I am not really awake.
My eyes are fuzzy.
I feel sluggish.
It was dark when I got up.
I wish I was this girl...
Friday, July 30, 2010
Early Morning
So early....
I am not really awake.
My eyes are fuzzy.
I feel sluggish.
It was dark when I got up.
I am not really awake.
My eyes are fuzzy.
I feel sluggish.
It was dark when I got up.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
I am thankful....
For the taxes that I pay, because it means that I am employed.
For the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means I have enough to eat.
For my shadow that watches me work, because it means I am out in the sunshine.
For a floor that needs mopping, and windows that need cleaning, because it means I have a home.
For all the complaining I hear about the government, because it means that we have freedom of speech.
For the parking spot I find at the far end of the parking lot, because it means I am capable of walking and that I have been blessed with transportation.
For the pile of laundry and ironing, because it means I have clothes to wear.
For weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day, because it means I have been capable of working hard.
For the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours, because it means that I am alive.
For the clothes that fit a little too snug, because it means I have enough to eat.
For my shadow that watches me work, because it means I am out in the sunshine.
For a floor that needs mopping, and windows that need cleaning, because it means I have a home.
For all the complaining I hear about the government, because it means that we have freedom of speech.
For the parking spot I find at the far end of the parking lot, because it means I am capable of walking and that I have been blessed with transportation.
For the pile of laundry and ironing, because it means I have clothes to wear.
For weariness and aching muscles at the end of the day, because it means I have been capable of working hard.
For the alarm that goes off in the early morning hours, because it means that I am alive.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Judges
The Judges’ decision would be final. It would be the only one that mattered, and there would be no appeal.
The accused sat in the witness stand – the only one who would speak on her behalf. It was her word against all of theirs’, and so far her chances weren’t good. She sat self-consciously with her hands at her sides, and felt the penetrating gazes of the Judges on her. They were relentless, they wouldn’t stop until the decision had been made, and there was no “mercy of the court” upon which she could throw herself. The next set of gazes were somewhat worse, there was no alliance with the Jury, no common sense of humanity. There was no pity, no sense of compassion. There was hardened accusation mixed with pure relief that it was her and not them up on the stand. There was a sick sense of glee that she was on trial, like rats rejoicing that they had no succumbed to the temptation of the cheese in the trap while they watched the unfortunate rat suffer.
The allegations were laid out; they covered all manner of evils from the simplest of error to the most grievous of offences. Every exposed moment of her young life was thrust at her with all the menace and hostility of a finger in the face. She nodded meekly as they were read out, one by one her transgressions were put to her, mounting the case against her. Would she even be given a chance to speak? She doubted if it would make any difference. There was so much here already, so much had been inferred against her that her still small voice of protest would mean little against the burden of proof. Much like a witch-hunt, a mere accusation was almost sufficient to prove any claim.
She could feel her owl-like glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, and she resisted the urge to correct them and push them back up. Even the slightest of movements would set them off like a pack of wild wolves and the case against her would be decided for life. Fear was all around her, and she could feel the familiar well of tears inside her. SHE MUST NOT CRY! The trial would be over and her humiliation would be complete. To her surprise, she was given a chance to speak, to defend the claims, to present her own evidence. She began, but try as she might she could not get the right words to come out, and it seemed as if everyone, including her own body was conspiring against her to have her doomed to conviction.
The Judges looked away from her for the first time, exchanging looks with each other. There was no need even for a jury vote on this one. The result would in any case be unanimous and in complete accord with the Judges; constitutional rights and a fair trial had not found their way in to this court yet. Her voice trailed off as the Judges looked back to her. It seemed their decision had been made. The gavel banged down onto the hard wooden desk as the verdict was handed down. She hung her head in the witness box, unable to speak.
The Judges collected their designer lunchboxes and dusted off their pretty A-line skirts, swinging their willowy hips as they disappeared off to their own lives. The Jury began to disperse, silently, no-one wanting to speak about the trial that had just occurred. Little Wendy removed her glasses and wept big splashy tears as she sat alone in the playground with her biggest crime; that of being uncool.
The accused sat in the witness stand – the only one who would speak on her behalf. It was her word against all of theirs’, and so far her chances weren’t good. She sat self-consciously with her hands at her sides, and felt the penetrating gazes of the Judges on her. They were relentless, they wouldn’t stop until the decision had been made, and there was no “mercy of the court” upon which she could throw herself. The next set of gazes were somewhat worse, there was no alliance with the Jury, no common sense of humanity. There was no pity, no sense of compassion. There was hardened accusation mixed with pure relief that it was her and not them up on the stand. There was a sick sense of glee that she was on trial, like rats rejoicing that they had no succumbed to the temptation of the cheese in the trap while they watched the unfortunate rat suffer.
The allegations were laid out; they covered all manner of evils from the simplest of error to the most grievous of offences. Every exposed moment of her young life was thrust at her with all the menace and hostility of a finger in the face. She nodded meekly as they were read out, one by one her transgressions were put to her, mounting the case against her. Would she even be given a chance to speak? She doubted if it would make any difference. There was so much here already, so much had been inferred against her that her still small voice of protest would mean little against the burden of proof. Much like a witch-hunt, a mere accusation was almost sufficient to prove any claim.
She could feel her owl-like glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, and she resisted the urge to correct them and push them back up. Even the slightest of movements would set them off like a pack of wild wolves and the case against her would be decided for life. Fear was all around her, and she could feel the familiar well of tears inside her. SHE MUST NOT CRY! The trial would be over and her humiliation would be complete. To her surprise, she was given a chance to speak, to defend the claims, to present her own evidence. She began, but try as she might she could not get the right words to come out, and it seemed as if everyone, including her own body was conspiring against her to have her doomed to conviction.
The Judges looked away from her for the first time, exchanging looks with each other. There was no need even for a jury vote on this one. The result would in any case be unanimous and in complete accord with the Judges; constitutional rights and a fair trial had not found their way in to this court yet. Her voice trailed off as the Judges looked back to her. It seemed their decision had been made. The gavel banged down onto the hard wooden desk as the verdict was handed down. She hung her head in the witness box, unable to speak.
