Wednesday, February 29, 2012

confusedshit says...

After this past week I am totally convinced that some rabble-rousing deity-slash-imp type thing is having a laugh at my expense by planting tricky weirdos in my path to test my mettle.  Dear Lord, let there be a blinking book deal from this blog to make it all worthwhile.  I just don’t think it’s normal for one person to have run-ins with so many wackos.  Bloody hell, I’m sorry if I was an idiot in a former life but when does the Karmic debt end?

True, someone must be looking out for me to some degree because I haven’t bumped into Wheelchair-Boy (see post of 11/12/10 - if leggings could talk) in months. Lucky me. I did drive past him in town a little while back. He was in hot pursuit (whirr, whirr) of a woman wearing those wet-look black leggings.  That’ll teach her.

My eldest niece, her Swedish fiancĂ©, his sister (also Swedish) and his cousin (yes, also Swedish) were in town this week.  If there is one group of people I think Capetonians should kowtow to, it’s tourists.  Most people would agree that it’s within our fiscal interests to ensure a fun-filled, smooth-sailing holiday experience for visitors to our country.

Being nice to tourists is elementary.  Be polite. Be obliging. Smile. Be pleasant. Smile again. Be polite. Be obliging etc.  Truly, even a toddler could nail it. Unfortunately for me I live near (near, you hear me, not IN) a town I’ve dubbed “Complaintsville”.  (I had to stop calling it Deliveranceville because not every one can hear the banjos).

The Friendly Swede’s holiday rental was on one of those roads where some residents don’t have their own parking spaces, so they have to park on the street.  Not that unusual for cities anywhere in the world, right? You simply find the nearest parking to where you’re staying without parking in front of anyone’s driveway and you’re good to go.  Not in Complaintsville.

Someone had parked in front of their house, so Friendly Family and Friendly Swedes found parking elsewhere.  Lucky for them it was under a nice little pine tree that offered some shade. When they came down to their car later in the day, they were parked-in on either side, with literally 1cm to spare.  The note on their windshield read, “call me when you want to move your car” (serial-killer type handwriting).

When the writer of the note (lets call him DIPPY – acronym for Dickheaded-Ignoramus-Petty-Pathetic-Y-front-wearer) came down to meet us, his opening line was, “I haven’t slashed your tyres, but…”. He then launched into a bitter tirade against people who make a beeline for his tree.

We were all standing around looking bewildered (especially the Swedes, who’d had no coaching on how to handle parking-space wankers) so I asked DIPPY, (merely to clarify) who owned the double garages directly behind his car? ‘I do’, DIPPY says.  Mystified, I asked him why he needed the space under the tree when he has garages? Becaaause, DIPPY wants to park directly in front of his house to bring his groceries up. If DIPPY parked in his own double garage he’d be required to walk a whole extra 4 paces.  Duh!  DIPPY wants his garage space, the space in front of his garage, the tree to the left of the garages and the road in front of the tree.  The PUBLIC ROAD in front of the tree.  HuuuHHH??? I thought of offering him cake at this point.

Mortified by his rudeness to the out of towners, I explained (patiently) that he does not own the curb and that (less patiently) he does not own the tree and how (really impatient now) he definitely does not own the fucking road in front of the tree.  Indignant, DIPPY asked me if I watered and pruned the tree. I had to concede that I didn’t, but added that I’m sure Council would be overjoyed to learn that he’d assumed responsibility for the welfare of the pine, but that sadly, he still DOESN’T OWN THE BLOODY TREE or the BLOODY ROAD in front of it.   

I suggested that if he really felt that he owned the tree, curb and road, he should put up a sign.  Something like CURB, TREE AND ROAD BELONGS TO ME NOT YOU, or PARK HERE IF YOU DARE or even MY TREE might do the trick.

DIPPY finally moved his car when I told him in my best Judge Judy type voice that what he had done was illegal (mmm, will actually have to double-check that) and that I was going to get the Traffic Authorities post-haste to tow his car away.  

In closing, DIPPY must be a very special kind of stupid.  Who parks-in a big SUV with a tow bar and a bullbar?  Had we been tyre slashing, rebel kind of folk, we might have just revved up the ol’ SUV’s engine and muscled our way out of there.  Looking back, I wish we’d had the guts to.

(BTW, GAG was in class again today. During the floor exercises she shouted out CHANGE THE MUSIC, ITS MAKING ME ANXIOUS. And, a violent scuffle broke out in the back row over who gets to put their mat where. Suggestions on how to deal with belligerent adults are welcome.)

