the ways I have been filling the dead zones:

making tea. Also, coffee.
eating biscuits.
photoshop tutorials.
emailing.
wandering around the office talking to everyone who is slightly more busy than I am.
going to the toilet.
going downstairs to the garden to inspect the pigeons.
Lunch.
zzzzzzzzz.

As you can see, a thrill-a-minute. So, consequently, my brain has shrunk down to a little walnut-thing (softer, though). Walnut-treacle. Mmm. This means that I open up Blogger and can't bloody think. Of anything. Well, nothing interesting. I learned to play Canasta over Easter. Sex life good. Looking forward to winter. Getting a haircut this afternoon. Bleh.

The Sudden Proliferation of Geek Wannabees.

2008-03-12T10:36:00.006+02:00

Alrighty then, okay. I have a large bone to pick with a whole lot of people out there. I'm becoming annoyed. I wish to vent*.

Somehow, at some point that nobody really saw coming, it became fashionable to proclaim oneself as a geek. Now, this is cool if you actually are a geek. The geek community; along with nerds, odd-bods, the eccentric, and those "in touch with their inner children**"; have long been relegated to the shadows, the corners of society, shunned for their choices of t-shirts, conversational topics, or turn-based role-playing games.

What crawls up my arse and dies, thus causing me to vent rancid yellow spleen however, is the sheer volume of those who proclaim themselves to be geeks who are just plain not. I find it insulting when some ex-cheerleader or "most likely to succeed"-er with a toothy grin and a confidence belying their abilities tries to wedge themselves into the circle because everybody else is too.

Here's a tip: if you got invited to all the parties at high school, or even just more than five that did not involve a D&D circle and/or Nine Inch Nails played at full volume, if you did not wear glasses or braces or were not awkward/ gangly/ pimply (or a heinous combination of all of the above), if you did not read science-fiction, fantasy manga or graphic novels, and know the characters better than you knew your family, and if you could conduct conversations with your peers without stammering, blushing or confused looks from the other party, if you didn't insist on being called something like Raven or Lestat, or if you didn't even feel like you fit in anywhere and felt lost and alone until you hit college or university and finally felt like you could be yourself, then chances are you do not actually count as a geek.

Having watched the Spiderman movies does not make you a geek. Neither does having worn Spidey pajamas. Having a favourite storyline, author or artist might. Owning a figurine and displaying it prominently is also a good sign. Owning an enire roomful- well, you don't need me to tell you who you are. You know.

Reading graphic novels because you saw the movie and want to see what the fuss is about does not make you a geek. Refusing to watch said movie because it "compromises everything [insert author/ artist here]is about" kinda does.

Watching Star trek...not. Reading Star Trek Fanfic and dressing up as your favourite character for your wedding...Definitely.

Playing playstation.... borderline. LARPing, yes, definitely. See also D&D, Magic: The Gathering. As wll as argiung heatedly over whether liking Star trek means you can't like Star Wars too, or if Zombie Spidey is "just plain wrong" or if the crew of That Other Battlestar were contravening the geneva Convention, and if that's an appplicable standard.

So please, non-geek people, cease and desist, or I will be forced to bring you down with my mad ninja skillz, which are considerable.

*makes a change, no?
** the immature.

Test Stess.

2008-02-20T12:41:00.010+02:00

So, Monday morning I finally wrote my learner's license test.If you'd been paying attention you'd have noticed my mention of making the appointment four months ago. There's a four-month waiting period for leraner's tests. There's a waiting period that long because people keep failing. People keep failing because the test is hard. Tricksy multiple choice questions. Rurgh. And me being the great overthinker.

The last time I wrote the test I failed it by one point. Admittedly I had only learned in a scanty fashion and used the wrong book (not the new K53 one with the 180 step-by-step instructions for changing lanes*). But still. Tricksy! The wording of the test is both vague and layered and it can be hard to distinguish the correct answer from the less-correct one. So the test is hard. And I'm not a fan of tests or exams anyway. God knows how I made it through Uni. I know of at least one exam (Introduction to Critical Thinking) where I got halfway through the fourth and final essay, decided I had enough marks to pass, handed in my paper and left. I wasn't enjoying the experience**.

So, this exam I had four months to prepare, which turned out not all that helpful since I only started learning last Wednesday. No, sorry, Thursday. Wednesday I merely took the book out and looked at it***. In any case, Sunday was a flurry of learning and Grey's Anatomy****. Monday Morning I woke up ridiculously early, bathed, dresssed, and picked up my book. The words swam in front of my eyes. I struggled on for a bit, gave up and headed to the Traffic Department, muttering road rules under my breath, as one does.

Having arrived early, I was dismayed to discover that when they say be there at 8:00am, it's part of an evil scheme: you sit down for the test at 8:30 and there's another 20 minutes of torturous explanation of how the test works. Well, the explanation takes about 5 minutes; what delays the issue is this:

"for code 8 license, please answer questions 5 to 52, then skip the rest and continue from 69 to 84. Any questions?"
"um, yes, what do we answer if we're doing code 8?"
"for code 8 license, please answer questions 5 to 52, then skip the rest and continue from 69 to 84. Any questions?"
"I'd like to know: what do we answer if we're doing code 8?"

argh.

Anyway, long story short, I passed the damnable thing, so now am on the next phase of my journey towards driverdom. Which means that one day I'll be able to blog about petrol prices like the rest of you.

*you're checking mirrors and blind spots so often you never seem to actually be looking at the road, is that all that safe?
** I got 68%, if you're interested.
*** getting my mind ready for the learning experience. It's psychology and perfectly logical.
****about time I started catching up with season 3. Don't tell me what happens!

Let's Just Pretend Like I've Been Here All Along.

2008-02-19T16:13:00.008+02:00

I've been on leave. The thing with leave is a) you enjoy it far too much to want it to end and b) when you do return to work all the things you loathe about your job are thrown into sharp relief. I'd really much rather be waking up at 10am, pottering around for a bit and planning my reading material and location for the day. Ideally I'd like to become a professional loafer; the sort that loafs around, as opposed to a form of footwear.

I did get involved in an exhibition of 13 of my photographs, which was exciting and complicated and fun. If you're in the Durbanville area at all (before the 6th of March), head over to the Rust En Vrede gallery and check out my stuff. It's super-awesome. I think you should buy something before I become all famous and you can't afford it anymore*.

I'm not actually joking.

Valentines' day was lovely and Romantic and snuggly and I'm not going into any detail, sufficit to say that I'm a very lucky girl to have such a lovely handsome snugglebunny as I do. I did, however, get conjunctivitis, I'm pretty sure from some counter or ATM at the waterfront**. Happily, this did not ruin the evening, although I did have difficulty getting my eyes open the next day.

I also got my learner's license, but that's a thing for another post.

Now, I am nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel, Sysiphusing along. Yes, I have returned to work. And those late lazy mornings already seem a thing of the past. Not all good things come to an end, but holidays certainly do.

*if you can't get to Durbanville you can always order from me directly. Yes, I'm going for the hard sell.
**Mail me and I'll send you a free macro shot of my eye with engorged blood vessels; it's fascinating.

Things I guess I could Blog about in more detail, but probably won't.

2008-01-18T11:40:00.000+02:00

Cankles. They weird me out, and I fear them. Old ladies with cankles make me slightly nauseous and also I feel the urge to poke them with a sharp instrument such as a knitting needle. As my great-granny apparently said: "beef to the heel". Nugh.
If you're that desperate for a shit, why not choose the gutter, rather than the sidewalk. And, no, covering it with your shirt is not actually a socially acceptable way of dealing with it. Perhaps: try drinking slightly less malt liquor.
Cutting most of your hair off during the humid part of summer: apparently not that good an idea.
people who eat neither cake nor chocolate are just plain weird.
One tires of cleaning dog fur off the couch very quickly, no? Bad dog. No more biscuits for you. And stop acting all innocent. You're the worst criminal ever. I can't believe you tried to eat a magazine.
I have actually reached Britney saturation, and would like her to go away. Preferably to some country without telecommunications.
One week with DSTV has convinced me that a) teenage girls in America are disgustingly spoiled and should be made to go fight in Iraq b) they've been showing the same 10 programmes on all hundred-odd channels for at least 2 years and c) until they get comedy central, NBC, ABC or HBO the entire thng is really just a scam*. Africamagic is apparently made by four-year-olds with a point-and shoot and a bad case of diarrhoea .
That Admiral Cain is a Beyatch! I can't believe they gave that ship it's own series! Does nobody care about the Geneva convention anymore?

*with the exception of discovery channel. Long live Mythbusters!

A Very Eventful Week.

2007-12-20T09:30:00.000+02:00

Right. So lots of stuff has happened this past week or so. It's been a rather tiring roller-coaster ride of events and occurrences, and I'm quite ready for a bit of the olde quietude. I'm going to have to bullet-point all of these because I'm rather dizzy and not up to actual paragraphs (see point 4).

this week, I have:

helped launch an art exhibition at work, for which I spent a good three hours helping to put up 44 litho-print board-mounted photos with prestik*. Have spent countless hours since picking the damn things off and unbending the corners and reapplying them to the boards.
Won a photography competition. The prize is a stonkin' new canon photo printer and paper and ink cartridges, but best if all I'm getting a spread in Charged Magazine and I get to call myself a prize-winning photographer. I'm totally getting a t-shirt made.
Been to a birthday braai on Saturday night, only to fall momentarily asleep at the table at around 11pm. Just a microsleep, but it was noticed- by the host. Mortifying!
Gotten some sort of flu virus/ tummy bug thing that has laid me low and rendered me both nauseous and dizzy. Lovely to have to deal with in this heat. Also I have my period. So, altogether feeling supersexy and fun.
Spent all day cleaning and rushing arund to perapre for a braai at the Hotties' place on sunday, only to start feeling completely out of it and claustrophobic and nauseous, due to the virus thing.
Switched on my cellphone to discover my SIM card decided to shuffle unceremoniously off this mortal coil. So, now I'm out of contact with everyone, feeling isolated and also a bunch of my numbers have been lost.

I'm quite ready for a quiet week. But not much hope of that with bloody Christmas round the corner... Happy Holidays to you all. And a merry Cristmukkah.

*totally not my idea, yet somehow I'm getting blamed for its failings. Someone please offer me a job.

musings upon the Complications of Time Travel

2007-12-12T10:22:00.000+02:00

click on the nice image I created, to make it large.

So, here's a tidbit for you.

For as long as I can remember; way back to the days of long braided pigtails , dark brown T-bar schoolshoes* and He-Man episodes on constant rotation; I have been fairly obsessed by the very notion of time travel. I find movies on the subject very unsatisfying, because they tend to languish in the same tacky fish-out-of water scenarios or the whole "if I unknowingly impregnate my mother and actually am my own grandfather is it still incest?" issue. And it's a pertinent issue as researchers have actually managed to move minuscule invisible particles an almost immeasurably-small fraction of time back into the past or into the future using a multimilion-dollar, gigantic big fuck-off particle accelerator, which means that realistic everyday time travel is just round the corner, really.

Sometimes, late at night, I lie in bed and picture what it would be like for someone from the past to be dropped in our timespacecontinuumthingy. Think about it. let's be conservative and imagine a difference of a hundred years. No, fifty. think about all the technological advances, cultural changes and fashions that have occurred. iPods. Computers. Cellphones. G-strings. lingerie adverts on billboards. Scandinavian Death Metal. Portable Chihuahuas. Sushi. Your average hipster from 1957 would probably be nonplussed to say the least. Go back to our hundred-year-ago dude, and think about cars and tarred roads and, you know, daily bathing, and we have a man or woman facing total mental meltdown, sitting looking at a cappuccino, muttering "buh. buhbuh. buh-buuuh."

Which could be entertaining, in a way, but I suppose not enough for a feature-length cinematic experience.

And what of travelling to the past? Well, aside from the dangers inherent in it (viral strains, unwashed beardy men who want botty sex, Mongol hordes, swordsmen or people with arrows, dinosaurs), I personally believe it would suck a very great deal. I mean... what kind of cuisine could one expect to find? No playstation, no wii, no 24, Lost,or Heroes, no magazines or modern literature**, a probable lack of toothpaste of deodorant, and a total lack of comfortable shoes***. The past is a place best left right where it is.

Would be cool if we could send Paris Hilton there though. And watch what happens. The Simple Life: Cholera Epidemic sounds pretty cool, don't you think****?

*the black maryjanes were much cooler, but came later.
**although also no chick lit or FHM, so that's cool.
*** I have it on good authority.
**** surely to be followed by Survivor: Dark Ages

Dear Fake Cancer Child....

2007-12-07T08:56:00.000+02:00

This morning, as per usual, I found in my facebook inbox the following chain email:

"Hi, my name is Amy Bruce.

I am 7 years old, and I have severe lung cancer . I also have a large tumour in my brain, from repeated beatings Doctors say I will die soon if this isn't fixed, and my family can't pay the bills. The Make A Wish Foundation has agreed to donate 7 cents for every time this message is sent on. For those of you who send this along, I thank you so much, but for those who don't send it, what goes around comes around. Have a Heart*, please send this. Please, if you are a kind person, send this on. PLEASE HIT FORWARD BUTTON NOT REPLY BUTTON.

YOUR'S FAITHFULLY,
AMY BRUCE
amy.bruce@makeawish.com"

Dear Amy. First off, I don't like your tone. Alternately whingeing and threatening, with an added edge of attempted guilt-induction. You're starting off on the wrong foot with me here, young lady, or, should I say, viral hoaxster. Because frankly, m'dear, I believe for not one instant of a moment that you are actually some poor scamp with not one, but TWO deadly cancers, and also BEATINGS. You're sorta cornering the market in pathos. I mean, only the most churlish of people** could be mean in this sort of situation, right?

The thing is... this whole email forwarding thing... how does it work, exactly? The whole 7 cents thing I mean. How do they keep track of that? Is there some sort of email tracking device or embedded cookie or some shit? Is that even legal? And what if someone gets the same email three times. Do they count as one donation, or three? And what currency is that in, because you don't mention where you're from. Are you British, Amy? American? South African? You know, real people come from places.

Amy, if you're really real, and I doubt you are, because I'm not seeing the Make A Wish Foundation getting involved with a clumsy scheme like this; but Amy, if you're the real deal, I'm sorry you're sick, and get beaten, and have no money. But really, do you think this is the best way to go about it, using the same old tired template that a million fake email hoaxers have used before? You need to rethink your plan of action.