The Judges collected their designer lunchboxes and dusted off their pretty A-line skirts, swinging their willowy hips as they disappeared off to their own lives. The Jury began to disperse, silently, no-one wanting to speak about the trial that had just occurred. Little Wendy removed her glasses and wept big splashy tears as she sat alone in the playground with her biggest crime; that of being uncool.
Friday, July 23, 2010
10 lies people tell (supposedly to make you feel better) and what they ACTUALLY mean
1. No, those jeans don’t make you look fat! (It’s not the jeans. It’s the lumpy burger-and-fries combo that has become your ass that makes you look fat).
2. It’s no trouble at all. (It’s a serious imposition, but now that you’ve asked me, I don’t want to say no and sound like a douche).
3. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. (I have no idea what I’m doing, but I want to seem in charge. If this breaks, it’s your own fault).
4. I honestly think you are the most beautiful girl in the world (Of course you’re not the most beautiful girl in the world! If you were, you would be in calendars. But, you are the prettiest girl that I have a shot with).
5. It’s not you, it’s me. (There is no doubt about this: it's you! I’m wonderful. You are not. We are over)
6. No, that’s not weird. Everyone does that. (No-one does that! That is completely weird! What the hell were you thinking sharing that with another human being? You disgust me.)
7. That guy? No, I don’t know him (Oh, you meant HIM! Oh, yeah, I thought you meant the guy with the ‘Homeless’ sign standing 20 meters away from the guy I know. Um, yeah, we used to date a little. And by a little I mean we used to play Naked Twister every Tuesday in my less reformed days. )
8. I’m listening. (You talk too much, and I am thinking about Call of Duty/my outfit for tomorrow/dinner).
9. Of course I would tell you if I ever cheat on you! (Do I look stupid? I have a better chance of not cheating on you than ever telling you when/if I do)
10. I don’t mind if you don’t shave. (I LOVE your hairy legs, you don’t have to go waxing today. It’s like having a scratching post right next to me. I feel like a cat.)
2. It’s no trouble at all. (It’s a serious imposition, but now that you’ve asked me, I don’t want to say no and sound like a douche).
3. Trust me, I know what I’m doing. (I have no idea what I’m doing, but I want to seem in charge. If this breaks, it’s your own fault).
4. I honestly think you are the most beautiful girl in the world (Of course you’re not the most beautiful girl in the world! If you were, you would be in calendars. But, you are the prettiest girl that I have a shot with).
5. It’s not you, it’s me. (There is no doubt about this: it's you! I’m wonderful. You are not. We are over)
6. No, that’s not weird. Everyone does that. (No-one does that! That is completely weird! What the hell were you thinking sharing that with another human being? You disgust me.)
7. That guy? No, I don’t know him (Oh, you meant HIM! Oh, yeah, I thought you meant the guy with the ‘Homeless’ sign standing 20 meters away from the guy I know. Um, yeah, we used to date a little. And by a little I mean we used to play Naked Twister every Tuesday in my less reformed days. )
8. I’m listening. (You talk too much, and I am thinking about Call of Duty/my outfit for tomorrow/dinner).
9. Of course I would tell you if I ever cheat on you! (Do I look stupid? I have a better chance of not cheating on you than ever telling you when/if I do)
10. I don’t mind if you don’t shave. (I LOVE your hairy legs, you don’t have to go waxing today. It’s like having a scratching post right next to me. I feel like a cat.)
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Dying
Does the thought of death scare you? Particularly your death, obviously. Death in general is not a particularly terrifying theme, otherwise Shakespeare wouldn’t have been so popular, nor his later mimic, Quentin Tarantino.
Death scares the hell out of me. One moment you’re here, then next, gone.
Religion and faith are a comfort, but you’ve got to admit that the thought has gone through your head; “What if we’re wrong?” Heaven forbid, What if the Jews WERE right?
All this said, I have a morbid fascination with Doomsday science, an unhealthy interest in Armeggedon theories and a growing need to know what happened to the dinosaurs and *gasp* whether it will happen to us.
Then I realised something: my death scares me, but only because I’ll be leaving people behind. If we all go together, I beat my FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) and it no longer worries me.
Self-centred or self-preserving?
Writing is hard
When I was younger, I could bang out a 5-hundred word paragraph without thinking twice about it. I used to win competitions for cheesy poetry I wrote in 5 minutes (brag brag brag). Now, when I have to write something, I overthink it to the nth degree and I find myself getting stuck and despondent about it. The pen (computer keys) stick against my fingers and my mind clogs when I try to find ideas. I can hear the works jamming as if a spanner has been thrown in. The thought of being creative or funny is something of an impossibility. I read other bloggers and think to myself "How do they do it?" They seem so effortlessly talented, so naturally hilarious, so brilliantly poignant.
But if I consider my reactions now, versus what they used to be, to so many other things, it seems to have become something of a shocking trend. When I was 10, despite having a soul-chilling fear of heights (and, more significantly, depths) I would happily leap off a 5-metre diving board to prove to all and sundry that I wasn’t chicken (even though I've always found that an inappropriate slur. Chickens are not, by nature, at all timid)Big Bang Theory . Now, I make sure that I go to swimming pools without the temptation of proving myself (i.e. no diving boards). What if I break my neck? What if I jump and hit the water at a funny angle and sprain my ankle or tear a ligament? I used to walk all over the fairly rickety and unsafe roof over my grandmother’s house and play balancing games. Now, I wouldn’t dream of taking chances like that.
I was playing in the park the other day on one of those dare-devil merry-go-rounds. We used to swing those around until the world was a blur, climb off and laugh at how unable we were to walk in a straight line. Now, I was hesitant to have it go faster than a light haziness. (Interestingly enough, we don’t mind the dizziness from unnatural additives like wine and coffee, but heaven forbid a natural high likely to result in a small sprain).
Perhaps it’s now that we know consequences, and things about physics ("forces" and such-like). We know the result of a broken collarbone, the expense of a torn ligament or the black dizziness that sets in when something is seriously busted.
