raisin'ell!

book your spot today...

2012-01-26T11:05:00.000+02:00

WARNNG: Sailor-style swearing ahead…

One of the lesser-promoted facts about me is that I teach aerobics (which for those born after 1990 is the 80’s name for a body-conditioning class). This piece of information is normally met with thinly veiled disbelief (I can tell by the way that their eyes go all narrow) because lets just say that if I was in a line-up, you wouldn’t exactly say ‘Why yes, that one’s definitely a fitness instructor’.

People say all kinds of weird stuff in gym change rooms and gym instructors are often cornered when there’s no escape (what with being naked and all). I was once asked why, if I am so fit and a regular gym goer, don’t I look much better than I do?

It was tricky to come up with a constructive answer when the prevailing retort in my mind was ‘Piss Off’. I considered making something up about over-imbibing on weekends (which isn’t entirely true and isn’t entirely a lie either) and just ended up saying , in what I hoped was a mysterious voice, “it’s due to the medication”. Thank God she didn’t pry further but she still looks at me funny.

And so it was that I found myself this week once again in a state of half-undress, fielding gym class concerns.

Gym Class Lady: You know, some people are so rude.

Fake Me: Well yes, they certainly can be.

Real Me: Oh shit, I know what’s coming. Ear-fuck imminent.

Gym Class Lady: Yes, you know every week I stand in the same place and today, someone just came and stood in my spot.

Fake Me: Really? They did?

Real Me: It’s not your spot.

Gym Class Lady: Yes, some woman who hasn’t come to the class in months just squeezes herself between MY spot and the wall.

Fake ME: Oh Dear.

Real Me: Between your spot and the wall would technically speaking make it NOT your spot. And if she hasn’t been for months she therefore DOESN’T KNOW that it’s ‘your’ spot. And also, it’s not your spot.

Gym Class Lady: It wasn’t as if I hadn’t booked my spot either. I’d put my mat down there and everything.

Fake Me: Ah, I see

Real Me: Okay, let’s clarify this for once and for all. Just the same as Germans can’t book sun-loungers with their beach towels, you can’t book a spot in a gym class with a mat. The only thing that ensures your spot is you standing there. And also, it’s not your spot.

Gym Class Lady: You know, I would never do something like that. I could never be that rude.

Fake Me: No no, I know you couldn’t.

Real Me: Are you shitting me? You’re being rude right now. Do I look like I give a flying feather about your stolen spot? Which, by the way, is NOT your fucking spot?

Gym Class Lady: I was so irritated that I just decided not to do the class

Fake Me: That’s a shame.

Real Me: Seriously? You you’re blaming her for not finding another spot but you won’t move your spot? And also, ITS NOT YOUR FUCKING SPOT!

Gym Class Lady: You know, I don’t really care. People must just do what they feel is right. I’m the kind of person who doesn’t let others get me down.

Fake Me: Good for you!

Real Me: I can tell. Totally. So why are you chewing my ear off while I’m naked in the changeroom when I don’t give a toss about your lost spot because: IT’S. NOT. YOUR. FUCKING. SPOT.

I’m really going to have to work on my disinterested face.

NOTE OF WARNING! Unless you plan on an early death, do NOT under any circumstances, get into a discussion at the gym about aircon VS opening the windows. Seriously. You’ve been warned.

old school...

2012-01-10T11:06:00.001+02:00

My neighbour and I swap magazines. I’m not really sure why magazine swap is legal but music swap isn’t, considering that one magazine costs around thirty bux and a song only costs 7 US cents therefore the loss on magazines is bigger? But this is just where the small mysteries in life start, innit?

Normally we swap tabliody mags like ‘Heat’ and ‘People’ – fiercely intellectual stuff. Secretly, we’re just keen to swap them so that we can get them out of the house. They serve as a reminder of our shame at having bought them in the first place. Er, before you get preachy, I know you read them too because they’re always the most-read mags in waiting rooms.

This weeks sharing was un-tabloids. I’m always up for a bit of Tatler because I get to WTF at how the other half live and can pretend, for a moment, that I can relate to articles like “Wise Up, Rich Kids!” Whenever I read Tatler the word ‘who’ forms in my mind, followed by variations of: buys this shit, is interested in this shit, knows who this shit is and mostly, can afford this shit? (Sorry, Nicole Farhi, but I just don’t see how a white cotton shirt can be worth 250 pounds - unless of course it was both woven and stitched with your teeth).

