Enough Already.

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

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

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

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

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

Revenge Fantasies and Rain on my Parade.

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

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

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

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

I think that would be satisfying***.

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

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

I know the Feeling...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boringest Days So Far.

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

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

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

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

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

I'ma Slap A Beyatch.

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!

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

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*

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.

Perhaps She Was hoping for George Clooney? Who Knows.

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?

Eek! Eek! Eek!

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

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..

Antisocial.

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

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...

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.

Atrocious Displays of Vulgarity

5 things that are neither funny nor clever:

1. 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 -->
2. "funny" ringtones: ah, your phone farts. or moos. or makes orgasmic groaning noises. how original. I wish to fellate you immediately.
3. "baby on board" stickers. because I was going to prang your car, but now I can't, damnit!
4. 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!
5. 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.

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

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.

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.

the female DJs: they annoy me.

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.

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.

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.