To a large extent that is how I feel about writing these days. No more do I leap blindly into text, allowing my imagination to take over and let the story write itself. Now I consider plot, and character and punctuation. I think about what the reader will be feeling when they read the story. I consider public reaction. I think too much, rather than feeling, and it has lead me to not be writing like I should be.
My next challenge? I’m writing a South African sci-fi short story. I shall valiantly attempt to write it like I would when I was a child. I shall endeavour to write for the sheer joy of the written word, rather than for any other motive. (I will make the greatest effort to not have my story sound like a valedictory speech).
Wish me luck!
But if I consider my reactions now, versus what they used to be, to so many other things, it seems to have become something of a shocking trend. When I was 10, despite having a soul-chilling fear of heights (and, more significantly, depths) I would happily leap off a 5-metre diving board to prove to all and sundry that I wasn’t chicken (even though I've always found that an inappropriate slur. Chickens are not, by nature, at all timid)Big Bang Theory . Now, I make sure that I go to swimming pools without the temptation of proving myself (i.e. no diving boards). What if I break my neck? What if I jump and hit the water at a funny angle and sprain my ankle or tear a ligament? I used to walk all over the fairly rickety and unsafe roof over my grandmother’s house and play balancing games. Now, I wouldn’t dream of taking chances like that.
I was playing in the park the other day on one of those dare-devil merry-go-rounds. We used to swing those around until the world was a blur, climb off and laugh at how unable we were to walk in a straight line. Now, I was hesitant to have it go faster than a light haziness. (Interestingly enough, we don’t mind the dizziness from unnatural additives like wine and coffee, but heaven forbid a natural high likely to result in a small sprain).
Perhaps it’s now that we know consequences, and things about physics ("forces" and such-like). We know the result of a broken collarbone, the expense of a torn ligament or the black dizziness that sets in when something is seriously busted.
To a large extent that is how I feel about writing these days. No more do I leap blindly into text, allowing my imagination to take over and let the story write itself. Now I consider plot, and character and punctuation. I think about what the reader will be feeling when they read the story. I consider public reaction. I think too much, rather than feeling, and it has lead me to not be writing like I should be.
My next challenge? I’m writing a South African sci-fi short story. I shall valiantly attempt to write it like I would when I was a child. I shall endeavour to write for the sheer joy of the written word, rather than for any other motive. (I will make the greatest effort to not have my story sound like a valedictory speech).
Wish me luck!
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Real World
When are we going to start living in the real world again? With the onset of winter I always feel like I live in some glass cage behind which I am forced to view the world. It’s too cold to walk around, or be outside, so we sit inside our houses watching the sun, the rain, the wind or whatever weather Cape Town decides to have that hour. We heat ourselves with gas heaters, and warm water bottles. We fill our ears with music, and we watch TV all night. Engagement with the great outdoors does not happen frequently.
But as if that isn’t depressing enough, then we spend our days on the internet. We farm in Farmville (hell yes, I’m including you in the generic ‘we’ here since I am sure you have sinned in a similar way). We play scrabble with strangers via facebook in lexulous. We ‘catch up’ with our friends on facebook (actually, we stalk their profiles and check their photos to make sure we are still better looking than them). We blog our diaries and thoughts in the blogosphere.
But in the meantime, real life agricultural crises pass us by in the news. No-one can spell anymore, let alone use correct grammar (especially since “QI” gets you such high points). There is no need to pick up a phone (or even Skype) because all the info you need about a friend is available online. Want to know what an ex is up to? Well, you’re probably friends with him (or at very least mutual friends) so the evidence is a click away and even those of us who can control the crazy find it an irresistible temptation to check out the new girlfriend/house/baby.
I can’t wait for summer since the lure of the beach is greater than the black hole which is a morning spent on facebook.
But as if that isn’t depressing enough, then we spend our days on the internet. We farm in Farmville (hell yes, I’m including you in the generic ‘we’ here since I am sure you have sinned in a similar way). We play scrabble with strangers via facebook in lexulous. We ‘catch up’ with our friends on facebook (actually, we stalk their profiles and check their photos to make sure we are still better looking than them). We blog our diaries and thoughts in the blogosphere.
But in the meantime, real life agricultural crises pass us by in the news. No-one can spell anymore, let alone use correct grammar (especially since “QI” gets you such high points). There is no need to pick up a phone (or even Skype) because all the info you need about a friend is available online. Want to know what an ex is up to? Well, you’re probably friends with him (or at very least mutual friends) so the evidence is a click away and even those of us who can control the crazy find it an irresistible temptation to check out the new girlfriend/house/baby.
I can’t wait for summer since the lure of the beach is greater than the black hole which is a morning spent on facebook.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Welcome back, students.
Gone is the peaceful tranquility of my faculty devoid of students. The peace was shattered this morning by the sound of stampeding feet trying to hurry to 8am classes, far too much makeup for this hour this morning, shrill howls of “Aaaahhh! It’s you! Aahhh!” from every girl. This seems to be a cry that girls take up, as if stating the blindingly obvious somehow constitutes conversation.
Now I don’t mind the noise. That, I can handle. But it is the constant stream of people walking into your office, asking inane questions that you should somehow know the answer to. No, I do not know what the requirements of advanced tax law are. No, I have no opinion on which tie you should wear. And to the stupid blonde who has now dyed her hair brown (I still know how f&*%ing stupid you are, by the way), no, I have no idea about some random lecturer’s subject that you are too lazy to find out about yourself.
I am slamming the proverbial door.
Now I don’t mind the noise. That, I can handle. But it is the constant stream of people walking into your office, asking inane questions that you should somehow know the answer to. No, I do not know what the requirements of advanced tax law are. No, I have no opinion on which tie you should wear. And to the stupid blonde who has now dyed her hair brown (I still know how f&*%ing stupid you are, by the way), no, I have no idea about some random lecturer’s subject that you are too lazy to find out about yourself.