I did read one relatable article though called, Our Man in the Sixth Form. Before getting stuck into the meat of it, my immediate reaction was ‘gee, wouldn’t that be fun – to go back to school for a day’. This was followed even more immediately by my secondary reaction: are you blinking bonkers! Memories of my school years came flooding back, like those dreams where you arrive at school with no knickers on and your skirt’s hemline is getting shorter and shorter.

It got me thinking (and not for the first time, mind you) who exactly enjoyed their schooling?

OK, I’ll tell you who. The girl I sat next to in Grade 3. Let's call her 'Brown-Noser'. The teacher asked – sneakily I thought – what half of three is. Of course, we all know that there is no half of three. There’s two and one and one and two but definitely no half of three. Least that’s what most of us figured because everyone, except Brown-Noser, didn’t put our hands up. I couldn’t contain my shock when Brown-Noser said ‘one and a half’ (still baffles me to this day) and I still wonder how the fuck she knew that.

Pretty much the whole of my primary schooling went along these lines (mathematically speaking) and when I got to senior primary it only got worse. Enter 'Suck-Up'. Cutest girl you ever saw, curly dark hair, big brown eyes, dimples (I shit you not. Dimples.) AND she was seriously smart. Teachers pet for sure. There may even have been apples involved.

When the time came for her English oral, she actually made a joke in her oral. I mean what kind of freaky kid knows at age 11 that you should break the ice with a joke? Of course, you’re wondering what her oral was about, right? Her hobby: pressing bloody flowers. Of course it was. Need I say more.

It was really in Grade 6 that the panic reached fever pitch regarding number-work (the half-of-three business was just the start). Can someone kindly explain the importance of math speed tests? I mean unless you’re planning on being one of those coke-snorting stock exchange-quick-with-numbers-types, when will you ever need to add numbers at speed? (note to self: send kids to school with cocaine to help their maths). My parents were totally bewildered when I kept saying how I hate, hate, hated maths. ‘But you’ve got A+ the whole year!’ they exclaimed. Well I could hardly tell them that I’d copied my best friends entire body of arithmetic work (thanks, Alex) the whole year, now could I?

I will not even begin to stray into the realms of social angst of school years, except to say that it is exceptionally tiring to try and suck in your bum and pull in your stomach for an entire five years of high school. So no, Peter Dench of Tatler, well done for giving it a whirl but I will not be trying out school again. I’m afraid that no-knickers dream will finally come true.

bow off...

2012-01-04T11:48:00.001+02:00

Dennis (today's guest blogger) first shot to fame in our household in one of the lesser well-known YouTube videos "It's my 30th Birthday" (view at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMqkIgTShPA&feature=player_embedded).

I didn't know at the time of viewing that we would actually get to know him and when we finally met in Argentina, he kept us so entertained that we skipped our trip to Evita's grave and instead imbibed in copious amounts of Patagonia beer. He's a worldly-wise, brilliant writer with a mind is as quick as his tongue. I regret not having played his suggested game when I was in Japan...

Ask someone to impersonate a Japanese person and there will likely be a combination of pretending to take a photo with a gasp of awe, holding their hands together and saying “konnichiwa” or bowing deeply with an “arigato” at the peak. While these might be ignorant generalisations, as most stereotypes are, they are not entirely removed from the truth.

Over 125 million people inhabit the four main islands of Japan enjoying a safe and peaceful community, arguably the safest in the world. A key ingredient to this successful society is the respect that the Japanese show for each other. This society has been moulded through the simple concept of showing respect for others. One of the most impactful ways to show respect to others is via a bow. The lower the better.

In my days as a high school teacher, every class was inevitably ignited with the students standing up, a predetermined spokesperson yelling “rei”, in an unenthusiastic monotone, leading to the class to uniformly fold their body into a 90-degree bow while blurting “arigato Dennis Sensei”. Meet a friend of a friend and you will be confronted by a “yoroshiku” followed by a casual bow. Buy a bus ticket at the station and a bow will follow your change. Give way to a pedestrian crossing the road and you will be rewarded with a bow. Bows represent respect and respect shapes Japanese society. They are so important that they actually learn how to bow properly at school in large practice sessions.