But, you type really well and are quite erudite for a seven-year-old***. So there's that, at least. Good luck Amy Bruce. But stay away from my inbox.

http://www.hoax-slayer.com/amy-bruce-charity-hoax.html

* But I don't, Amy, I'm famously heartless.
** that would be me, then.
*** with a tumour, from the beatings.

Sexy Sex Sex. And Moving.

2007-12-04T09:34:00.000+02:00

I moved house this weekend, which was an exhausting thing. Moving ranks up there with losing a loved one and getting married as one of the most stressful life events*. It also doesn't help when a pipe bursts in the apartment above and floods your boxes with suspiciously yellow water. Nor when the landlord keeps you waiting three-quarters of an hour outside the now- empty apartment for your deposit. Next time I move, I'm hoping to be able to afford some burly movers, or in the very least henchmen, to carry all my stuff for me. As it was I had to rely on my Hottie.

There's something sexy about a man carrying heavy things that you can't though, isn't there? as feminist as I am, and as much as it pains me to say so; the mere fact of a man's genetic tendency towards denser muscle mass makes me go all gooey. Also, when they bend over, in nice jeans. Mrowr. Ahem.

Which brings me to the sexy sex. Sex. Apparently you're all obsessed by it. The whole planet is. We're either doing it, watching it, talking about it, condemning it, chasing it, planning it. Some people believe if you enjoy it too much you're destined to an eternity of suffering. That seems a bit harsh, considering it's a bit of rubbing and some endorphins. Probably, they are worried about the nakedity. Personally I don't think god would have made it so nice and so much fun if it was such a terrible sin. That would be incredibly petty and warped of him**. Her. It. I digress.

There's this theory that if you can think of a fetish, no matter how bizarre, then it is being indulged by at least one person in the world. So, people who get off on having goats watch them pee on strawberry icecream? We're on to you. And now I know there must be people who like to wank to old episodes of Knight Rider-- but only the KITT scenes. You never can tell about people, can you? Sometimes the quiet ones are the ones with a Shetland and a rubber chicken suit in the back room. And the ones who posture and pose and talk about their prowess are... well... mediocre. I'm told.

Sex though, eh? Silly, when you think about it, but a fun way to spend an afternoon. Here's wishing you all good, healthy, refreshing, fun, funny, tiring sexual relations. The type that makes a stressful life event all better.

* I did occasionally pay attention in university.
**yeah, that's right, religious sex-haters. You just called God warped and petty. I don't think he'll like that much.

In The Wars, As My Mother Would Say.

2007-11-23T12:10:00.000+02:00

It's been an injurious few weeks for me, I must say. So much so that it's beginning to soak my noodle, just a little. I'm normally not the most stoic of people- I tend to have finger booboos and then walk around like a two-year-old aquiring sympathy from everyone- but I also like to think of myself of healthy, and not neding medical attention.
However, in the past few weeks I have :

been bitten by some sort of mystery insect, and gotten a gigantic tar-black bruise that faded to a knob, but which was not life threatening and would not lead to my leg falling off (according to the Happy Doctor*)
had random tummy ailments and dizziness that may or may not have been related to the bite (also according to the HD),
the usual assortment of oddly-placed mystery bruises
giant sudden cavern appearing in molars.
bled from the ear, and onto my clean pillow (just once, but still disconcerting).
spontaneous yet gushery lip-bleedage (may have been toast-related)**

So, that's...weird. And Icky. And makes me feel like some sort of hypochondriacal weakling. I'd much rather bleat about tiny imagined agonies, thank youverymuch. Or one extended bout of flu, where I can take time off from work.

Anyway, moving on, here is a poll:

more at twiigs.com...

*"so, now I want you to make a wee-wee in the little bakkie, okay?"
** satisfyingly, horrified annoying semi-boss so much she disappeared from my office for the rest of the day instead of asking me for that favour.
*** Not mine though. Other peoples'.

Don't Think, Just Vote.

2007-11-22T12:32:00.000+02:00

So, Shebee just nominated me for a "freakiest blogger award" in the Blogger's Choice Awards. So, In an effort to win, even though It's an international award and I have about 30 loyal readers, please vote for me, and also maybe get your friends and family to vote for me, pets too, possibly facebook contacts... just do it. make it happen. Also, please vote for shebee in the "best Blog about stuff" category (that way she's not competing with me, see?).

Vote For Me Here!

To Victory... and beyond!

Theoretical Musing Upon Alternative Lifeforms.

2007-11-20T12:16:00.000+02:00

I was eating some delicious Lamb Spitbraai slices with gravy from the Spar on Saturday- I had just returned from gym and was in need of a protein binge. It was quite delicious, and led me to muse on the nature of meat, as one does. Have I mentioned my three-year stint as a vegetarian? We'll discuss it soon, I promise. I was thinking about all things meaty, and the eating thereof, and flesh and dead things and such, when it occurred to me that I might well have struck upon the reason that extraterrestrial visitors appear to be so shy*. It might well be that they are worried that we're going to eat them.

Think about it. We're pretty omnivorous, and as a planet, we tend to eat most of the other living things on the planet. The ones that taste good, basically, and even (if you have ever watched some of the "international delicacies" featured on Fear Factor or Survivor) the ones that don't. Cow, pig, sheep, snake, locust, raw octopus, semi-developed rancid ducks eggs... nyum nyum, we eat 'em up. We even, on occasion; in parts of, say, New Guinea; eat each other. So one could understand the concerns of your average interplanetary tourist. Nothing ruins sightseeing quite like having a limb gnawed**.

So, all those messages of peace and welcome being beamed into space from satellites orbiting our little wet realm are probably a bit of a waste. Perhaps a rewording is in order; something along the lines of "Earth. Water Plant. We have Oxygen, and nice boobies. Come visit, we have lots of parking. And don't worry, we won't eat you- promise!"

..As long as they don't taste nice, that is.

*aside from the cattle mutilations, which are quite obviously teenage alien activity.
** that and last-minute, unexpected airport taxes when you spent all your last pesos at the off-duty.

Scan Post #2 (At this point I'm Just Talking Bloody Nonsense)

2007-11-15T14:43:00.000+02:00

Notes on Staying Afloat.

2007-11-12T16:03:00.000+02:00

I have never considered myself outdoorsy. In fact, had you asked me about this at any time previous to my sojourn in the land of the Rising At Bloody 3am Sun*, I would have wrinkled my nose prettily and made disparaging comments about dirt and scorpions and my need for comfort.

On the whole, I'm still not overly fond of roughing it. But I quite enjoy the whole camping/ barbecuing food/ living in a tent thin once in a while. It's quite... relaxing. Especially when the weather is good. And you don't get bitten by mystery insects**. It's even better when a mixup regarding campsites means you end up staying at a plush hotel. Sweet pillowy goodness at the end of a hard day.

See this weekend I went river rafting. It was fun. Very much fun. Not enough rapids, though. rapids are very entertaining. But the floating along gently, accompanied by the warbling of birds (or fellow rafters), alphabet games, raft wars, biscuit-munching and harassing of the guides was very relaxing indeed. Nature was very natural, the sky was blue, the air was clear, and dragonflies were very attracted to me. And why is it that food eaten outdoors in the middle of nowhere tastes so much better?

*the real name for Japan
** long story, but my leg didn't fall off so it's all good.

Scan Post #1 (click to enlarge)

2007-11-08T14:18:00.000+02:00

Nature= Awesome.

2007-10-30T14:45:00.000+02:00

I watched some National Geographic special this weekend about Great White sharks. They are totally the most excellent example of how fantastic and interesting nature stuff is. Nature shows are always either mind-numbingly torpid ("the swallow-tailed buckberry dances his slow dance, warbling, as the female chirrups in reply. He offers her a twig, and should she accept this twig, he will then be expected to provide all twigs, leaves and worms in exchange for mating. That is, until he moves on to a younger, more nubile female, who will want bigger, more flashy twigs and not be very good at chirruping, but will have a much fluffier tail."*), or an exhilarating thrill-ride of facts and hunting and blood. And teeth. And conjecture.

I also like dissections.

Did you know that sharks can vomit out their entire stomach? It's called... um... stomach inversion**, and they use it to clean out the collected detritus (whale fat, tyres, corrupted hard drives, the occasional Starbucks) that collects therein. And all this without ripping their stomach linings open on the rows of razor-shark teeth. How cool is that! I kind of wish I could do that. Not that I like vomiting all hat much.. but I like the idea of a clean stomach. Sometimes I dwell on the pounds of rotting flesh that's supposed to be collecting in my intestines***, undigested, unexpelled. It vexes me. Also, the black pepper, although I don't it eat that much.

Sharks are pretty cool, especially when they're out there in the sea and I'm not. And they're totally less harmful than bees. Now, bees I'm shit-scared of. I've been stung by bees, had bees in my mouth, and been attacked by a brown beetle that I thought was a bee. I've never even been called a bad name by a shark! they totally get a bad rap.

Also cool are ligers- you know, where they cross-breed a lion and a tiger and get this big fuck-off cat that's twice the size of either, hugely strong but pretty much useless out in the wild and apparently not very bright****. Ligers are pretty sweet. They're bred for their skills in magic, you know*****.

*ahem.
**I think. I wasn't exactly taking notes. Learning is only fun if you don't actually have to pay attention, or write a test.
*** I realise not technically my stomach but it's my segueway on my blog.
**** totally just made that up. But it looks like a big lunk. And what, we're administering IQ tests to animals now? Trust me, it's a ligimbo¹
*****Napolon Dynamite reference. Watch the damn movie, people!

¹liger+bimbo=ligimbo

The Keeper of Secrets.

2007-10-29T11:03:00.000+02:00

On Friday, you'll be glad to know, I finally dragged my sorry arse into the traffic department and made the appointment for my Learner's License test. Because having hit the big three-oh, I'm getting tired of people giving me the weird-eye when they hear I can't drive*. And I'm sure they're tired of my jaded response; "eat poop from a trowel, dingbat" followed by a swift kick to the throat.**

Part of what's taken so long is... oh, man. That ol' Traffic Department. At Gallows Hill. Closes at 3pm, interminable queues, unhelpful eye-rolling staff, bureaucracy and angst. All wrapped up in that institutional, grey, soul-crushing Calvinist 60's architecture that the Apartheid government seemed to think was a good idea***. And, my day went like this:

Approach counter 2 (learner's license test counter), "hi, can I make an appointment for a learner's test?"
Heinous cow rolls eyes, sullenly."counter 7, get a form".
Go stand in queue for counter 7. Realise after a while that it is in fact the wrong queue and that there is in fact another queue. Curse badly marked-out queues. Join queue for counter 7. Curse stupid system that makes you queue for hours for forms instead of having them freely available. Muse aloud about bureaucratic inefficiency and mistrust of civilians to use the precious forms responsibly. Gentleman in queue #1 whispers that if I want a form, I should speak to the security guard.

With ears seemingly of a bat with quite good hearing, security dude appears suddenly. "you need a form? Don't stand in the queue, you'll waste your time!I don't know why they make people stand in the queues.".
Proceed to get most informed, helpful, efficient, knowledgeable service I have ever received in a government institution in oh, say, 30 years. begin to formulate idea that security dude should train all government employees from now on. failing that, municipal and governmental departments should all be run by security dudes.

Also, there should be free filter coffee and ginger biscuits. I mean, why is it de rigeur to have these sorts of places be so depressing and soul-crushing? Can't getting an ID book or driver's license be a happy thing?

* listen people, It's not like I could afford car payments anyway so it is kind of a moot issue.
** or some variation thereof.
*** no better proof exists that they were not, in fact, the "superior race", and we would all have been better off with Ndebele people being in charge of all government-building decoration. People would be all cheerful and also have warm blankets in winter. Man, I should be president.

You ,scare kitty, I made you a cookie.

2007-10-26T09:27:00.000+02:00

(and finally, the poll-post winning blog entry. it's.. stream of consciousness)

Kitty. Little Kitty kat. You're like a bunny, only with different eyes and ears and face. But cute. Your stumpy tail, it beguiles me. Are you a Japanese short-tailed cate? Neko neko neko! I was told, while I was there, that Japanese cats say "nya nya" instead of meow. It must be the Japanese accent that does it.

In any case, Neko-chan, you're pretty hot. Your head is gigantic though! I bet you probably can't stand up bcause your big chibi manga head is too heavy for those little weeny legs to support. That's okay, I'll take care of you. You don't have to do anything but sit there and look cute. and make meeping noises. Gahd, I love the meeping noises, the teensy ones that are barely audible, tremulous but rightly assured of speciesal superiority. But you're still so little and don't know how to be imperious yet, so you do that "scared helpless baby kitty out alone in the world" act.

I made you a special treat, and I used catnip. You'll like it. Catnip and anchovy chunk cookies. Num num. Much better than those nasty food pellets. Also, I soaked it in milk, because your little teeth are too small to be bitey and crunching yet. And Milk is good for you. And you get little beads of milk on your whiskers and a milk moustache. And maybe go meep.

I blame that new Whiskas adverts- it's kitten porn! It's designed to make you go buy a kitten so that you have to go out and buy whiskas! Evil.

Meep!

Can Somebody Please Explain....

2007-10-24T11:04:00.000+02:00

1) ...why; when everybody hates that badly- designed, superannoying and completely- unrelated- to- the- product Meerkat; Vodacom has come up with yet another lame and tacky advert for summer, involving Bob Sinclair, a yacht, and pop-culture references from the 1990's*. Who exactly is the target market here? I literally haven't met anyone yet in the last year I've been home that not only doesn't enjoy them but has homicidal urges towards that pointy bloody rodent. The advert where the meerkat gets eaten by a giant ninja cellphone and blood spurts out Kill Bill- style: that's the one I want to see.

2) ...what is up with facial- cleansing wipes? All of them seem to be available only in packs of 25. Considering that they tend to be a one- a- day sort of item (unless you often need to clean makeup off twice a day- in which case this is a moot issue for you), surely most women would prefer to only have to buy them once a month? To me, a pack of 30 would be more logical...or even 35, you know, so you have a couple of spare for facial emergencies. I'd really rather pay slightly more for the convenience of only having to schlep to Clicks once a month instead of every three weeks which throws my schedule off no end!