I am slamming the proverbial door.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Pet Hate
My new pet hate is people who do not understand the use of punctuation marks. I’m not being a stickler for the misuse of a comma, or even a badly placed apostrophe mark. There are enough books on the subject.
I’m talking about people who clearly live a life of hyperboles.
When I am on chat with you, and you use more than one smiley face, you confuse me. I am not that funny. You can’t even seen my ironic turn of eyebrow, nor my sarcastic snarl. And yet you have a smiley. What does it even mean? Are you a grinning idiot who is drooling at his desk while communicating with me? Have you lost all power of speech and feel that :) :) :) is a sufficient replacement for an answer?
Now I am not some dark emoticon under lord, hell bent on their destruction. I myself have even been known to use them (Shock! Horror!) But I am more like a gentle spirit guide who suggests you tone down their use.
The other form is the exclamation mark. Just how excited can you REALLY be after typing the words “Dear Billjeanjane!!!!” That’s four. I honestly just got an e-mail with 4 exclamation marks after that “Dear” part. Facebook status updates are another killer for hyperboles.
“I just ate breakfast!!! So awesome!!! Can’t wait to sit in traffic :) ;) :) !!!! Ha ha!!! :)”
Sorry, what?
I’m talking about people who clearly live a life of hyperboles.
When I am on chat with you, and you use more than one smiley face, you confuse me. I am not that funny. You can’t even seen my ironic turn of eyebrow, nor my sarcastic snarl. And yet you have a smiley. What does it even mean? Are you a grinning idiot who is drooling at his desk while communicating with me? Have you lost all power of speech and feel that :) :) :) is a sufficient replacement for an answer?
Now I am not some dark emoticon under lord, hell bent on their destruction. I myself have even been known to use them (Shock! Horror!) But I am more like a gentle spirit guide who suggests you tone down their use.
The other form is the exclamation mark. Just how excited can you REALLY be after typing the words “Dear Billjeanjane!!!!” That’s four. I honestly just got an e-mail with 4 exclamation marks after that “Dear” part. Facebook status updates are another killer for hyperboles.
“I just ate breakfast!!! So awesome!!! Can’t wait to sit in traffic :) ;) :) !!!! Ha ha!!! :)”
Sorry, what?
The invention of lying
For those of you who have not already seen this film (Ricky Gervais and Jennifer Garner), it’s obviously worth a look. If you liked Ghosttown, you’ll enjoy this more. IMDB link
The interesting point it brings up is “What would a world be like where everyone says exactly the truth, where there is no such thing as embellishment, or fabrication, or imagination?” Everything that is said in the movie is the absolute, sometimes brutal, truth. Until, of course, he discovers lying. But I shan’t be a spoiler on this one.
Adverts are somewhat meaningless, as they merely state the truth such as “Pepsi – When they don’t have Coke”. The sign for the old age home reads “An unhappy place for hopeless people” and the assistant greets him as he walks in by saying “Are you here to abandon an old person?”.
The odd thing about it is that people are not any happier with brutal truth. When a colleague or acquaintance asks us how we are, they want to hear
“Good thanks”,
not
“Shit, actually. My marriage is failing, I’m not sure I actually like my kids and sometimes I wear my wife’s underwear and then cry with shame in the shower”.
When comforting another person and they ask you
“How will it ever be alright?”, you say that it’s ok and these things will pass, not
“Well, perhaps after months of soul-wrenching grief you’ll eventually be a little worse off than you were before”.
And the answer to “Do these jeans make me look fat?” is never “It’s not the jeans.”
And that is just telling the truth. How about the uglier truths, the sadder realities. Like the fact that pretty people like pretty people. And ugly people also like pretty people, but the reverse is not true.
No matter how hard you try to make someone love you, if they don’t then they don’t.
You can’t change a person.
People are inherently selfish, and you will find this out the hard way.
We are all going to die, and it will always hurt for the people left behind.
Ok, enough depression for one day. It’s just amazing to imagine that everybody always wants the ‘truth’ from you, but what they actually want is a Disney version of the truth, tailor-made to their situation, which makes them feel better. So, not the truth then.
Friday, July 9, 2010
People will buy anything
People will buy absolutely anything. After traipsing through a mall last night (window shopping, of course. I am still on a student salary), I realised that people will literally give money for just about any crap you deign to put on sale.
Like castles in goldfish bowls. Since when do goldfish want to swim through a castle? It’s like putting an anchor in a rabbit hutch and cooing “oohhhh, he just loves that little thing”. Completely nonsensical. But put it up for sale, and you have a fashion trend. Obviously rabbits need anchors.
How about build-a-bear? Not only do shops charge an unholy amount for the purchase of fluffy toys (certain chains spring to mind), they can now ‘fleece’ you for all you are worth by making you part of the labour itself. They’re saving costs, and you pay more. Brilliant.
My favourite: water in bottles. Unless you are travelling to India (in which case I believe it comes strongly recommended) or have some sort of medical condition (I can’t imagine what, but I’m a lawyer-to-be so it’s important to put disclaimers), it’s completely ridiculous to buy water. They pretty much just bottle tap water in any case. But since the advent of bottled water, there is some sort of germ-craze that set in, as if drinking ordinary water will immediately turn you into a wet gremlin or give you herpes or something. Marketing is amazing.
Like castles in goldfish bowls. Since when do goldfish want to swim through a castle? It’s like putting an anchor in a rabbit hutch and cooing “oohhhh, he just loves that little thing”. Completely nonsensical. But put it up for sale, and you have a fashion trend. Obviously rabbits need anchors.
How about build-a-bear? Not only do shops charge an unholy amount for the purchase of fluffy toys (certain chains spring to mind), they can now ‘fleece’ you for all you are worth by making you part of the labour itself. They’re saving costs, and you pay more. Brilliant.