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

gym class hero's part 2...

This week held quite a few potential blog topics.  Karl Lagerfeld was reported saying that he thought Adele was “a little too fat”. Now I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure that the opinion of a man who carries around a woman’s fan can be trusted.  Perhaps he needs it to hide those ‘a little too fat’ lips of his.  

TooFastTooFurious asked me this morning if dogs lay their own babies.  There was too much to correct so I just said, ‘yes’. Then I got thinking about how he was a little bit right because dogs have puppies when they’re lying down, but birds lay eggs when they’re sitting, not laying, and neither dogs or birds actually get laid. Honestly, I think they just make up the English language as they go along. 

Anyhow, I had to stick to a blogging plan and as last weeks post sparked lots (OK, maybe three people) of discussion, I thought we could continue with those gym-weirdo’s out there.  Case in point, a chap phoned in to Gareth Cliff to say he was really annoyed that when he wants to use a machine the person using it says “Sorry man, I’m still on my first set.” 

For Gym Class Hero’s Part 2, I thought its time I introduced Gray-and-Grumpy.  For ease of typing, we’ll just call her GAG.  GAG has wild, curly, grey hair - which might be why she isn’t altogether pleasant (relatable really, this often being the cause of my own bad moods).

GAG is an artist. This means she sometimes get paid for the work she does and sometimes she doesn’t. This might be the other reason why she’s grumpy. I don’t think she sold very much at her last exhibition because she kept nagging me to come but as I’m not really a purveyor of art, I didn’t go. Also, I get the feeling that she can be a bit of a bully and that I may well be talked into buying a painting of a something like a giant vagina. I also get the feeling that she’s the kind of artist who would include real hair samples in her painting and I truly can’t go there. I’m just not that arty.

From the outset I’ve been a bit frightened of her. On my very first class she arrived late and said in a loud voice, “WHY MUST THE AIRCON BE ON. IT’S SO UNHEALTHY”.  I would have thought that aircons in gyms were pretty self-explanatory and though I’m personally not a huge fan of aircon (ehem, excuse the pun) ninety percent of gym goers like to delay their sweat somewhat. Some hate to sweat at all, and that would be the class I teach.  Fortunately for me, GymClassHero1 took charge and, shooting GAG a viscous stare, simply said ‘we want it on, leave it alone’.  One point GymClassHero1. Nil points GAG.

The next time she came to class she shouted at the top of her voice (which ironically is a very loud voice) “THE MUSIC IS TOO LOUD, TURN IT DOWN”. I didn’t hear a ‘please’ in there and assumed it was an instruction and not a request. Rolling my eyes inwardly I started making my way to the music maker - to obey the painter of vaginas.  Lucky for me, GymClassHero2 says dangerously to GAG ‘No! We like it loud’ and then (equally dangerously
to me) ‘leave it’. One point GymClassHero2. Nil points GAG.

This week, exactly 8 counts into the warm-up, GAG blurts out something. Loudly.  Seriously, I’m starting to think that this woman has tourette syndrome or something. Fool I am, I thought she was asking me a question so I said, ‘pardon?’

‘WHAT AWFUL MUSIC, she said. Ideally, I would have developed a thick and leathery hide for GAG by now, but I havn’t.  I have to wonder what reaction she was hoping for? Perhaps she was expecting me to stop the class and go through my library of 1778 songs right there and then, to make a selection she approved of.

To put it all into perspective, what exactly was this evil music I had chosen?  Was it The Prodigy? Was it ACDC? Was it Black Sabbath? Was it KISS?  No, it was Martin Solveig and Dragonette. I’ve played it backwards and forwards and listened for the voice of Satan and still can’t quite hear it.

I too like a little Steeleye Span but I’m not sure they’re quite right for a gym class.  I’ve searched and searched (unsuccessfully) to find a Bob Dylan song that has 125 BPM to play for GAG.  Perhaps I should just play ol’ Bob as is, regardless of tempo, let loose my unkempt hair and float around (un-ashamedly farting at regular intervals like a lentil-eating, weed smoking artist) and see if my heart-rate reaches its desired target?  GAG has told me that she dislikes the yoga instructor (too?) and I have to wonder, is a gym the right place for GAG?

As punishment, I’m making a mix of the loudest punk bands I know, mixed in with a bit of EMINEM and will play it at the next class.  Just so that GAG can appreciate how very tame I have been up till now.