3) ...why mosquitos exist? Seriously, what role do they play in the natural order? Spider food? Does their tiny poopage fertilise fields, or somesuch? As far as I can see they have only one purpose: providing existential angst at 2am. Waiting for the axe to fall, and listening for that dive-bomb buzz; that high-pitched siren of misery to come; I start to question my very existence. Personally, I think the mosquito whine is overkill: they'd probably be more efficient killers if they came in for a silent approach. But then, they'd miss out on all that juicy schadenfreude.

4) ... what, exactly, would be so bad about drinking the occasional beer at work? I'm not talking about getting blitzed- rolling around the office with a lampshade on my head and giggling like a three-year-old in a sailor suit- just a nice beer after lunch to celebrate a fine half-day's work, and to help oneself over the 3pm hump**. Considering I have no fresh air or daylight or space in here, I kind of feel I deserve it.

poll-winner post coming Friday, look out for it! Then, buy me toys and figurines!

*Titanic is over, advertising people... let it go.
** 2.59: brain working... 3.oo brain shuts DOWN!***
***mom, I will gladly eat a low GI diet if you buy me the food ;P

Whoop-de-doo.

2007-10-22T14:41:00.000+02:00

Call me Scrooge, but I just can't workup all that much enthusiasm for our World Cup Rugby win. I mean, it's nice and all, and our players did us proud, they certainly are skilled, and they have a nice selection of bums and chests. But all this hoopla and whooping and bouncing around orgasming in public just leaves me cold.

It doesn't help that I'm not one of those sporty girls. All I really know about rugby is scrums, locks, and hookers. Anything deeper than that and you've lost me*. Some people love sport and see in it all the drama of an episode of Lost, or Heroes or 24. Of course, some people watch Noot Vir Noot every week. There's no accounting for taste. What I'm trying to say is I can see, objectively, why it's dramatic and great and fantastic that we won! We're champions! We have gigantic steel balls! We made expats sulk**!

And, yes, I get why the world cup is more important than other rugby games, although, to be snarky, does that make it harder? Shouldn't we be just as proud about every victory? And why does it take something like this to unite our country, to make us feel all warm and fuzzy and hopeful about each other? To me that makes it kind of shallow and..dare I say it... less meaningful.

In any case, I'm saving my vuvuzela-blowing, yelling, car-horn-tooting drunken hysteria for when the unemployment rate drops below ten percent, or AIDS gets cured, or a politician makes the news for being incorruptible and unprejudiced.

I'm just cynical and horrible, aren't I? If you feel great about the win, don't let me stop you. I just can't join in.

*the offside rule is football, right?
** "that was the worst decision ever made by a referee in the history of sport!" right, so no sour grapes then for you, eh?

One of those days for which the word languid was invented.

2007-10-11T14:02:00.000+02:00

Hot, dry, almost windless. Suddenly, the weather has taken one of it's acute turns, from frigid dampness, to searing desert heat. The sky is a widly improbable blue and the scent of laundry detergent and cut grass broiling in plastic bin-bags floats on the wisp of a breeze. People nap on corners and on the grass, and others, who have places to go and things to do, or they'd also be napping, move slowly, as the heat and sunshine renders us all a little less intelligent, like trolls in a Pratchett novel, brains liquefying like a Cornetto. A Timbaland song plays on repeat in my head.

The grass by the pond is coated with a blanket of shed feathers, but the seagulls aren't bothered: they're dipping in the water. Fat pigeons waddle and goo and plonk themselves on the heads of statues. A toddler girl with cheeks like chocolate cupcakes dances and sings to a tune of her own invention while her mother gossips at a security guard. I'm thinking of everything, but nothing in particular. Fresh, creamy-yellow waterlilies waggle their fingers at me. I've never eaten artichokes, I realise.

The smells, the unrelenting heat, the breeze, the tourists trying to find their way into the Art Gallery... signs and signals, saying "sumer... summer... summer". And for an hour, at least, all is right with the world.

**keep voting on the poll... will blog the winner next week.**

Poll: Which is this month's weirdest search term?

2007-10-09T16:22:00.000+02:00

Man. There are some fruitycakes out there, non? I'm always interested in the search terms that lead people to my blog. Vote below and choose thee weirdest, and I swear to all that is covered in chocolate I'll write a fantastical blog post about it. Yeah, Beyotches, it's on!!!!

more at twiigs.com...

I've compiled a list...

2007-10-09T15:29:00.000+02:00

...of things that exist in my head that, make me happy to think about. Because I've been bitching all day long...

1) a cupcake with a yellow duckling on the top in icing.
2) a round-neck white cotton t-shirt with Ian Curtis*' face on it.
3) a handwritten letter from a friend with stickers and photos enclosed
4) a kitten wearing a tyrolean sweater and knitted bobble hat.
5) painting my nails with lavender-blue nail varnish, with tiny silver dots.
6) talking only in the present tense. "I am sleeping well, last night. I am having dreams. Let's shopping in Dubai"**.
7) a free ticket to any country that has Starbucks.
8) Marc Jacobs designing a shoe based on my wonderfulness, and Philip Treacy doing a matching hat.
9) sleeping late every day for the rest of my life.
10) papering my apartment walls with pale robin's-egg blue and eggshell-white lace.
11) breaking into exclusive books and stealing all the new books I can carry in a black bag, so many that my entire apartment smells of fresh paper and ink for a week.

Also, I would like my colleague to remove Toto's "Africa" as her cellphone ring. It's been a stressful day and that's just not helping.

* This is why google was invented.
** much like english is spoken in Japan.

"Well, it's Definitely not Sukkot!!!"

2007-10-01T15:31:00.000+02:00

So, for the third week in a row I'm working only two-and-a-half days, with the rest of the week off. This is because it's been very holiday-ey, Judaism-wise. it's not always like this, being as it runs on it's own calendar (hands up all Jewish people who can keep track of the holidays without a calendar... alright Rabbi, you made your point, you can put your hand down now). In any case, all this free time has inspired much jealousy*, and the inevitable question: "so what holiday is it, anyway?".

Well, Rosh Hashanah was easy. Jewish New Year. Simple. Sukkot was a little harder to explain. The festival of... Lemons? harvesty....something? shaking palm fronds and lemons at the compass points? I asked around the office, and nobody had paid attention in jewish studies that day. See, the thing is... some of the festivals are a little... obscure for most of us. We have a sort of a vague, fuzzy idea of what they do. Mostly, give a day off, and if you're a good jew**, and not agnostic, you go to shul extra.

This next one coming up, though.. Shemini Atzeret. Nobody had even the foggiest. Wikipedia clarified that it is not Sukkot, but you can still sit in the Sukkah***. As far as I can tell it's a holiday that "the Creator" gave to Jewish people as a special bonus day off****. Seriously. No fasting, no feasting, and you can tear toilet paper*****. Generic Holiday, then.

*although it's the one perk of my job, which is stressful (you've read my blog before, right?), sometimes direly boring and not very well-paid. So stop whining.
** ie you don't eat pork chops, lovely pork chops with a lil' bit 'o paprika and lemon juice and 'taters. Mmmm.
*** Oh, just google it.
**** Because btw, you guys are totally meant to be getting Sukkot too. It says. On the interweb. I mean, I don't know!
**** Shabbat. long story.

A Very Brave Girl.

2007-10-01T11:50:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was my first beach day of the season, and a very exciting one it was. You see, I had resolved that ennough was enough, no more would I suffer the tyranny and shame of the two white triangles of dead-looking white flesh! No more would I have to photoshop self-portraits to even out skin tone on my chestal region! Yes, people, I this is the year...for toplessness!

Seriously.

I'm not one for exposing myself in public. But, honestly, it's practically become de rigeur these days to go about like a three-year-old*. And for a while I've been gazing jealously at the bronzed noombies of the beach girls**, who have no top-half tan lines, and can ear low-cut tops, and don't look weird naked. Well, unless they just look weird naked naturally, but that's another topic for another time.

So, I decided to gird my loins and stop being such a big baby. It wasn't easy though. I got to the beach, ready for my quest. I scanned the few people on the beach: nice, not too few for me to stand out, not so many that it would be intimidating. Mostly girl, and families with naked children. Good, nakedness of children helps my cause. There were some fully-dressed beach-watchers, which was totally creeping me out, because I just knew they were dirty perverts waiting for my boobies. Beaches= beachwear, it's a dress code, and people who don't respect that... perverts!

Anyway, finally the time came, and I whipped of my top and lay down like a little person trying to be unobtrusive. Nobody jeered, pointed or giggled. In fact, very few noticed, possibly. As I've mentioned, my ta-tas*** are not that big. So, I passed my first tan time without event, enjoying the cool breeze on my skin. and I think it'll be a little easier next time.

I feel very brave, and accomplished, like I climbed a mountain or something. Only without the physical exertion part, which would suck. Score one for the half-naked lady!

*but with boobs.
** well, until they noticed and then suddenly it got all weird.
*** starting to run out of synonyms for breasticles.

Not that I really want to talk about it...

2007-09-25T09:16:00.000+02:00

..because I'm intensely private. However: the need to vent prevails. Once again, my heart finds itself a little bent, folded, and stapled. I do not enjoy this, it sucks greatly. There are few words less pleasant to the ear than "I could never love you". So I'm a little blue, and delicate... and confused.

Because... I'm kind of a catch, theoretically. I'm decent-looking, I have a fantastic bottom, I'm smart, I like movies and graphic novels and kung-fu movies and food, and am not particularly high maintenance. Also, I'm told I'm rather good in bed*. I'm independent. I have a quirky fashion sense. I can cook, and bake, and dress wounds. I have nice hair, and high levels of personal hygiene. I am edumacated. So why is it that I have such difficulty in finding men who actually want to date me? I think I've been asked out about five times in my life- I end up dating friends, or doing the asking. Is there agreat big neon sign above my head flashing: "DANGER! DANGER! AVOID!" or something?

I think the problem is that a) I'm not a girly girl. I don't do giggling and pretending to be dim. also b) small boobs. very small boobs. c) my awesome ninja skills are intimidating d) I'm weird.

I'm going to die alone and be eaten by my bunnies.

*by your Mom. Sorry, misdirected repressed anger there.

Intenational Talk Like A Pirate Day- ARRRRRRRRR!

2007-09-19T09:24:00.000+02:00

Today be international Talk Like a Gentleman o' fortune Tide, an' as a practisin' swashbuckler*, I feel 'tis me obligation t' raise awareness o' this fine tradition. This tide aims t' honour them great swashbucklers through history- such as Blackbeard, William Kidd an' Johnny Depp. Men who swashed, buckled, an' stomped around on peg legs, drinkin' rum** an' buryin' booty, instead o', fer some reason, spendin' 't. Also: they be really good at trap design, 't seems. An' had plenty o' time t' do so, on accoun' o' those things be complicated … like th' flyin' spike ones. How did they get them things t' reset? I'm only askin' on accoun' o' thar be always dead bodies o' swabbies who got caught by th' flyin' spikes/ darts/ spears/ capuchin monkeys, but th' traps be always still primed… hmmm. Arr swashbucklers also hire good long-term caretakers. They’re planners, arrrr.

Belay that, hearties.

Anyway, 't must ben fun t' be a swashbuckler, all that fightin' an' drinkin' rum t' prevent scurvy*** an' robbin' an' eyeliner. Men look good, sometimes wi' eyeliner. This be also why Goths be popular. An' Brandon Flowers. But Brandon Flowers be nay swashbuckler. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! He’s, frankly, a bit unconvincin' an' weedy. A real Gentleman o' fortune be dirty an' unkempt an' hairy an' possibly keeps a spare eye patch fer formal occasions. He climbs th' mizzenmast an' uses his knife t' slash his way aft down th' sail. He sweeps ladies off the'r feet, an' right onto th' plank.

If I be a swashbuckler, I would be both fearsome an' proud. Also, ribald. I would swear a great deal. An' be obsessed wi' dubloon. I would be havin' a large beard. An' th' wenches would tremble as I strode into th' alehouse, an' plunk me rum down right quick!

An' always, always, thar would be th' Arrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

*some would insist that I’m more o' a wench, but them scurvy dogs will feel th' taste o' me cutlass.
**ugh, tho, rum gives me heartburn. Well, I like spiced dubloon, wi' Appletiser.

*** a sound nutritional theory, t' be sure.

Bunny Love...

2007-09-10T14:58:00.000+02:00

I know. I've mentioned it before, my crazy love for teensy bunnies. But my mania for fluffumses has been stoked of late...My mother made the mistake* of taking me in to Perky Pets in the Gardens Centre over the weekend, where they have the darlingest dwarf bunnies. For only R80!! How they do undervalue the little balls of fluffy goodness, but oh what a temptation for me! I could totally get a weensy black bunny... or a tan one.

Not a white one though...they show the dirt most dreadfully, and they're rather démodé and 80's...Which reminds me of a rabbit-fur coat I used to have, before my mom discovered fur was evil. I used to feel both glamorous and dorky in that coat. But is was so soft! Sometimes, I would pretend I was a bunny, when I was wearing it.

... did I just overshare?

Anyway, so I could get a bunny, but not while I'm in my place...I'd need a little patch of grass at least, although I do plan to have a range of super-cute leashes that match my shoes and/ or handbags, and then we can go for teensyy walks on the promenade. Actually, that might not work, some awful miniature Pinscher or Maltese bitch** might think he's a chew toy and bite him. He's need a little hutch to sleep in (can you paint them? I want one in pink and gold). Do bunnies like cushions? Must Google "bunny needs"***.

What's a good name for a bunny? Not anything like Benny, or Bobo, or something dumb with a B.... Ehhhhhm. Elijah...Elijah bunny! it totally works!

* but a good one
**female dog! female dog!
*** hmmmm. what do you bet there'll be some sort of porn result?

...things I would much rather be doing today.

2007-09-06T10:05:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was a looooooooong day. I got home from work at 10:30pm. I had a shower, watched the tail end of Oprah, and passed out. So, this morning I'm a little exhausted. Funny, for years while I was studying full-time and working 6 shifts a week (at one point I had 3 jobs- how did I do that?), getting by on four hours sleep a night and a half-hour nap in the afternoon didn't really tire me out that much. I guess you get used to a certain level of activity*. Of course, my darling bossness of loveliness and sweet sweet jubilation has graced me with some of her customary graciousness**, which has added to my general level of sighing.