My favourite: water in bottles. Unless you are travelling to India (in which case I believe it comes strongly recommended) or have some sort of medical condition (I can’t imagine what, but I’m a lawyer-to-be so it’s important to put disclaimers), it’s completely ridiculous to buy water. They pretty much just bottle tap water in any case. But since the advent of bottled water, there is some sort of germ-craze that set in, as if drinking ordinary water will immediately turn you into a wet gremlin or give you herpes or something. Marketing is amazing.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Growing up #3
“Sew me up and send me to a monastery!” is what I was tempted to cry after an evening trying to watch soccer (semi-finals!) with my two rambunctious (and high on sugar) brothers causing havoc. I swear, I was close to agreeing with sterilisation.
Of course, after spending a morning with the 5 year old, I may have changed my mind. Or at very least seen there is good to outweigh the bad.
We went to the toy store, an excursion he had been positively wetting his pants with excitement about, only to hear from his big sister that, no, we were not going to buy that made-in-china Power Rangers copy toy, but rather a small game of snakes and ladders. The fortitude and forbearance was astounding, as he sadly nodded his head and said ok. Like any soft-hearted girl, I crumbled and bought him a fighting sword. I mean, I’m only human. This allowed me almost an hour of guilt-free, whine-free shopping. Which included fashion advice from a careful little mind who tried to be honest and inflict the least insult.
I asked him his opinion of the green stripey pyjama pants I had tried on and he answered that while he "personally liked the pants," he couldn’t actually see anyone ‘cool’ ever wearing them. Verdict: nice, but not cool. I tried on a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt, and his opinion was that he liked it but that was “obvious, man. It has cartoons on it”. I suppose I should have known. My last attempt was a pair of bright pink colourful pyjama pants, which apparently made me look like an upside ice-cream (I had nothing but my bra on top and clearly the colours fitted). Well! I went with the pair of pants he chose. My personal will is nothing in the face of 5-year old honesty.
On the way home he patiently listened while I bored him to death teaching him road signs, and facts about whales, and (because we have been watching a contract law series) the basic principles of contract law. I thought it was a futile attempt until he quickly showed his understanding by explaining the Star Wars treaties and how they worked. Damn, he would have had a thing or two to tell Professor Du Plessis.
If all of this wasn’t enough to at least make me curious about having my own little clone, we got home and flopped down on the couch. A loving little hand clasped mine, tired but happy little eyes looked up at mine and he said “thanks for the day, sister”.
I’ll have twenty, please.
Of course, after spending a morning with the 5 year old, I may have changed my mind. Or at very least seen there is good to outweigh the bad.
We went to the toy store, an excursion he had been positively wetting his pants with excitement about, only to hear from his big sister that, no, we were not going to buy that made-in-china Power Rangers copy toy, but rather a small game of snakes and ladders. The fortitude and forbearance was astounding, as he sadly nodded his head and said ok. Like any soft-hearted girl, I crumbled and bought him a fighting sword. I mean, I’m only human. This allowed me almost an hour of guilt-free, whine-free shopping. Which included fashion advice from a careful little mind who tried to be honest and inflict the least insult.
I asked him his opinion of the green stripey pyjama pants I had tried on and he answered that while he "personally liked the pants," he couldn’t actually see anyone ‘cool’ ever wearing them. Verdict: nice, but not cool. I tried on a Spongebob Squarepants t-shirt, and his opinion was that he liked it but that was “obvious, man. It has cartoons on it”. I suppose I should have known. My last attempt was a pair of bright pink colourful pyjama pants, which apparently made me look like an upside ice-cream (I had nothing but my bra on top and clearly the colours fitted). Well! I went with the pair of pants he chose. My personal will is nothing in the face of 5-year old honesty.
On the way home he patiently listened while I bored him to death teaching him road signs, and facts about whales, and (because we have been watching a contract law series) the basic principles of contract law. I thought it was a futile attempt until he quickly showed his understanding by explaining the Star Wars treaties and how they worked. Damn, he would have had a thing or two to tell Professor Du Plessis.
If all of this wasn’t enough to at least make me curious about having my own little clone, we got home and flopped down on the couch. A loving little hand clasped mine, tired but happy little eyes looked up at mine and he said “thanks for the day, sister”.
I’ll have twenty, please.
Calvin and Hobbes - Calvin off Ritalin :)
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Georgette Heyer and Social Calls
(I’m well aware of the irony that this post presents, considering my previous one. What can I say? Take it in your stride, I’m still figuring it all out…)
I may have mentioned the Georgette Heyer phase I’m currently going through (John Grisham, you still have my heart and when someone decides to buy me your new book, our love will be requited). I’ll admit it now, her novels lack a little intrigue and are as obvious as a new Jennifer Aniston movie’s plot, but when compared to the other crap that lines so many of our shelves, she’s a winning author. The English is beautiful and the way in which the characters interact is charming. Blah blah, ja I hate myself a little too now. Fact is, if I have to read some average novel when I want to relax, I’d prefer one with proper grammar.
In any case, I was visiting the area in which my prospective mother-in-law resides and decided that the only proper thing to do would be to pay an obligatory social call this morning and pay my respects (present my acquaintance? Give my address?). 100 years ago this would have been the correct thing to do, but these days I feel a little old-fashioned.
Really, if you had a suitor courting you, you would have to impress him mother-in-law or fear that the marriage may be banned. Today, I’m worried about the censure of my peers (and his sister) for being a brown-noser. Sigh, how things have moved on.
I have decided, as part of my growing up phase, that I no longer care what people think (famous last words). Watching the centuries old tradition of women being hassled by their mothers-in-law about, well, everything, I’d like to do everything in my power to make sure that our relationship is a good one.
Plus, I’m hardly likely to say no to earl grey tea and a massive slice of lemon meringue. Shallow much?
I may have mentioned the Georgette Heyer phase I’m currently going through (John Grisham, you still have my heart and when someone decides to buy me your new book, our love will be requited). I’ll admit it now, her novels lack a little intrigue and are as obvious as a new Jennifer Aniston movie’s plot, but when compared to the other crap that lines so many of our shelves, she’s a winning author. The English is beautiful and the way in which the characters interact is charming. Blah blah, ja I hate myself a little too now. Fact is, if I have to read some average novel when I want to relax, I’d prefer one with proper grammar.
In any case, I was visiting the area in which my prospective mother-in-law resides and decided that the only proper thing to do would be to pay an obligatory social call this morning and pay my respects (present my acquaintance? Give my address?). 100 years ago this would have been the correct thing to do, but these days I feel a little old-fashioned.
Really, if you had a suitor courting you, you would have to impress him mother-in-law or fear that the marriage may be banned. Today, I’m worried about the censure of my peers (and his sister) for being a brown-noser. Sigh, how things have moved on.
I have decided, as part of my growing up phase, that I no longer care what people think (famous last words). Watching the centuries old tradition of women being hassled by their mothers-in-law about, well, everything, I’d like to do everything in my power to make sure that our relationship is a good one.
Plus, I’m hardly likely to say no to earl grey tea and a massive slice of lemon meringue. Shallow much?
Peer Pressure
A friend recently wrote that he “never knew how to withstand peer pressure until all of his friends started to get engaged”. Besides the fact that he is an old fossil and should consider re-stating that fact, Old Man Time has something of a point.
100 years ago, girls of my age were married with 3 kids (the lucky ones whose husband’s visited their bedchambers). Hell, 27 years ago, my mother at my age was married with 2 kids. It just goes to show. But today, getting married at 23 makes you strange. Unless there is some kind of ‘accident’ (you tripped, fell, and got me pregnant), people don’t tend to push into marriage quickly. Obviously this has to do with differing social expectations and a change in the environment in which we live, but at the same time there is a sense that moral values are falling more in line with what they used to be.
The 70’s and 80’s were a time of sexual revolution and female liberation, and with that came a booming lack of moral stringency. You came, you saw, you saw, you came etc. Birth control and easy ways to 'take care of accidents' made a lot of problems from the previous generation just vanish. Then look what happened? Mothers all worked and marriages fell apart, and now 50% of kids grow up in a family torn apart with fighting and buying love.
But these days, as the threats of aids, venereal diseases, cancers and the decline of the family, the people of my generation seem to be looking for something a little different. Sure, we’re more free and easy in our choices than people of so many years ago, but the main thing is that most of my friends are not looking for Mr-Right-Now, but rather Mr-I’d-Like-To-One-Day-Settle-Down-With-You-Once-We-Know-We’re-Right. So marriages aren’t being delayed because we’re too busy sowing our wild oats, they are being delayed because we’re trying to find out who we are apart, and who we want to be together. Perhaps more conscious than 40 years ago of how destructive divorce is, my generation seem to want to be more sure when they get married.
I’m all for wanting to wait, and Old Man Time, I’m on to resisting that peer pressure with you.
100 years ago, girls of my age were married with 3 kids (the lucky ones whose husband’s visited their bedchambers). Hell, 27 years ago, my mother at my age was married with 2 kids. It just goes to show. But today, getting married at 23 makes you strange. Unless there is some kind of ‘accident’ (you tripped, fell, and got me pregnant), people don’t tend to push into marriage quickly. Obviously this has to do with differing social expectations and a change in the environment in which we live, but at the same time there is a sense that moral values are falling more in line with what they used to be.
The 70’s and 80’s were a time of sexual revolution and female liberation, and with that came a booming lack of moral stringency. You came, you saw, you saw, you came etc. Birth control and easy ways to 'take care of accidents' made a lot of problems from the previous generation just vanish. Then look what happened? Mothers all worked and marriages fell apart, and now 50% of kids grow up in a family torn apart with fighting and buying love.
But these days, as the threats of aids, venereal diseases, cancers and the decline of the family, the people of my generation seem to be looking for something a little different. Sure, we’re more free and easy in our choices than people of so many years ago, but the main thing is that most of my friends are not looking for Mr-Right-Now, but rather Mr-I’d-Like-To-One-Day-Settle-Down-With-You-Once-We-Know-We’re-Right. So marriages aren’t being delayed because we’re too busy sowing our wild oats, they are being delayed because we’re trying to find out who we are apart, and who we want to be together. Perhaps more conscious than 40 years ago of how destructive divorce is, my generation seem to want to be more sure when they get married.
I’m all for wanting to wait, and Old Man Time, I’m on to resisting that peer pressure with you.
Growing Up #2
Right, I think I am sufficiently recovered to re-call the events of Saturday. As part of Growing Up (see previous posts) I am also engaging in making Responsible Choices. Now when I say that word in my head it has a similar ring to Visiting the Dentist, Cutting Grandma’s Corns and Studying for Exams. You know you have to do it, and once you have you feel really proud of yourself, but in general it’s an annoying part of growing up and something you have to do in order to prove you are finally ready to join the Real World.
First of my Responsible Choices is to try and behave more like a lady. Or to be more accurate, try not to act like a giggling idiot whenever out in society. Important here is to give the impression that I have in fact am smart as hell, have got a fairly prestigious degree and will soon be suing the pants off people, rather than that I recently broke out of beauty school and am having a Girl’s Day Out.
Since the Stellenbosch Wine Fest this year appeared to be a) expensive b) unlikely to have us falling over our feet and c) badly attended by our friends, the mature decision was to sit this one out and not go. But then, as luck would have it (or temptation, whichever way you like to look at it) I won free tickets. Which apparently, according to how many competitions I enter, is less luck and more statistics.
I took the best friend along, which is the obvious, but definitely not responsible choice. Needless to say, there were no ladies in our quarter. We did however have a ‘whale’ of a time (ironic expression to use considering my feelings on whales) and made sure that the festival was indeed worth our while. So although I am a fan of this whole growing up and entering the real world, a realisation I also made is that you make more friends and have more fun when you’re not making Responsible Choices, so every now and then I will still be letting my hair down!
First of my Responsible Choices is to try and behave more like a lady. Or to be more accurate, try not to act like a giggling idiot whenever out in society. Important here is to give the impression that I have in fact am smart as hell, have got a fairly prestigious degree and will soon be suing the pants off people, rather than that I recently broke out of beauty school and am having a Girl’s Day Out.