I need a vacation. I have put in for leave in October, but that's over a month away. Luckily next week we have two-and-a-half days off for Rosh Hashana****, which means a looong weekend. What do you think the chances of it being beach weather are? because I could so do with a few days on the beach, reading books and magazines (not library books though, I've learned my lesson)... Really though, what I'd like is a tropical island...somewhere in the Bahamas. Or Jamaica. Jamaica looks good. They've got all that jerk chicken. Which sounds spicy. And sand, I'm sure they have lots of sand... and cocktails.

In general though, I don't think I need a whole fancy-schmancy holiday. Just a break from the routine. I'd like to hit a midweek, midday movie. Haven't done that in a while. What I love about that is that there are no teenagers, usually. And I'd like to go buy some fabric, and make a skirt, or something. I used to do that after Uni some days, just go to TCT or Fabric City or wherever and get a meter of something cool, and make a skirt, or a dress, or an experiment. I very rarely finished these projects, but it soothed me, and those I did complete are still in my wardrobe. So. You see.

There are all these things I could be doing with a slightly-chilly, sunny spring day. Working sucks. Anyone want to support me while I live a life of leisure....?

*current level: not-quite-sedentary; chaise-based root vegetable.
** she acted as if I slept with her husband*** and she knows but she thinks I don't and she's being all passive-aggressive and snotty.
*** I didn't. Eeeeeeew!
**** Jewish New Year, not as cool as Chinese New Year (no fireworks or Dragons unless you count the one I work for), but leave is leave. Especially paid leave.

Life. What's up with that?

2007-09-04T09:36:00.000+02:00

Hormones. I got me some hormones. Lots of 'em. All over the place.* And right now, they're angry. and they're taking it out on me. Now I can totally understand where they're coming from: it's crowded in there and they'er not getting up to much, aside from getting really excited occasionally when they think there might be some action or activity, which there isn't**, and hence their disappointment. So there they are, lounging around and grumbling, doing yoga and whatnot, and becoming increasingly cranky. I guess it must be akin to cabin fever.

As with all housebound inmates, cooped up and full of unexpended vigour, they look to spread their misery and negative feelings. And so they do. They kick around my glands and my language centres and screw with my emotions. They puff up my eyes and sneak extra nastiness into my pores and than make snarky, cutting little remarks about me when they know I can hear them. They pour the vilest thoughts into my ears in the hopes of stoking homicidal rage at the slightest of provocations***.

Right now they're whispering: "Get a haircut, beetch. Get a Pob****. Your hair, she ees lookeeng so bad!*****". They know exactly what to say to drive me crazy. Because I do love angular haircuts...

They're crafty little bitches. But I'm on to them.

* Even in my feet. Even there.
** ever.
*** seriously though, biznatch, stop moaning all day or I'm going to throttle you
****A Posh Bob, like mrs Beckham.
***** oh yeah, my hormones are mexican I forgot to mention.

Welcome to the world, Naomi-chan.

2007-08-28T10:28:00.000+02:00

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

2007-08-23T13:00:00.001+02:00

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!

2007-08-21T14:31:00.001+02:00

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?

2007-08-16T11:29:00.000+02:00

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!

2007-08-15T16:44:00.001+02:00

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.

2007-08-06T13:48:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-08-01T15:17:00.000+02:00

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!

The Betenoir Diet Plan*

2007-07-31T13:49:00.000+02:00

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!

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.
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!
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!
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.
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?****
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.
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.

2007-07-26T14:46:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-24T15:15:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-23T14:26:00.000+02:00

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...

2007-07-20T09:45:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-17T12:08:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-10T16:43:00.000+02:00

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.

2007-07-03T11:20:00.000+02:00

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.

Searching for Inspiration

2007-06-29T09:21:00.000+02:00

Image © Wondermark

There are entire days when, surprise, surprise, I feel about as creative as a footstool. Which is to say, not at all. In case you were confused by my somewhat obscure metaphor. Look, we're getting off the topic, somewhat.

Yesterday, I should have blogged. It should have been a good one, because I had the time. My bosses are out of town and things are quiet in the office*. I even had time to tidy my outbox, so that should excite the Biznatch when she gets back. I made tea, and coffee, and ate all the chocolate-covered-biscuits, took part in the Facebook movie quiz, and am now on 6000 points. I know, I know, you can send congratulations to me on the back of a postcard.

But did I blog? Feck, nay. Bugger did I. I guess I should have taken it as a bad omen that when I went out at lunch to play with my new polariser**. I took some interesting test shot but could I work up any enthusiasm for some sort of creative, interesting, finally- going- to- get- me- back- on- explore nonpareil-wonderment. Or even something that didn't suck boring ba... lemons out of sheer boringness.

Part of the problem is I don't really blog personal stuff. Half of it is...personal****. An the rest- well, people come to me the next day and are all: "so I see you blogged me. We need to chat". My blog is less anonymous than it used to be.

But mostly it's just the dreaded lurgy: not so much writer's block per se as a bad case of the Ehn. Same with Photography: the spark is hissing, the fire is...those little coals you can't quite toast a marshmallow on. Really, though, the best time for that is a when the fire is hottest, so before the meat, which throws everything out of whack. You know, that was going to be an astute and witty metaphor but I actually can't go anywhere with that. Anyway, This post is beginning to get a little crazy-eyed, so let me just sum up by saying: I didn't get any cake for my birthday*****, and that pissed me off. And I blame that for my current ennui. Wouldn't you?

* so quiet in fact, that people are having time to brew dissent. A plan is being hatched to feng shui the office, and perhaps install a skylight. A report is being written. No actual work is getting done. Just in case you thought it was just me.
**I got a polariser. happy birthday to me! from me!***
***oh yeah it was my birthday on Monday. People have complained that I didn't make a big deal of it. But it was a Monday!!!! who's even awake then?
**** The theme of my week, by the way, has been Please Please Please let me get what I want by The Smiths, which is about as deep and meaningful a revelation as you get. From me.
***** The interngot cake today though. So I guess being a cute, fuzzy intern is more important.

FAQ

2007-06-26T09:35:00.000+02:00

What's up with you and the bunnies?
pygmy bunnies are super-cute, especially with the big eyes and the flopsy-forward ears. Also, I'm desirous of a pet, but I read Bridget Jones' Diary a while ago* and the thought of dying old and alone and being devoured by my cats/ dogs/ pet rocks became sort of a theme in my more obsessive moments** rabbits are a) vegetarians and b) mostly live in cages, so they don't get to live off my body. A horse would probably also be okay, but they're a bit big, aren't they? A teeny tiny horse, therefore, would be perfect.

What's the weirdest birthday present you ever received?
Mr Flinn sent me a full-frontal naked picture of a young Tony Danza. I'm now pretty convinced that He's the Boss. Tony Danza, I mean.

What's your natural hair colour, anyway?
Sort of a dark-blonde-to-light-golden-brown. It's unexciting, except that in sumer it used to go pretty light. But since I was 16 I've had red hair, auburn, champagne blonde, black, brunette, platinum blonde, and even a brief, accidental period of purple, which taught me the lesson: don't dye your hair in Israel. All of which has been way more fun than my "natural" hair colour, aside from the occasional need to remove all my hair.

Axl Rose: what's up with that?
I dunno. He used to be the epitome of bad-boy cool. Mind you, that as when I was about 11 or 12, but still, everyone that year had the bandanna or the sticker or the little Gn'R pendant/earring whatever. Then he got all weirdy, tubby, and...ginger. How do you suddenly become an eyebrowless Ginge? was he not blonde, most of the Cool years? How does it take ten years to record an album? Actually it's more like 15 at this point. Whether or not the album is good or not is somewhat moot: would people spend money on what is essentially a joke band at this point?

Mind you: people buy Michael learns to Rock***, Avril Lavigne, and Nickelback. Next question.

What's the longest English word in the world?
According to Wikipedia it's (deep breath, now) pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, a 45-letter word which refers to a lung disease contracted from the inhalation of very fine silicious particles, which just goes to show research scientists have as much of a sense of humour as the rest of us. When I was in junior school, however, I was taught that it was Floccinaucinihilipilification, the act of estimating something as worthless, which ironically enough, was what I was doing earlier with Nickelback. Think about it, very time you find yourself contemplating Urine...I mean Irene Bester, you're engaged in Floccinaucinihilipilification. Don't you feel more well-rounded and interesting already?

Why do you swear so much? And why is your blog so relatively sweariness-free?
I can't swear so much on my blog because I'd get blocked, or some shit. The kids read this stuff, you know what I'm saying? But swearing is fun, satisfying, and also it juxtaposes nicely with my cute, sometimes ladylike exterior. Belching loudly and being cynical are also hugely entertaining, especially if I can do all three at the same time.

Better yet: making up my own obscure cusswords. People are never sure how to react when you call them a bok-dancing monkeysmuggler. Or a pituitary-glandular Robespierre. They look at you funny, and that's the cue to feel smug and superior.

What are we having for dinner tonight?
I dunno, what are you cooking?

Don't be like that. I made Sashimi last time.
Yeah, sashimi is hard to make.

Biyatch.
dumbass. What kind of questions are these anyway?

* I'll never admit that again.
** All the time.
***he actually learned to suck.

Facebook and the long-lost Mystery Pal.

2007-06-19T16:22:00.000+02:00

People are all about dissing on the facebook at the moment. It's become very fashionable to refer to it as the devil, and refuse to sign up on some sort of tenuous technophobia-luddite moral grounds*. Up to you dude, but I disagree. My name is Betenoir and I'm a facebook addict.

Can I have my cup of coffee and my cookie now***?

Ina any case, Facebook is kind of awesome. It keeps me busy during coffee breaks, allows me to keep in contact with acquaintances without having to write tedious emails ("yes, I'm still at The Job, still single, no news, blah blah waffle parp"), keep an eye on how my buddies are relating to each other, and best of all make contact with people that I thought I'd lost forever. It really gives rise to the whole six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon concept, doesn't it? Also the poking makes me feel special. Nothing like rocking up at work to find you've got 23 simultaneous pokes lined up and waiting. It's like an orgy, but without fluids, mess, or Caligula****.

The only problem is that sometimes people find you, just when you thought you'd got rid of them forever. But those people you can block. Or accept. And then block. You know, so they feel the rejection.

With that in mind, it's easy to see that Facebook is a pretty sweet mechanism of the Rad Times.

*some of them get really snotty about it. It's a website dude, not anal fisting**: you're not actually making a stand against the decline of humankind.
** I'm hoping to bump up my "accidental search term confusion" traffic. expect to see more random violence and inexplicable sexual content.
*** I'm assuming everybody's seen the same AA/ Rehab movies I have.
**** without Caligula it's just group sex. See, how I'm doing this? I expect way more traffic tomorrow.

I'ma Slap A Beyatch.

2007-06-15T10:18:00.000+02:00

My boss (well, one of them), tends to get supercritical when she's tense. This means that if I've missed a detail or left out even the most infinitesimal of things (one of the participants didn't have pen!! How did you manage to MISS that!!!??), I get bitched at in the most condescending manner possible. All my faults-real or imagined- are brought up. Past infractions have included:

not serving tea in the correct silver service manner
not regulating the airconditioning temperature carefully enough
the photocopier producing copies that are too light
not taking enough photos, taking too many photos, taking photos in the wrong area of the exhibition, being too obtrusive while taking photographs, using flash.

The problem is I keep learning from experience, and not making the same mistake twice. Ferinstance, after the great "there were no evaluation forms" debacle of last week*, I made sure to copy double the amount of forms, put them right in front of her, clear a space around so that they are easy to see, and then tell her them about them, twice.

Which means that she has not so much to critique. Win-win, you'd say, right? Nah so much. This morning, she came in, handed me a letter it took her 4 weeks to type, sighed, and started complaining about how untidy my office was, and how it offended her. She was adamant: Surely I had enough time to maintain a decent level of tidiness?

Short answer, uh, no. Also: it's my office, not hers. Her office is large and has cupboards and a window and is nice. Mine is a cupboard, where everything is stored. There is even a kitchen sink, rusting noisily in the corner. our offices are far, far away from each other. 7 Cubits at least. She spends an average of 8 minutes in my office a week. How do my piles of paper become her issue?

I'm totally going to make her look fat in all the photos I take from now on.

* there were, and they were right in front of her, but whatev
**MCBeeeeyaaaaaatch!

Excuse me, Might I Drool Here Briefly?

2007-06-13T12:54:00.000+02:00

I would just like to say that Orlando Bloom is as cute as a button. Or even, say, a flopsy-forward-eared bunny. I just want to pinch his little cheeks and make unintelligible "boogowoogobobumumu" noises. I can't help it: he was once my favourite elf. Did you see all that arrow-slinging? Top-notch. I want a little Orlando to keep in my handbag: I'd feed him nuts and popcorn and buy designer teensy outfits for him. But also I'd like a full-sized version too. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Woof!

My hormones are all raging today. Goodness.

Rampant Materialism, or Gimme! Gimme! Gimme

2007-06-11T13:40:00.000+02:00

So, it's my birthday in 2 weeks. I'll be turning 30, which is sweet because it's a round number. Odd numbers always piss me off. Even numbers are better and round numbers are the best*. Anyway, birthdays aren't as cool when you're an adult because you don't wake up to a mountain of gifts**, which...well, it kinda sucks. And the worst part of it all is that you're not even supposed to want or care about gifts..you're supposed to be adult and above it all and all: "oh, don't spend your money, give it to charity or something".

Bugger that.

I'm acquisitive, see, and even though I'm not expecting the aforementioned MOG*** I'd like to assert my right to covet things. Lovely things. pretty things. Possibly ridiculous things. But things that, in general, I want. In no particular order, then, my top ten birthday list****.