Since the Stellenbosch Wine Fest this year appeared to be a) expensive b) unlikely to have us falling over our feet and c) badly attended by our friends, the mature decision was to sit this one out and not go. But then, as luck would have it (or temptation, whichever way you like to look at it) I won free tickets. Which apparently, according to how many competitions I enter, is less luck and more statistics.
I took the best friend along, which is the obvious, but definitely not responsible choice. Needless to say, there were no ladies in our quarter. We did however have a ‘whale’ of a time (ironic expression to use considering my feelings on whales) and made sure that the festival was indeed worth our while. So although I am a fan of this whole growing up and entering the real world, a realisation I also made is that you make more friends and have more fun when you’re not making Responsible Choices, so every now and then I will still be letting my hair down!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Whales
This is something of a rant, and mainly aimed at those locals who are so amazed by whales. Now I love game, and game-watching and I think that animals are incredible to watch and observe in their natural habitats.
But when I think that, I am referring to majestic lions stalking prey and herds of elephants being big and imposing. I am talking about meercats on the side of the road, leopards’ eyes glinting in the headlights, hippos lolling about in the mud to keep cool.
I am not referring to pieces of rock 50 miles out into the ocean.
Drive along the coastal routes of Cape Town and surrounds and you will often come across the sight of cars stopped, binoculars out and people excitingly watching the whales. The difference between whales and sandbanks, or rocks or in fact just a white horse is nearly impossible to spot. So ultimately, they are looking at the view (which I have no problem with, just don’t try to get me excited about the alleged ‘whale’).
Whale season, when the whales are leaping out of the water, mating mid-air and bouncing balls on their noses, well that is entertainment I can get behind. Watching whales on documentaries doing fascinating underwater noises and dives, I can support. Hell, I’ll even listen to a whale noises cd.
As long as I don’t have to observe them in their natural habitat, being rocks, I am ok.
But when I think that, I am referring to majestic lions stalking prey and herds of elephants being big and imposing. I am talking about meercats on the side of the road, leopards’ eyes glinting in the headlights, hippos lolling about in the mud to keep cool.
I am not referring to pieces of rock 50 miles out into the ocean.
Drive along the coastal routes of Cape Town and surrounds and you will often come across the sight of cars stopped, binoculars out and people excitingly watching the whales. The difference between whales and sandbanks, or rocks or in fact just a white horse is nearly impossible to spot. So ultimately, they are looking at the view (which I have no problem with, just don’t try to get me excited about the alleged ‘whale’).
Whale season, when the whales are leaping out of the water, mating mid-air and bouncing balls on their noses, well that is entertainment I can get behind. Watching whales on documentaries doing fascinating underwater noises and dives, I can support. Hell, I’ll even listen to a whale noises cd.
As long as I don’t have to observe them in their natural habitat, being rocks, I am ok.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Growing up #1
Yes, I think it’s finally happening. So the next few updates are going to be some small revelations I have made in the last year.
Today = Romance.
I think I know what it means. Finally. It’s not candlelight dinners, and spending lots of money or fancy picnics. Ok, that’s not entirely true. To be fair, I like those a lot. I love candles. And picnics. But the point is, romance finally means something real to me. Because when the boy goes to the shop to buy ingredients for breakfast muffins (blah. Not exciting) he comes home with pork steak and roast vegetables. And when I’m sad or have had a bad day, he knows that, and he just hugs me. Because he actually knows me better than I know myself, and is more realistic when it comes to me. And there are a million other things that he does, just because he loves me.
Granted, he's no romeo and he doesn't recite sonnets and occasionally I think his emotional growth might have been stunted somewhere along the way, but then I realise that his way of loving me is the only way I want to be loved. His warmth, his caring, his understanding all go to the heart of what makes me me. And what makes us us.
All that other crap that we spend our whole lives watching movies about and reading novels about and dreaming about, it’s not real. What is real is that one person you can crawl up to next to, wearing your fat pants and ‘comfy’ clothes, and who still nuzzles sweet nothings in your ear and still thinks you’re beautiful.
I am the luckiest girl alive, and I don’t care who knows it. Thank you, to my boy, for making romance mean something real to me.
Today = Romance.
I think I know what it means. Finally. It’s not candlelight dinners, and spending lots of money or fancy picnics. Ok, that’s not entirely true. To be fair, I like those a lot. I love candles. And picnics. But the point is, romance finally means something real to me. Because when the boy goes to the shop to buy ingredients for breakfast muffins (blah. Not exciting) he comes home with pork steak and roast vegetables. And when I’m sad or have had a bad day, he knows that, and he just hugs me. Because he actually knows me better than I know myself, and is more realistic when it comes to me. And there are a million other things that he does, just because he loves me.
Granted, he's no romeo and he doesn't recite sonnets and occasionally I think his emotional growth might have been stunted somewhere along the way, but then I realise that his way of loving me is the only way I want to be loved. His warmth, his caring, his understanding all go to the heart of what makes me me. And what makes us us.
All that other crap that we spend our whole lives watching movies about and reading novels about and dreaming about, it’s not real. What is real is that one person you can crawl up to next to, wearing your fat pants and ‘comfy’ clothes, and who still nuzzles sweet nothings in your ear and still thinks you’re beautiful.
I am the luckiest girl alive, and I don’t care who knows it. Thank you, to my boy, for making romance mean something real to me.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Twilight (jip, I'm going there)
New moon, eclipse....words that used to be associated with nerdy science kids on astronomy excursions, but which now dominate the lingo of 13 year old girls (ok, ok and some of the rest of us to)’s vocabulary. By now you should also have picked: Team Jacob or Team Edward (psssh….like there is any competition. Taylor Laudner may have a face like a brick door, but he’s sassy and has arms like a rugby player). Oh no…I’m one of them, aren’t I?
There is a fabulous quote about the movie, namely that it is the ‘classic tale of a teenage girl’s choice between bestiality and necrophilia’. Harsh, but brings a snigger to the chin. In any case, I joined a steaming herd of social animals last night at the movie house to be a part of watching the final of the trilogy (the books formed a trilogy until she brought out a fourth book, which is referred to as the ‘sequel’ to the saga. Um…what?)