Cool 70's-style retro wallpaper for putting on only one wall of my domicile. I like Mimir, Helena, Flapatos, Branch and Galatea in pink.
Katamari Damacy. And A PS2 to play it on. the console need not be a gift, lendage is fine. And if you can actually find it in this country I'll name my 17th cat after you*****
Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturiser, oil-free. I'm classy, me, and I have expensive skin to maintain. Well, ish.
Lots of designer vinyl toys from Toi-toy (Moofia! Dunny! Smokin Labbits!). Or a giant Gloomy Bear. I LOOOOVE GLOOMY BEAR! He rips open the bodyof his adopted owner because he's a godd*mned bear!!!!
Gingham Wedges! Because I love shoes, I love shoes, oh god how I love the shoes. A pair of all-black high-top Cons would also be more than okay.
Lots and lots of books. I hear in the olde tymes, the Pharoahs used to cover people who did good with gold until their bums no longer stuck out******. I would like someone to do this with books and my bum.
Pocky Mousse. Or Special Sakura KitKat. Because I can't get them here and they taste of yummy numminess.
A Polarising or Infrared lens to fit my Fz-50. I recently realised that it does actually have a thread so filters can be used: therefore this means there's a Hoya adapter out there with my name on it. Sexy sexy sexy infrared. Infra-RAD more like!
A teeny tiny tan or black pygmy bunny with big manga eyes and flopsy-forward ears. the ears must flopsy forward, not up, or back. Forward. I'm quite insistent on this point.
I'd like to wake up in the morning next to a mountain of gaudily-wrapped gifts. And a cake. with excessive frosting and Marzipan Roses. To be a kid again, and have the full complement of parents and grandparents, and not a care in the world except that I might get clothes instead of toys this year. Except clothes are awesome too! Clothes and toys. And clothes for toys.

So, I am done, my list is presented. And now my crisis of conscience: please don't actually get me any of these things, because I'll feel AWFUL. I don't like asking for things. it makes me feel tawdry....however..if you feel you must... suppose I'll have to live with it.

Tawdry.

*as in: 'round up to the nearest five/ ten"...see?
** when you're little it always at least seems like a mountain of gifts
***mountain Of Gifts, do I have to explain everything?
**** I may have been writing such lists since I was four. Or it may have been earlier.
***** I've already made promises about future children, dogs, hamsters and other assorted pets.
****** source: Asterix. It's a valid historical text, bizzatch!

A Horribly Traumatic Experience

2007-06-08T09:58:00.000+02:00

Last night it rained, and this morning, it was damp. It was quite nice actually, there I was in my cute beret and chunky scarf, feeling very cosmopolitan and vaguely French*. The birds were all: "Hey tweet y'all" and the autumn leaves were falling, albeit damply. And I wasn't running late for work, which was a nice change. I was listening to the new NIN. I was finding it quite cheerful.**My morning walk through the Company gardens looked to be a pleasant one. Crazy-dog lady*** passed me by.

And then I looked down.

There it was, glistening pinkly, oozing itself across the pathway. An earthworm. They do this, you know, after the rains... Some bizarre instinct tells them to flee the muddy soil and head for the safety of...tarmac and concrete. Right. Not known for their intellectual capacity, they.

So, having narrowly missed mashing one long pink wormy with my right shoe, I became somewhat paralysed. Because there's never only one. I became obsessed with the idea that the path would be strewn with dozens upon dozens of earthworms, a veritable minefield of squoosh and subsequent guilt. it didn't help that entire sections of pathway were obscured by sticks and leaves, which can look very much like earthworms if you're having a bit of a Nutjob Moment.

So, it took me almost twice as long to traverse the distance to work. I almost had a panic attack. I felt very close to ralphing publicly.

I stood on an earthworm barefoot once. It wasn't very nice.

*in a Paris Fashion Week ; rather than an arrogant un-deodorised; sense.
**I find Year Zero quite poppy, for NIN.
***the dog is crazy, not the lady. His legs are too short for his body, his eyes are all googly and his fur is tufty. It's adorable.

I'm Only Petite on the Outside.

2007-06-07T09:24:00.000+02:00

All my life, I've been the tiniest person in the room. Especially when I was a kid, when I was even smaller than I am now*. Well except maybe in Sub B**, where this guy Tony was about an inch shorter than me and I decided that this meant we were going to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I don't recall actually mentioning this to Tony, because I didn't realise at the time that he had any sort of choice in the matter. He didn't seem to mind... or notice, for that matter.

Bygones.

In any case, I am now a petite adult. Petite in clothing stores seems to be shorthand for Really Short Legs. Generally though most people prefer to go with Midget, teeny tiny short person, and Oh Hey You're Cute. Women tend to refer to me as slim, skinny or delicate. Men, on the whole, tend to use the word miniature a great deal, and attempt to rest things on my head. I get a lot of hair ruffling too***. In japan, slightly-less-tiny 15-year-olds would ruffle my hair while squealing excitedly that I was "kawaaaiiiiii". Then I would shoot them with the Bazooka that I had taken to work that day and had cunningly concealed in my elaborate hair style.

The problem is, how people seem to see me is not how I feel. I feel, generally, lumpy and gangling. Technically there needs to be more of you, and with longer limbs, to be gangling, but I feel like I somehow accomplish this. While I strive for ballerina grace, it feels more like elephantine stompiness.

Possibly, this comes from being somewhat of a tomboy, and also incredibly clumsy. If there's something to fall over, I will fall over it. Sometimes also if there isn't something to fall over. If I lean into a cupboard under the sink to get a pot, I'll whack myself on the back of the head. I'm pretty sure I've incurred brain damage doing this the hundred-odd times I have. Drinking tea or water, I'll miss my mouth completely and pour the liquid down my face, or onto my lap, or a nearby computer, or a baby. I come home with mammoth bruises that I don't remember getting, and large swathes of skin I seem to have misplaced.

Once, a friend referred to me as "graceful and elegant" when describing me to someone else. I was, to say the least, confused. But if I can fool at least one person, then maybe that's enough. The rest I can just take out with my Bazooka.

*Proportionately to the other children dumbass, obviously I wasn't born this size or my mother would have made an even bigger deal about the labour.
**which is now called Grade 2. It used to be 2 sub-standards and ten standards, the last of which was Matric and now it's 12 Grades. I get very confused.
*** because there's nothing a grown woman likes better than being condescended to like a four-year-old.

Self-esteem Issues, Illness, Self-pity and Carrie Bradshaw

2007-06-05T11:08:00.000+02:00

I had one of those Sex And The City girls' nights on Saturday night*, the kind where you have one of those awesome, frank, uncensored discussions about sex and relationships, and realise that a) you are not as ridiculously jaded as you though you were, b) you actually feel quite upbeat and positive about relationships and men in general c) women are for the most part pretty pervy, but in a fun and wholesome way, and d) Ryan Gosling, we'd like us some of that, please.

Then came Sunday, and the Amazonian Death Flu**, and with it, the fall of my poor little self-image. Now, I'd like to assert that I have a normal, mostly healthy self-esteem. Yes, there are things about myself I'm not overly fond of***, but I've reached a stage where it doesn't bother me that much, and kind of love myself, and think I'm rad**** (especially my bottom, which is pert, oh yea) but throw in a cocktail of exhaustion and viral agents and suddenly I feel like excrement on the shoe of the universe.

Probably being all feverish and delirious and having slightly greasy hair and an untidy apartment doesn't help. Also, being stuck in bed all day is boring. And when I'm bored I think too much, and also eat Cheetos, which equals Bad Idea. I get to thinking I'm going to die childless alone and be eaten by my rottweiler, which is ridiculous because I'm going to buy a whole bunch of pygmy bunnies and they'll be in cages, so... but you get the idea. Also, I'm not really good with other people for extended periods and the idea of marriage and children has been know to give me the grille, so my paranoia about the abovementioned dying alone scenario is a little confusing.

Dying dressed in a polyester housecoat and ugly orthopaedic shoes: now that's truly terrifying.

...perhaps writing a post when feverish is not the best idea. My posts suck. I suck! The world is a vale of tears and sucktion! Life is Sucky! Poo.

*in the brief hiatus of feeling healthy that fell somewhere between the Bubonic Plague and the Amazonian Death Flu
** Oh, my kidneys, joints and glands will ache? Sweet, I like to multitask. And I hate my lungs anyway, so let's cough those biggers right out, shall we?
*** nose, ankles, could be taller, fall over too often, socially inept and shy, talk too much
**** BTW I'm bringing back the word rad back. Go out and use it.

sick, like the doggie*

2007-06-01T11:01:00.000+02:00

Suspiciously, the symptoms started about an hour-and-a-half after the flu injection my doctor tricked me into (with his wily doctor skills). This was shortly before he made me pee into a bowl. Mind you, it was easier than peeing into one of those little plastic cups, it's just that he actually refers to it as "making a weewee into the little bakkie". It makes me feel about four years old.

Anyway, peeing over and done with, blue-cheese-and-avo burger devoured, book bought**, I started feeling awful. Muzzy head, fever, coughing. Luckily I was on leave for two days. And after that it was only a half-day's work until the weekend. Because I used it all on being sick.

Then I came back to work, and between bringing the destruction of everything in existence***, running around looking for things, trying to educate 15-year-olds, wrangling the website designer, and carrying things, I got sick again. I had a day off yesterday but got called four times (once, annoyingly, to be asked where a remote control was), and was asked nicely to pleeeeease come in today.

Now I feel like the undead, truly feverish and nauseous and gurky***. So, Zombie undead, not cool Anne Rice vampire undead. So, thanks, job. You reward me in so many ways.

* wait, where does that expression even come from? Dogs don't get flu or colds, as far as I know... and I'm not into eating my own poop, so...
** so I finally read Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis (took eight hours): okay, dude, enough about your girlfriends and heroin. yes, they were all awesome in bed. Yes, you took a lot of heroin. let's not belabour that point.
*** or something like that: apparently now we've reached the point where nothing can be done without me, but everything that goes wrong is also my fault.
**** screw you it's a word.

Fun Factoids.

2007-05-29T14:55:00.001+02:00

...In an effort to be more personable, I've decided to share some personal information about myself. This is not something I easily do, because I tend to be quite private*. So basically I'm gritting my teeth, buckling down and ignoring my inner censor.

so you'd better freakin' appreciate it.

1) I wore braces for three-and-a-half years. I had teeth pulled, my gums hacked at, and my inner cheeks shredded. This was not a fun way to start high school. Especially not my high school. But at least I got to perfect the misunderstood loner geek persona I coveted.
2) When I was 18 I wanted to be Shirley Manson. I had the red hair, the smudgy kohl, the stompy boots, and the attitude. I stopped short of the Scottish brogue.
3) I'm conflicted between bands I love being well-known: when nobody knows them I try to spread the word and make others love them as much as do, but if they hit the top 40 it takes the sheen off them for me.I guess I'm an exclusivity snob.
4) I have difficulty pronouncing the words shoulder, and soldier, especially when I'm tired. I also have a slight stammer and am slightly sensitive about it. Like really sensitive. Like please don't mock me about it or I'll blush....
5) Mind you, I blush all the time, sometimes inappropriately. Although I'm better than when I was a teenager: then I would blush if I got called on in class, if I thought someone might talk to me, If I thought I might have to talk to someone, if I thought someone might be about to look in my general direction. Also, I blush if I think I might blush. Which is, I guess, Metaphysical blushing.
6) I used to be shy***. How shy? Well, I think some people who knew me then thought I had some form of Autism.
7) I empathise too strongly with humiliation. Take me to a movie about murder, the horrors of war, eyes being gouged out or hearts being broken, and I'm cool. Someone makes an ass of themselves? I can't watch. I hide behind the shoulder of the person in the next seat, which is kind of weird when it's a stranger. American Pie made me need Valium.
8) My favourite colour is pink. I'm a girly girl. But also a tomboy. I used to climb trees in my ballet clothes**. All the things I'm supposed to like (froufrou weddings, women's magazines, chick flicks) creep me out a little. However, shoes, fashion, celebrity gossip and chocolate render me unto bliss. Go figure.

Now, none of this may be interesting to you at all, faithful reader, but it's as much as I'm willing to share for now... although I will take questions.

*or as my family calls it "secretive"
** uh, yeah, mom, that would be where all those ladders came from. I guess I did know how they got there.
*** and now I don't stop talking; yes, yes, I realise the irony.

this Monkey's going to Heaven

2007-05-25T10:15:00.000+02:00

I had this whole post planned out in my head last night as I lay in bed, drifting off into slumber. I was going to talk bout the Pixies, and the song Debaser, and the link to Salvador Dali, and how this influenced both my taste in music and my taste in men*. But then I fell asleep.

I keep doing this. I'm a bedtime thinker. When I'm under stress, this results in pointless obsessing over not only what is worrying me, but also unimportant things like whether I have the right belt to go with an outfit I'm planning.** When I'm not, I tend to ruminate on life, love, friendship and TV programmes. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I start to slip into that half-drowsy state where I'm dreaming, but not quite asleep, and I suddenly realise that my thought patterns have suddenly veered into the ridiculous.

Sometimes, If I think my thinking will possibly keep me awake, I'll listen to my iPod, although more often than not this will result in me dancing around the room***, in the dark, because who has time to turn the lights on?

But more often than not I write blog posts in my head. And then promptly forget them. And trust me, they are some pretty damn good writing, much better than I do during the day. And I should probably rouse myself from my snoozefulness, and type them. But I'm too sleepy at the time.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying: I wrote an excellent post last night, but you're getting this lame one instead.

* do you have arcane knowledge of music/ literature/ romantic languages? I like people who are smarter than I.
** What am I SAYING! That's totally crucial! The wrong belt is like..the wrong shoes!!! Or Forgetting mascara, when you totally planned your eye-makeup around it! FFS.
*** biggest culprits: Baby got Back, My Humps, Our Velocity by Maximo Park, anything by Franz Ferdinand.

Perhaps She Was hoping for George Clooney? Who Knows.

2007-05-22T09:46:00.000+02:00

On Saturday, I braved the rain and wind and dumbasses* and caught the bus to the waterfront. I had some shopping to do, and I also really wanted to watch Blades of Glory, the latest Will Ferrell movie. It wasn't an Anchorman or a Zoolander, but it was surprisingly enjoyable. From the reviews and what people had told me, I was expecting more of a gross-out comedy, but it was surprisingly sweet and warm and not, in my opinion, particularly objectionable**.

which was why I was a little disturbed to see a woman striding out of the movie theatre and up towards clicks, pouting furiously and declaring: "that was so stupid! It was a stupid movie! I can't believe....STUPID!"

At first I thought she was just a random crazy, or just trying to be a good altruist by forewarning all the people who might want to head to Cinema Nouveau instead, until I glimpsed; traipsing behind her with a distinctly hangdog expression; the Boyfriend. His longsuffering silence and resigned demeanor kind of gave the impression that this is a Thing. That She Does.***

And I have to wonder, how did they get to this? Did she think she would like the movie? did He promise her romance, and she got Will Ferrell's crotch? Because frankly, in order for her not to have understood what this movie was going to be like, she has to have been walking around with her fingers stuck in her ears, her hands over her eyes, and making "Ngaaah ngaah ngaah" noises.

Or maybe she was forced into it? Is this some sort of assault-by-movie? Perhaps she takes movies very seriously. I don't know, and never will. But it's kind of driving me crazy.

* a large proportion of the people who go to the waterfront on weekends are often seemingly struck by temporary (or not) idiocy, and are unable to conduct conversations anywhere but at the top of the escalator, or have never seen t-shirts before.
** although perhaps I'm just hardened and inured to depravity and The Sickness. I hope not, that would make life all the more boring.
*** I mean, I can't claim never to have thrown a tantrum at a boyfriend before... but ... but... it was a movie!!!! And it was good... wasn't it?

Cold and Dark.

2007-05-18T10:33:00.000+02:00

Winter in Cape Town is mostly fantastic, especially after the Siberian post-apocalyptic snows of Hokkaido*. The chilly grey days and squalling rains are refreshing, and lead to much dvd-and-hot-chocolate snugglification under down duvets**. Or splashing about in your Raincoat and wellies, which is much fun for one's inner child. Jumping in squishy mud is nice too.

The cold, bright sunny days break the monotony, and always seems to smell delicious, like mouldering leaves, or soil, or sea mist. Those days are good for going for a long walk, and then having a toasted cheese and ham*** to reward yourself at the end.

There's one element of winter I object to strenuously though. And with Vigour. I hate waking up in the dark. In summer, you wake up, the sun is shining, you feel like this is a natural progression, you go pee. In winter, the alarm goes off, and it's the middle of the freakin' night! The alarm is the shrill noise of a banshee, and it confuses you, because surely you didn't set the alarm for 3 in the morning and who calls this early anyway?

So you go back to sleep and the conversation you've been having with Rutger Hauer, only to be rudely interrupted by... well you get the idea. So, shivering, you eventually drag yourself to the bathroom and opt for the hottest shower you can get. This takes a while, because you can't remember how the controls work, or how to remove your clothing without falling down.

After you shower, you dress as fast as you can, and then jump back into bed, for a last bit of hamstering****, but it's never the same. And then, at the last minute, to work.

That's no way to live.

* after six months snowbound in the minus twenties, you lose your right to complain about a little rain.
** Note to self: buy new pillows.
*** sometimes it's a toasted cheese-and egg, with runny yolk. You have to know when it's the right time.
**** Hamstering: the act of rolling yourself in a blanket or duvet much like a hamster does with shredded newspaper and old poop.

Portnoy's Complaint, Humpty Dumpty and Anchovy Toast*

2007-05-17T11:24:00.000+02:00

I've missed my calling. I'm convinced of this. I've been giving it a great deal of thought, and I think, nay, I know that I was meant for greater things.

I was meant to be... a freakin' ROCK STAR!!!!

Think about it: I am not only a music snob, and have a passable alto singing voice, and can just about carry a tune**, but I have the requisite quirky dress sense, the capacity to drink large amounts of beer without spewing (or losing the ability to dance on a bar with a bartender dressed as a swan), am bolshy, demanding and swear like a trouper. Not to mention that I can trash a hotel room in under fifteen minutes. Just ask the good folk at the Tokyo Keio Plaza.

So...yeah, okay, It might be a bit late in life to start thinking about this but I hear 30 is the new 20, so that means I'm turning 20 real soon! Also, I kind of don't have a band, which could prove problematic, although not necessarily so: really I'm all about the Interview Magazine articles, tabloid exposés and blag. Mmm. I'm not sure where I stand on groupies*** though. I'll have to see how that goes.

* what we talked about during the staff breakfast this morning.
** good thing musical ability isn't a requirement of the job, eh?
*** I mean, they;re generally assumed to be pretty skanky, right? and desperate. Or are male groupies different? What if they're all, like, teenagers? I'm not convinced about this part, really.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us*.

2007-05-15T10:41:00.000+02:00

So. Let's talk about fear, shall we? Blinding, night-sweat, wake- up- in- a- panic- with- a - pounding- heart terror. Some people are afraid of clowns**. Some people are afraid of birds***. Apparently, there are even people with a fear of poetry, which is understandable****. There's a lot of bad poetry out there, people- especially Haikus- and it needs to stop.

I have few fears, and most of them are rational. Cockroaches (they jump on your face!!!), earthworms (they stick to you when boys throw them at you!!!), Death (it's permanent!!!!). But the worst fear I have is, I suppose, kind of...weird. I fear the Gere.

Richard Gere. One dark alleyway away from being one of those smelly pervy molester guys. Piggy eyes. Sneeriness. Aaauauagh. If one more middle-aged woman tells me how much of a "hunk" he is, I will vomit a great deal on her Crocs. I had this nightmare last night that he had had a haircut and was stalking me. Oh, and he was a transvestite. And he wanted me to eat his earwax.

What is wrong with the man!!! Can't he just leave me be?

* what. What?!?
** coulrophobia
***Ornithophobia
**** Metrophobia. sounds like fear of subways, but whatev.

Girls Get Pervy For Boys With Scurvy*.

2007-05-14T12:08:00.000+02:00

There's nothing quite like getting a package to elevate your mood. Okay, this weekend was a good one due to a combination of rest, fresh air (it was warm enough to open the windows), and cleaning. I scrubbed my floors on Saturday morning, for a full three hours, until they were both sparkling and treacherously slippery. Clean floors down, I attacked the rest of my apartment with vigour. Ah. Cleanliness.

Anyway, the rest of my weekend was a blur of exercise and virtue. I even started painting again**. And on Sunday was Mother's day, all bonding and gossip and possibly too much coffee. And then... my package. All the way from Japan, a long-anticipated mix CD from my friend Mr Flinn. Getting packages is a pleasure that can't be beat, really...It's a gift, but from far away, full of exotic promise and.. stuff. Also... sometimes, in this world of email and Facebook and other binary-based relationships, something solid you can hold in your hands is almost as good as a visit. Sort Of.*** So a good weekend in all, and hopefully, my brain will soon be back on track.

* Don't Ask.
**I'm not a good artist, but I like my own work, so that's grand.
*** Although there were no cookies, and cookies make an package into a care package.

On Hold.

2007-05-07T10:59:00.000+02:00

It's not the best of times. I'm going through what could possibly be described as a "rough patch", so I won't be blogging for a little bit. I'm not the kind of person who can air my problems in public and... I'm feeling uncreative, and uninspired.

But hopefully, soon, I will resume with whatever it is I do here. I beg your patience, and forbearance, and hope you ill keep checking in.

If anyone asks, I was with you.

2007-04-24T10:03:00.000+02:00

I hate my upstairs neighbours. I've given them so many chances to repent, and make up for their arseholery, but no, they have to keep pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me, and now I have to stab them in the heads. So, I might need an alibi. I'm just letting you know, in advance.

It started off small, the odd Saturday morning at 9am with some rap music insinuating its way into my morning, and the smell of weed drifting in alongside it. But it wasn't too bad, or too offensive, and it was at least some Jay-z and Snoop Dogg. But then, as most major crime sprees* do, it escalated. Soon, there was an onslaught of cheesy R&B, boyband ballads, and commercial chart hits. At club volume. With way too much bass.

Lying in my bed began to resemble living in a left ventricle, all doef doef doef and no peace. I'd also like to add that aside from their musical assault, apparently the little frickers have a bad case of the dropsy: all day and night they drop things on the floor... small and large, pins, pans and possibly anal beads. They move furnishings, bang metal objects against their cage bars**, yell, scream, and have deep and meaningful conversations about how cool they are and their smoking styles. They have not yet discovered the concept of "indoor voice", it appears.

Teenagers. I know this because I've gone to complain a few times, and the PFY*** that answers the door every time, shielding my view with his body like I can't figure out there's a party goin' on around here if i can't see it looks about seventeen.

I could totally take him down if it weren't for those cage bars. But I guess I'll just have to hope and prey that they catch some sort of STD that withers their genitals. And a tapeworm.

* and serial killers too. Just thought I'd add that. It's relevant.
** burglar bars, whatever.
*** just google it, okay?

15-year-olds, dude.

2007-04-19T14:24:00.000+02:00

Stomach empty, brain wired and woozy, ready for the day's programme to be over, I directed the scholars (or do we call them learners now, I'm never sure) towards the hall.

"Through the door, go stand in your groups. Through the door, stand in your groups. Stand in your groups, once you're through the door. Door, through, groups, stand". I can handle this. Then one of the little hormone factories, who's been giving me the crazy-eye all morning, makes his move. I can see what's coming: not the exact wording, but the general gist.

"Miss", he starts, sweeping his eyes up and down me as if he's being subtle about it "miss...I like your pants".

You must surely kid me. This is testing my sanity.

"Okay, well, thanks for that. Now, through the door, and stand with your group." you smug little bastard. I need some lunch.

Anyway, so the group activity goes as the group activities go. The boys and girls self-segregate, as if they could catch gender like a communicable disease. Ah, the universal truths of hormonal discourse. Then crazy-eye and a couple of his posse get kicked out for being little pricks. They scurry towards the door, thinking, perhaps, that they were free to bask in the sunshine. Not on my watch. If I'm not having fun, neither are you.

Closing the door behind me, I find them in the corridor. "Boys." They wheel around, surprised by my arrival, but pleased nonetheless. Until I break the news to them: there are no free rides* in this vale of tears!**"Boys... [herewith following a brief speech in which they were crapped upon from a godllike height, ending with] AND I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH DISRESPECT"***.

They looked a little sad as they traipsed into the museum. Good. GOOD! HOW D'YOU LIKE THEM PANTS, HUH?

*or lapdances, depending on who you're talking to.
**in this case, the corridor
***this was said in the tone of voice that implies emasculation and possibly worse. Ladies, I think you will know what I mean.

Eek! Eek! Eek!

2007-04-17T09:07:00.000+02:00

It's getting worse. I can feel them, watching me from the shadows as I pass, from the foliage of the trees, from the undergrowth. I can hear them, as surreptitious as they may try to be, their furtive rustlings and the hissing of their breath. They taunt me, chattering and giggling, an endless stream of crazytalk. Jumping out from behind trees, following me as I make my way home; roving gangs of them leaping around, stoned on whatever it is that makes them this way. I can see it in their dark, beady, soulless little eyes, the hunted, haunted glare that screams out: BUGGRIT! Fnoo feet kill feet Jasper Icecreams fnoo!*Dirty, diseased a scourge on the city, they prey on our sympathies and our pity. But underneath it all, they hate us, and await their moment to exact their revenge.

man, those squirrels freak me out.

*I know, it makes no sense to me either, but there you have it.

Crowd Control Issues

2007-04-12T08:44:00.000+02:00

There is some evidence of change. As I ride past Greenpoint Stadium in the morning, there is a little bit less of it every day. Soon, they will start construction on the grand, new, fancy-schmancy stadium, and thus the hoopla that will be the runup to 2010* will begin in earnest. Because if you think it's started yet, you're not South African. We can do hoopla like nobody's business. We have a Master's in Hoopla (that would be an M.Phil, in case you're wondering).

I hope not to be here, and not merely because of the hoopla (which is actually somewhat entertaining in an "you're not seriously proposing we consider the impact of prostitution on the biltong industry are you?" kind of way). I will not be here because there will be crowds.

It's the one thing nobody seems to have considered yet. Yes, they've thought about increased traffic and tourism and the need for public transport but not the reality of a gajillion rowdy footie fans ambling boredly around the place when they're not in the stadia.

I never really experienced real crowds till I got to Japan. Tokyo is just a city of crowds, but they are mostly organised, systematic crowds, with places to go and be and systems to get around. Sapporo during the Yuki Matsuri** was a completely different matter. Now, Sap-town was one of my favourite cities, and was generally pretty laid-back. but during the Matsuri, thousands of people from all over Japan, and the world, squished into its shopping malls, streets and subway stations. It was chaos, and hugely frustrating.

See, I don't cope well with masses of undirected humanity. I start to panic, my fight-or-flight mode takes over, but I can't flee because there are so many of them! and they're all in my way! and I can feel them breathing germs on me and move goddamnit or I will punch you in the throat and why are there so MANY of you!!!!

I can't breathe. I think I need to lie down.

* the 2010 Soccer World Cup, for those of you who are very isolated, dead, or American.
** Snow festival, I'm sure I've blogged about it..

Some Leave, with a little Break.

2007-04-05T11:32:00.000+02:00

Aaaaaah. Religious holidays. A chance to bond with the family over dinner and field somewhat inappropriate questions about my love life from unexpected sources. A time to pause and reflect on my spirituality, and what it means to me.

a time for Matzos, Marmite, and ensuing constipation.

Pesach is fun because there's so much of it. Two days off at the beginning and one right at the end. Also, there's Easter right in the middle of it, so you get that as a public holiday. What's even more awesome is that both holidays are totally centred around food. Perhaps they aren't meant to be , but they are. Soup with Kneidlach, matzos with the aforementioned Marmite or Peck's Anchovette*, and herring. I don't actually like herring, and no, Mom, it's not like sushi.

Easter has the traditional Easter bunnies, creme eggs, marshmallow eggs**, and if you live in a country with it's priorities right***, marshmallow Peeps shaped like chicks. Also, many things covered with foil that must be ripped off an scattered around one's bedroom, to be discovered under your pillow weeks later, even though the linen has been changed twice.

So, to recap: yummy sweets, yummy savouries, and 7 days off with a Thursday of work in the middle. Not bad. Not bad at all.

*both of which are, I think, things that only South Africans, Brits and a few other colonials actually enjoy. And I'm not sure about the fishpaste. Does anyone else in the world actually eat it?
** the ones with caramel in the middle are the best, no question.
*** So not South Africa then.

Antisocial.

2007-04-02T08:40:00.000+02:00

Yesterday was a new record for me. Or perhaps a new low. I started off my morning watching an episode of Heroes. And then I couldn't stop. For fourteen hours. In the end, I had a migraine and was getting a little bit crazy, so I was forced to go for a walk to clear my head.

Actually, that was a description of a pretty cool day.