I’ve watched both of the first two, and since I am on holiday of late and have re-watched Ever After (yes, I am that bored), I decided that these two hours aren’t EXACTLY going to waste. I managed to drag the boy too (!) I’m not here to give a movie review, you’re either going to watch it or you aren’t, and no amount of pretentious ‘well-the-cinematography-is-good’ crap is going to change your mind.
I’m here for a
spoiler-alert
shocker – after all this debate and uncertainty and indecision, she decides to become a vampire! Is this writer delusional? Surely all vampire movies are supposed to end with the hero(ine) deciding that no matter how glamorous and delightful and adventurous and exciting the life of a vampire may be, ultimately they are the Cold Ones, the Undead, the Frozen, the whatever, and then choose life?
Those are the RULES!
Everyone knows that. Tuck Everlasting, Interview with a Vampire, Blade…all of these movies showed us that our humanity and our mortality are some of the most precious gifts we have and the point is not to live happily ever after, but to live.
Someone should sue the pants off of her for not sticking to protocol.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Funny questions and answers
It's been a long week, and actually I am now on holiday. In the interests of sanity and not overloading my brain (read: supreme laziness), I thought I would share these with you. They are tourism "Q n A" about South Africa:
Q: Does it ever get windy in South Africa ? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? ( UK )
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
Q: Will I be able to see elephants in the street? ( USA )
A: Depends how much you’ve been drinking.
Q: I want to walk from Durban to Cape Town – can I follow the railroad tracks? ( Sweden
A: Sure, it’s only two thousand kilometres take lots of water…
Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in South Africa ? ( Sweden )
A: So it’s true what they say about Swedes…
Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in South Africa ? Can you send me a list of them in JHB, Cape Town , Knysna and Jeffrey’s Bay? ( UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?
Q: Can you give me some information about Koala Bear racing in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the pacific. A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe which does not…oh forget it. Sure, the Koala Bear racing is every Tuesday night in Hillbrow. Come naked.
Q: Which direction is north in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we’ll send the rest of the directions.
Q: Can I bring cutlery into South Africa ? ( UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.
Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys’ Choir schedule? ( USA )
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is…oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Hillbrow, straight after the Koala Bear races. Come naked.
Q: Do you have perfume in South Africa ? ( France )
A: No, WE don ‘t stink.
Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Anywhere where a significant number of Americans gather.
Q: Can you tell me the regions in South Africa where the female population is smaller than the male population? ( Italy )
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.
Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in South Africa ? ( France )
A: Only at Christmas.
Q: Are there killer bees in South Africa ? ( Germany )
A: Not yet, but for you, we’ll import them.
Q: Are there supermarkets in Cape Town and is milk available all year round?
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter-gatherers. Milk is illegal.
Q: Please send a list of all doctors in South Africa who can di spense rattlesnake serum. ( USA )
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca, which is where YOU come from. All South African snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.
Q: I was in South Africa in 1969, and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Hillbrow. Can you help? ( USA )
A: Yes, but you will probably still have to pay her by the hour.
Q: Will I be able to speek English most places I go? ( USA )
A: Yes, but you’ll have to learn it first.
Q: Does it ever get windy in South Africa ? I have never seen it rain on TV, so how do the plants grow? ( UK )
A: We import all plants fully grown and then just sit around watching them die.
Q: Will I be able to see elephants in the street? ( USA )
A: Depends how much you’ve been drinking.
Q: I want to walk from Durban to Cape Town – can I follow the railroad tracks? ( Sweden
A: Sure, it’s only two thousand kilometres take lots of water…
Q: Is it safe to run around in the bushes in South Africa ? ( Sweden )
A: So it’s true what they say about Swedes…
Q: Are there any ATMs (cash machines) in South Africa ? Can you send me a list of them in JHB, Cape Town , Knysna and Jeffrey’s Bay? ( UK )
A: What did your last slave die of?
Q: Can you give me some information about Koala Bear racing in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Aus-tra-lia is that big island in the middle of the pacific. A-fri-ca is the big triangle shaped continent south of Europe which does not…oh forget it. Sure, the Koala Bear racing is every Tuesday night in Hillbrow. Come naked.
Q: Which direction is north in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Face south and then turn 90 degrees. Contact us when you get here and we’ll send the rest of the directions.
Q: Can I bring cutlery into South Africa ? ( UK )
A: Why? Just use your fingers like we do.
Q: Can you send me the Vienna Boys’ Choir schedule? ( USA )
A: Aus-tri-a is that quaint little country bordering Ger-man-y, which is…oh forget it. Sure, the Vienna Boys Choir plays every Tuesday night in Hillbrow, straight after the Koala Bear races. Come naked.
Q: Do you have perfume in South Africa ? ( France )
A: No, WE don ‘t stink.
Q: I have developed a new product that is the fountain of youth. Can you tell me where I can sell it in South Africa ? ( USA )
A: Anywhere where a significant number of Americans gather.
Q: Can you tell me the regions in South Africa where the female population is smaller than the male population? ( Italy )
A: Yes, gay nightclubs.
Q: Do you celebrate Christmas in South Africa ? ( France )
A: Only at Christmas.
Q: Are there killer bees in South Africa ? ( Germany )
A: Not yet, but for you, we’ll import them.
Q: Are there supermarkets in Cape Town and is milk available all year round?
A: No, we are a peaceful civilisation of vegan hunter-gatherers. Milk is illegal.
Q: Please send a list of all doctors in South Africa who can di spense rattlesnake serum. ( USA )
A: Rattlesnakes live in A-meri-ca, which is where YOU come from. All South African snakes are perfectly harmless, can be safely handled and make good pets.
Q: I was in South Africa in 1969, and I want to contact the girl I dated while I was staying in Hillbrow. Can you help? ( USA )
A: Yes, but you will probably still have to pay her by the hour.
Q: Will I be able to speek English most places I go? ( USA )
A: Yes, but you’ll have to learn it first.
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