I think, being an only child, I grew too comfortable with my own company. Armed with a vivid imagination, a safe neighbourhood and having read every one of the Famous Five books, I pretty much lived inside my own head. And it was a pretty cool place to be. Anyway, as an adult, sometimes I just don't want or need to be with other people. People, are for the most part annoying. They have emotional needs that must be navigated. They want to talk about things I'm not interested in. I'm not talking about my friends and loved ones, really: it's new people strangers and acquaintances that are the problem. And they are all over the place. I meet them all the time. And sometimes I'd rather just stay home with a good book*, or some DVD's.

It's a good thing I don't have Katamari Damacy** anymore or I'd never leave the house.

I guess I'm just having one of those phases where I'm all hermity and Garboesque. and Garboesque is never a bad thing to be.

* My Ideal Sunday morning: wake up, have sex with significant other, read awesome book for a few hours, nap, wake up, eat waffles.
** Does anyone have a PS2 and a copy of Katamari Damacy to lend me?

unnecessary coverage

2007-03-26T11:56:00.000+02:00

You know, there are some cool cover songs out there in the world. Mostly, they're the ones that explore the song from a new slant... ferinstance, Cat Power's take on Wonderwall, Hounds of Love by The Futureheads, Easy done by Faith No More and so on.

And there are some truly woeful covers that have become classics by dint of their tackiness, their surrealism, or their blatant bad taste. The best "bad" cover version I have ever heard is William Shatner mercilessly interpreting Mr Tambourine Man by channeling some nutjob stalker. The man is quite obviously insane, in the best possible way. It's actually better than the original, because it's funnier, and somehow more endearing*.

However there are a lot of mediocre covers of mediocre or bad songs. Or good songs that were fine as they are. And they border on offensive. Ronan Keating covering the Goo Goo Dolls' Iris was playing this morning as I got to work. How malign a piece of work is that? Like a photocopy of a photocopy, he managed to suck what little soul and emotion lurked in that song in the first place. As bland as white rice. Unsalted!

A special (read: dark and oozy) place in my heart is reserved for the likes of I love Rock 'n Roll as molested by Britney (you love rock 'n roll? then why are you hurting it so much?), American Pie trashed by Madonna (no no no no). Atomic Kitten doing The Tide is High made me want to drown myself, Mandy by Westlife made me want to drown Westlife, and Uptown Girl by... yes, Westlife, just about made me ready to commit my life to destroying Billy Joel, since he was ultimately responsible.

Let's not talk about Light My Fire as ruined by Will Young. Because Will is adorable** and I want him to be my GBF, and we couldn't ever do that after my harsh, harsh words relating to that atrocity.

* I've just discovered Boston Legal. It is Fantastic.
**although I've seen disturbing evidence recently of premature baldness. That makes me sad. say it ain't so!!!

If it's worth saying...

2007-03-20T15:47:00.000+02:00

it's worth saying right.

Since I've been back, I've become a lot more aware of (and a lot more annoyed by) the South African inability to pronounce things correctly. This inability is coupled with a downright stubbornness, or perhaps it is a dogged, nay mulish contrariness that amounts to a refusal to say it properly: " I am a South African, and that's how I say it." Oh, well that makes it okay then.

No, it doesn't, so there.

If it's a bona fide Seffie* word, then by all means, then there is a Seffie pronunciation to go with it. Borewors, moer, rooibos, jol, kif, boep and poes are all lovely words that we often teach to foreigners, so that we can laugh at their pronunciation.

However, words that are not South African, or southafricanised, should be pronounced correctly, because that is just what you do. That is why dictionaries have pronunciation guides, and don't just say: "oh fuckit pronounce it however you want, we don't care!" Most places in the world, if you don't even bother to try to say it right, you come off as some sort of redneck.

And so children, please repeat after me:
purr-sjoh, not pyew-joh.**
sjee-von-shee, not give-enn-chi.
renn-o not renn-orlt

And for god's sake: One Rand, many Rand. Rhymes with canned (in English) and runt (in Afrikaans). Not Plant.

Okay?

PS To the person with the "BIAACTH001" vanity plate: spellcheck, you 'tard.

* this is a Saradiaism, if I'm not mistaken.
** Oh how this one annoys me.

V(~_~)V

2007-03-20T12:22:00.000+02:00

source.

Just a note to say thanks to all of the readers who have been commenting lately. It's nice to have some feedback. If you haven't been commenting, please do so: I'm emotionally needy and need the ego boost.

Friends in far-away places.

2007-03-19T09:20:00.000+02:00

I have a lot of friends all over the world. Now, that may sound all; glamorous and jet-settery, but. really, it's annoying. and kinda sad. I mean, every time I have great time, I think:"Man I wish Bob/ Peter/ Mary/ Squishy McGee* were here. That would be awesome". And on the days I'm sitting home all sad and lonely and bored and feeling friendless and pathetic, it's cold comfort to remind myself that I'm actually very popular... overseas.

I also spend a lot of time on gmail chat and skype, and emailing people. I'm intrinsically lazy, so that's less fun thatn it should be, especially as everybody gets all pissy if I send out group mails.something about not being special and wanting individual attention yadda yadda. Facebook is cool that way because I can send the occasional poke people's way, and it sort of amounts to meaningful human contact. In a a way. If you squint.

I guess, then that it follows logically that I should start to form bonds with people whose blogs I read and comment on (and vice versa). There is now a little blogging community that communicates almost solely through each other's blogs, which is sort of like having pen pals, I guess. Pen pals that swear a lot. and are sometimes inappropriate. So just like when I was 13, then?

I do miss the actual flesh-and-blood people though. Especially Squishy. He was always good for a laugh.

* not their actual names. it would take too long to type all their names and If I left any out there would be hurt feelings and sulking, for sure.

Regrets? I have a few.

2007-03-14T09:22:00.000+02:00

so, there are a few things I would really like to have done in my lifetime, but haven't. I mean, I've accomplished a whole lot of really cool things: putting myself through two degrees, getting really involved in photography, living in strange countries for extended periods, giving a volcano the finger-- these are just a few of the awesome things I have enjoyed doing. But I'm talking the really awesome things, my dream activities, my fantasy life.

get your mind out of the gutter.

anyway, herewith find enclosed the aforementioned list of things I would like to accomplish at some point.

1) Being a ninja would be Pretty Damn Cool. I think that my life is essentially an empty sucking void when it comes to my lack of Ninja skills, or skillz as it were. I often imagine how much better everything could be if i could jump around buildings, kicking the shit out of people, throwing shurikens in the supermarket, and generally delivering Hard Life Lessons to people that annoy me. Especially guys who kmake kissy noises at me when they drive past. Or who walk past and are all like: "hey babay" I'm not your fuckin baby. But I digress. who wouldn't want to be accomplished in silent, gymnastic kick-assery?
2) Being an invincible robot ninja would be even better. do I even have to clarify this? I thought not.
3) I would like to smash a beer bottle across the face of a punk-ass. A green one. And not a wine bottle. and no, not smash a beer bottle and cut someone. I want to actually whack the bottle across their cheek, due to their deserving it. I can see it. I think it might be satisfying.
4) wait. A ninja pirate!!!!! holy cross-genre fantasticaciousness! Skaaaaarsgaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrd!
5) Killing a Zombie, obviously. with a crossbow? nothing too gross or bloody, like a chainsaw. whatever: I'd like more than 50 action points a day though.
6) Is it too late to learn to skateboard? or is it too having-a-midlife-crisis? Can women even have midlife crises? I think I would make an awesome skatepunk: I already have a snotty attitude and a tattoo, and enjoy rebelling against authority (ie: The Man).
7) eventually, before I get too old, I'd like to turn Vampire. With an awesome sword that glows blue and steals souls, which would feed my eternal.... ah. wait. that's the plot of Soul Reaver*..... oh whatever.

I really did not intend for this to contain quite as much violence. Oops. Next post: sunshine, kittens and picnics.

* I once found the cheat that allowed me to get the Soul Reaver during Baldur's Gate. It was pretty sweet.

Our Gmail conversations tend to disintegrate like this

2007-03-12T11:43:00.000+02:00

Gmail. this morning. As usual:

E-Poops: so Ladies’ Dan and I spend an awesome evening last Thursday playing drinking HOUSE! with one of the new episodes. (too bad it was the most boring episode ever... except for when house says "rape baby") so Ladies’ Dan, I finally got the other episode to download properly, and watched it with molly on Saturday evening, and I wish you had been there to play "take a drink for every foot of tapeworm house pulls out of the patient" -- it was like 25).

Also, remember when that doctor pulled 25 feet of anal beads out of Bertrude’s mom?

Dr. Esteban: Oh I totally saw that episode!
E-Poops: I liked how they added the following lines to calm people's fears about giant 800 feet tapeworms living inside of them:
Nurse: could I have a tapeworm inside of me?
House: no, you would feel it. The only reason this girl didn't know
she had a tapeworm, is because she can't feel pain.

Also, random fact. The "can't feel pain" disease only has about 35 cases reported in the US, but there are over 300 cases in Japan.
Me: I thought that was the "can't feel empathy" disease?
Dr. Esteban: No, it's Can't Understand Why Everyone Isn't Exactly Like Me disease.
Me: ah, I see where I was confused. I think that goes hand in hand with "claim everything as our invention" disease.
E-Poops: I thought it was the "can't understand why everyone isn't exactly like me, and I am also unable to walk properly and choose attractive clothing" disease
Dr. Esteban: You mean Spontaneous Fashion Barf-o-plosion?
E-Poops: that would be the scientific word.... yes
E-Poops: (oh... sorry... the scientific word for word is term)
Me: what about "my panty hamster gets so hot in winter that I have to flash it even if it's snowing" disease?
Dr. Esteban: Did you just refer to a clunge as a "panty hamster?"
E-Poops: Betenoir is a little confused, because her cooter IS in fact a living breathing, hamster.
Me: it eats seeds.
Dr. Esteban: it eats seed?
Silent disapproval robot: ...
Me: ...and nuts.
Me: don't judge me.
La Chica: I ate some nuts today. Pecans & Cashews. Are you gonna judge me?
Dr. Esteban: Only if you ingested them through your "panty hamster."
E-Poops: Chica’s is a gerbil.

** Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved in this... incident...

I think I may have.. a Problem.

2007-03-09T10:55:00.000+02:00

Man Oh man Oh manoman. So, my mom's always been worried about me becoming an addict. Or maybe it's just an alcoholic. I think this is the type of thing moms worry about, especially with a) family history* and b) university. University students drink a lot, even by my standards. And I have to admit, I drank a wee fair few drams in my time. Thing is, it was never going to turn into an addiction because i) it's far too expensive when you only like imported beer and ii) I could never muster up the motivation to deal with hangovers more than once a week. If that.

However.

I seem to be an addict. And it's the worst, most insidious type. It's socially acceptable, nay, it's socially encouraged! That's right. I worship the bean. I crave the caffeine. I get juiced on the Java.

I think the problem can be traced back to Starbucks. I know, all my American friends are like:"blah blah Starbucks are the Antichrist blah blah exploitative blah". But they know nothing. the Bucks have succoured my emotional well-being on many an occasion. Oh, caramel latte, how I beseech thee, prithee cure my ills**.

In any case, I am now experiencing full-blown signs of addiction. I Jones for coffee. If i don't get my morning cup, I get a headache- which disappears the minute I have some. I'm cranky, bitchy, and emotional without my fix. My skin freakin' hurts! well, i imagine it does, which amounts to the same thing.

you know what the sign of a true addict is? chocolate-coved coffee beans. If you eat an entire packet in one sitting, you should reconsider your life.

* "omigod Bet! are you sharing personal information on your blog?" I am. sort of. I can't be secretive all the time, you know.
**fuckit, even I don't get my sense of humour sometimes.

gnah. gnf. blep.

2007-03-07T16:39:00.000+02:00

Fah, but my brain is deaded. it's somewhat amazing how a relatively simple but mind-numbing task can rob you of your cognitive power. Also the ability to walk, talk, or breathe through the nose. The key is to find something repetitive and boring, requiring just enough coordination/ skill to make it annoying. Then do it for an entire workday, or two, or (it looks like it's gonna be) three. Add a soupcon of interruptions, other tasks that need to be handled urgently, and a phone that rings constantly. Then bake in a windowless office, until nicely zombified.

I will not be able to make witty conversation tonight, I can just feel it. I hate going out all unwittified. I might as well not wear makeup. Or deodorant. Or pants. I don't feel I am being too arrogant when I claim that I am the Oscar Wilde of my Generation... Okay, Not quite, but certainly the...someone... of... fuckit, I am unable to maintain this post. Here I am trying to be funny and I just cannot pull it off. This is vaguely pathetic. And yet I cannot stop. Oh, and it seems I have lost the ability to speak in contractions.

Help. me.

Some Days are weirder than others.

2007-03-02T11:43:00.000+02:00

On the days that I don't feel like being at work, I do weird things to entertain myself. today I have:

annoyed and intrigued most of the office by asking the unanswerable: "how and where do the staplers go in the copier? what if they run out?" Cue Jocelyn and I taking apart the machine in an attempt to find the source of the stapley goodness. No luck, but I found the pack of spare staples. copier staples have no bends. how cool is that?!!!?
caught a falling phone book, and reacted by growling and making claw hands, and yelling:" reflexes of a cat!!!!!!". The volunteer did not think that was amusing, but it's not my fault she has no sense of humour.
stood silently by Jocelyn's desk until she noticed me. raised my eyebrows. then walked away.
answered everyone's "can you do me a favour" by saying "no. no i don't feel like it".
Gone online window shopping. Does anyone want to buy me some sweet Cons? I'm a size 5 ½.

sigh. 1 Hour 5 mins till I'm free. why is the shortest day also the longest?

Atrocious Displays of Vulgarity

2007-03-01T14:03:00.000+02:00

5 things that are neither funny nor clever:

cellphone screensavers: oh, you're the number one bitch? you like a hot stud on your phone? or maybe a stripper? because, god knows a two-centimetre stripper makes even the strongest knees weak.... see also -->
"funny" ringtones: ah, your phone farts. or moos. or makes orgasmic groaning noises. how original. I wish to fellate you immediately.
"baby on board" stickers. because I was going to prang your car, but now I can't, damnit!
dolphin tattoos and belly rings: you are a wild and untamed hellcat. you're a tigress between the sheets. You prowl the streets, a crazy rock chick, blasting your Offspring into the night. Another Klippies and coke, please!
T-shirts with "witty" statements, or designer names: Gucci doesn't make t-shirts. and If they did they'd cost 500 dollars and be artfully ripped. You are not a princess. I'm not scared of this bitch biting. One tequila two tequila three tequila bore. My little Princess is your little whore. I get it, you're a hardcore bitch/ pimp and you like to drink a lot.

I admit it. I'm a) elitist and b) a snob. I don't see a problem with this.

Britney, please save yourself.

2007-02-27T10:58:00.000+02:00

Saradia and I gmail chatted this morning. The thing I love about sararara is that she shares my insatiable and not-all-that-secret love for all things celebrity. dissecting celebrity news for me is like...brain masturbation. wait, suddenly I've somehow linked Sara to masturbation, and that's hella weird. new paragraph.

anyway, I love me some gossip. and I really get involved in it. The whole Britney Spears thing is just sad though... It's akin to one of those accidents that you see by the side of the road, and ghoulishly find yourself straining for a glimpse of severed head or detached foot*. anyway, we decided on a plan of action, so that Britters can regain her pop princess crown**

STAY IN REHAB!!!! (this one is kind of important)
stop with the wigs. embrace the baldness, until it grows out a bit. then adopt a pixie cut, in lightest ash blonde.
go on a health retreat...disappear from public view for six months or so, and emerge slim, toned, and glowing.
adopt an icy, glittery Grace Kelly/ southern belle image. elocution and deportment lessons should have been a part of the health retreat. perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier? anyway, shock the world by radiating calm, charm and grace.
move to France. (no cheese though! let's maintain the slim tonedness, shall we?)
work with Goldfrapp-types and craft an album (You May Call Me Mistress Spears) of perfect slivers of icy, glittery fabulous pop. Duet with Kylie. remix by Scissor Sisters.
REMAIN SINGLE! this is probably safest, until Trousersnake realises his destiny, and comes running back to the new, fantasticacious Brit.

...et voila! the balance of things will be restored. And also, I will not have to look at any more flabby shaved coochie, or nasty white-trash outfits, or nasty weaves. and that, my friends, is that.

* or perhaps that is just me.
** there are some Britney songs on my Ipod. you have a problem with that? I'll play you some probot and then you can SUCKIT! STOP JUDGING ME!!!!

" I will rip his head off and crap down his neck"

2007-02-19T16:16:00.000+02:00

I am horribly premenstrual at the moment. I know this because everything makes me a) horrbly depressed, b) intensely, insanely enraged and c) weepy. Usually simultaneously. so it doesn't take much to send me off the deep end. say, being cut off at the post office. or some shithead humorless little teenager joining a group that i moderate and calling me stupid and pointless because god forbid I should joke about him being underage. man. teenagers take themselves so goddamn seriously. it's moments like that that make me wonder if I was like that. I see them in bars and clubs and stores and outside colleges and they are all hairstyles and pose. I'm totally generalising. But, frickit, hormones!!!!!! I can generalise, or i can smash things, and that won't go down too well. And, you know, I'm sure he's a perfectly nice little boy once you get to know him, and I'm sure we just got off on the wrong foot. but, dammit, HORMONES!!!!! totally wrong time of month!!!!!!

and who calls a moderator stupid anyway? I could totally block his ass! or replace it with a note reading "post removed due to high levels of being a TOOL!"I could also say something about people WhO tYPe iN mIxed CaPS but that would be too easy. Also I already said it a while ago.

Sigh. the worst part is is that as annoyed and infuriated and psychotically homicidal as I now feel, I also feel guilty for a) hurting his feelings and b) venting my spleen online. I feel like I should take the moral high road. Because, you know, I'm an Adult. Yeah. Its one of the things you must accept in exchange for being able to drink whatever you want, getting to eat candy for breakfast, and not having to have sex in cars.

Hmm. I fell a little better. Still kinda want to make with stabby-stabby inna throatsicle.

edit: I just realised that when I have PMS, I totally turn Klingon. That is kind of awesome.

Whine and Roses.

2007-02-09T09:07:00.000+02:00

I'm not a Valentine's day fan. I actually loathe it, to be honest. I don't have a problem with love, or romance, per se, it's just that in my opinion, valentine's day isn't really about that any more. It's become the Xmas of romance: commercialised and sentimentalised and gooey and nauseating. Personally, I prefer not to have romance forced down my throat until the gag reflex kicks in. It's as if someone decided that the essence of romantic love, lust and desire could be distilled into roses, cadbury's milk tray, and stuffed toys holding a cutesy message on a heart. And the obsessive, let's-have-everything-in-red thing. red boxer shorts. red lingerie (whorey, but that's for another blog post). red envelopes. red wrapping paper. red kitchen utensils. red socks. red newspapers. you know, romantic stuff like... oh, wait, you mean that's just a marketing ploy? who'da guessed. not me, oh no.

I wouldn't even mind the blatant mercenary zeal with which hallmark and co. attempt to part us from our hard-earned cash; it's the sense of desperation that pervades the entire day: couples that attempt to squeeze in a year's worth of romance into one day, singles who feel that if they don't have a date on this one day of the year, they are a romantic failure doomed to die alone and have their corpses nibbled by their 17 cats.

Well, at least this year I don't have to give giri-chocolates* to my boss.

*Ahhh bugger it. I'm not explaining that one, so you're just going to have to Google it.

LBG*

2007-01-31T12:43:00.000+02:00

*Life Before Google.

once upon a time, children, there was no such thing as Google. I know, it's crazy to think of, but people actually had to find things out by doing research, looking in books, going to the library and so forth. And really, that was just for your everyday kind of research. How did people go about looking up a song and artist using three words of lyrics? where did people find out the history of obscure musical genres, or look for pictures of zombies holding kittens? Google is the ultimate in immediate gratification: no longer do you have to wonder about that niggling little question that's been bothering you for the last hour, just type a couple of relevant keywords in and bob's your uncle. Please pretend I didn't just use that phrase.

In any case... I seriously cannot remember what I did before Google. I'm pretty sure I was just uninformed. I guess I read the newspaper and magazines... But no I get to be a well-informed renaissance woman. Or, a dilettante.

Google is also useful for researching your friends. There's no better way to pass a slow day than to Type in their names and peek around the sock drawers of their lives. A word of warning though: don't Google yourself because you'll just become sick with envy at the jet setting, successful lives of the people who share your name.

Interpol! Interpol! Interpol!

2007-01-30T15:25:00.000+02:00

I once had this disagreement with Stephen. it wasn't a particularly heated one, mostly because it wasn't him doing his "Amanda is from South America" thing, which got annoying about 6 months in. We were talking in the car (road trip!) about music, because we're both kind of geeky about music (so far he's the only person I know I've been able to discuss my disappointment about the second Mars Volta CD with who doesn't glaze over or get all confused), and we're also both music snobs.

anyway, Stephen doesn't like Interpol. And I love Interpol. According to him, the singles were okay but the CD's were too gothy and too much like Joy Division. Now, for me this is their selling point: sounds Joy Divisionesque, but danceable and with fashion sense. Perfect for feeling more meaningful than your fellow man (or woman), in a bounce around the room kinda way. Also useful for breakups, PMS, black outfits (music as accessory, so chic!) and so on.

I tend to get obsessive about Interpol, and listen to every song repeatedly for about a month. and then I need a break for a bit. I don't think I could sustain that level of cool indefinitely. It gets me into trouble though. I'm a bit of an automatic dancer, and I got some funny looks at the supermarket the other day. It was say hello to the Angels. I at least have that in my defence. People are so conservative here though. Dance for five minutes in the Biscuit Aisle and it's like you pooped on their cupcake or something. I will not be constrained. I will not be reduced to mere head-bobbing or (shudder) toe-tapping.

Also, I must wear more black.

***When I'm feeling lazy, it's probably because/ I'm saving all my energy to pick up /when you Move into my airspace***

the female DJs: they annoy me.

2007-01-29T16:32:00.000+02:00

so, I don't listen to the radio anymore. Partly because the music they playlist is total and utter commercial crap ("aaaaaaaaargh! it hurts my ears! more Indie! more Indie!"), but mostly because the DJs make me want to scrape out my eardroms with a spoon. Or, maybe their eardrums. I'm no masochist (another reason I avoid the radio). Gareth Cliff is the King of the arseholes, aims for controversial, and misses wildly, often landing squarely in middle-aged-ladyland (which is not the same as electric ladyland, okay?).

However, my dislike of the male DJ's that blight the airwaves pales in comparison to my utter loathing for the girlyDJ's these days. I mean, they're all right as long as you don't expect a) intelligence b) informed opinions c) musical knowledge or d) the ability to coherently string two thoughts together and have them come out of their mouth in an interesting and engaging manner.

okay, Jeannie D was an exception, but Top Billing have her in their clutches now and she'll soon be lost to us. But so many of them seem to be hired, not even on the basis of their looks, or big boobs or something, but because they have nice shoes, or are really enthusiastic.

I admit, Maybe there's some lovely MetroFm DJ out there who is soulful, sultry and has the brain of a ninja robot (that's a good thing , see). But the Female "Radio personalities" I have had the good luck to experience...have made me long for the good old days of inequality.

Your Schadenfreude is my inconvenience.

2007-01-22T11:57:00.000+02:00

damn you sea water!

yesterday was a day of reckoning. Well, no, not really. It was more a day of...cleaning. And Laundry. I went to the laundrymat and gave my stuff to the lady with the strange nose (it's squashed, bulbous and asymmetrical, and doesn't really fit in with the rest if her face, yet it gives her a somehow pleasant, garden-gnomish sort of appearance), bought a floor-cleaning-spongy thing, swept and cleaned the floor, and finally threw out the last of the cardboard, boxes, plastic and polystyrene that have been hulking next to the tv since I moved. it's amazing how much more space you have when your flat isn't overwhelmed by crap.

So, at about 2pm I realised that there would be nothing better on tv than cricket (ugh...zzzzzzzzzzzzz) and Mr Deeds (not my favouite Sandler movie), and the women's world cup of golf (help me I think I'm going to wee in my boyshorts from excitement, oh yes). So I decided, hey, I live 5 minutes from the beach and I haven't been in... weeks, and I can sit in the sun and tan. So I packed a little bag (blackberry mineral water and Mini heart biscuits, SPF, my library book and a towel), and marched over to Queen's beach.

all went well, and I was enjoying the sun, surf, and even the screaming fishwife who was calling for her son at full decibelness rather than, you know, moving closer to him ("Derryn! Come heeeeeeeeeeere!!! DEEEEEEEEEEEE-RRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYNNNN!!!). Then the freak wave hit. the freak wave that moved past where the tide had been gently hitting the shore (ten feet away from me), and thoroughly soaked me, my towel, and my library book.

cue me running home to attempt rescue of the novel through judicious sand removal, blow drying and clamping of book to prevent warping.

I'll let you know if it works.

But seriously. these things only ever happen to me..... I mean, I was nowhere near the sea! and the sea came and attacked me without provocation!!! And hurt my library book!

also, the people behind me laughed at my predicament. I hate them now.

Arbitrary and slightly insane.

2006-12-12T16:20:00.000+02:00

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Nosebleeds. Nothing like staunching blood flow from your face in the workplace on your second day there to create... an impression. Perhaps if I worked at Harga's House of Vampires, or somesuch, this would not be an issue. I'm pretty sure elegant people do not get nosebleeds. or perhaps they do, but it is elegant. I'm not sure how one would accomplish such an effect.

The Christmas spirit is starting to take over the country, which is a bit... tacky, as usual. You know, the Christmas thing in Japan was great, very subdued, and lots of emphasis on cheesy romance. also it was snowy and somehow the whole tree/ tinsel thing worked. But (and I must emphasise this point most strongly) it is very hot here (nosebleed possibly related to this), and the whole christmas thing somehow ends up all..sticky. And Christmas Braais are just not very... convincing.

Also, I'm not going to get any presents, which sucks. I love presents. I would like: chocolate, those red shoes at Zoom with the big ribbon, A big fuck-off external hard drive, and Eddie Izzard.

I love Eddie Izzard.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside...

2006-12-05T13:03:00.000+02:00

Today would be a perfect beach day, but alas I'm stuck in the office...not doing much of anything. Now, I hear many people point out that I shouldn't complain that I have nothing to do, but, seriously, It's one of my worsts....I hate wasting time and sitting around doing nothing, even If I'm getting paid for it. Even if there is free internet. I just keep thinking of all the photographs I could be out there taking (although admittedly 1pm in Africa means the light is way too harsh for anything decent...although maybe for pinhole shots...? but I digress). I could go to the fabric store and choose fabric to reupholster the cheap nasty chairs I am going to buy from...somewhere and fix up for the apartment I am going to have... eventually.

It doesn't hurt that it's hot, I'm not all that motivated ( I have senioritis...only 3 working days left till the new job!). Also, and this is kind of a biggie, the phone keeps ringing (hate the phone) and I keep hitting the caps lock. I'll say one thing for Japan, they sure know how to to make a keyboard with an accident-proof caps lock. And lady socks. And Uniqlo.

but again, I digress.

Anyway when I get stuck indoors workin' on nothin' like this, my brain atrophies... and then when something comes up, I just can't cope. I'd rather be busy and stressed all day than bored. Does this make me a type A?

it's a small town, but it thinks it's a city.

2006-11-28T14:11:00.000+02:00

Cape Town. Slaapstad. The Mother City.

there's this song by the beams that may or may not be about my little city, something about there being "only two degrees of separation in this town". It's a truism. everybody I meet already knows people I know. people I have the most arbitrary connections to (such as flickr contacts) are friends of friends. or, more likely, acquaintances. Cape Town is a city of acquaintance relationships, big crowds of people that know all the gossip about everybody else, lots of work buddies and study buddies and see-you-around-at-whatever-trendy-bar folks. But most people (especially those who moved here from Durban, or Joburg, or Potgietersrus) complain bitterly about how cliquey Capetonians are. And how superficial.

to be fair, I think that's kind of a harsh generalization. But Cape Town really does suffer from that small-town feeling. Being back after 2 years "expanding my horizons" (cliche alert, cue vom) just brings it all home just how small... the majority of people here are having the same conversations and going to the same clubs and listening to the same bands and not really testing the waters or experimenting or trying to be different. Even the nonconformists wear uniforms.