This can be daunting to a foreigner who has never bowed before. Do I look up as I bow? How far down should I go? Hands at the side? Timing? But there is no need to worry. This needn’t be a point of fear but a chance to enjoy the difference in culture. Introducing the revolutionary game, Ultimate Bow Off!

This game works particularly well in restaurants because commonly as you square up your bill and exit, all staff members will stop and bow as a sign of gratitude. It is nice to receive this bow to top off a nice sushi meal or a hot bowl of ramen. But why not enjoy this even further by throwing in a game?

Now, as I mentioned, Japan is all about respect. Respect for your elders, your superiors or your customers. Therefore, it is a sign of respect to have the last bow. You leave a restaurant and receive the standard good-bye bow. It works. The staff are happy, they showed their respect for your business, you are happy to receive the respectful gesture. Enter the chrome double-ended spanner into the works. What if you bow back and say “arigato”? This plunges the whole system into chaos. They thought their work had finished. You ate, you paid, they bowed, you left. Done. But now, they are required to meet the customer respect requirements and bow back. They do. It’s solved. They had to double their bowing performance, not a big deal, back to caring for the other patrons.

Now, imagine the crazy idea of replying to their second bow with a second rebound bow. Therefore, tripling the work of the bowing staff. They once again reply. You match their third bow. You have entered into a bow battle. They can’t let you have the last bow, that would be terribly rude! We’ve now slipped into the extreme sport of ultimate bow off.

Who knows when this will end? You continue to match their bows. Remember that there is very often not just one staff member involved, but the chef, the waiters and the cashier. Each one of your reply bows multiplies the bow volume by four or five. After a bow rally of around five returns, other customers have noticed this battle and stop their slurping for a second to observe. This places even more pressure on the staff bowing away frantically.

As time goes on you may lose the chef, he will admit defeat and subtly side step out of the conflict hoping that no one notices. However, the cashier is like a front line soldier in the midst of battle. He can’t just drop his gun, smile and say “can we stop this now?”. He has to keep on bowing away. Some will do so with the same bravery of a frontline soldier invading enemy ground, not letting the abnormality of the situation affect their perfect bowing style, perfected at school.

Some will see the funny side of it and bow with a cheeky smirk gradually letting each bow slip closer to the border of casualty seen amongst friends. The more ‘rebelious’ staff members will immediately catch on and cease to participate in such a game. Extremely rude if you ask me. Whichever viewpoint you come from, Ultimate bow off is here and destined to change the face of this rigid formality forever.

call of the wild... or ... the little trumper boy

2011-12-15T17:35:00.000+02:00

The chap I'm about to introduce to you was probably writing in the womb. I would happily trade my writing skills for his, but fear that along with it would come his devilishly dark, wicked way of seeing the world. But when he's not devilishly dark he's witty and hilarious and also a member of the "WTF? Club of Parenthood". Sean didn't have a photo to give me which makes me think he might also be a spy. A spy with a sense of humour - now there's a first. He's a parent of two and master of none - at least that's what he says...

I am reading my daughter a bed time story about forest faeries when this naked arse backs into her room and let’s rip before zooming off again. And it is not a pip squeak either. It’s a back-arching, leg-lifting rotter of a fart, all poise, elegance, and dare I say it, grace.

My son, I am not ashamed to admit, is no ordinary farter. He’s been trained. He knows all about things like angles, stance and delivery (and of course, that holy grail of showmen, timing). In short, he is a professional, and while it is true he possess an innate ability (inherited, paternal grandfathers side), I won’t sell him short with flippancy. What you experience when you hear Luc fart is hours of spontaneous practice. Just the other day we bought him a guitar and already it is gathering dust. Should have looked at the wind instruments. But even then, I doubt he would have played a bugle for long. He favours acoustic over electric and know he would have shunned any form of musical technology that strays from the raw power of his own bum cheeks.

Agreed, the appreciation of his talents is limited to a man’s world (like the drunken, back-slapping brotherhood of males around a late night camp fire), but this is not a bad thing. Is there not a certain mystique that bonds the farter with his listeners? A secret handshake, a sheepish look, a “God, my eyes are watering!” cry for help that separates the common house-farter from the true professional?

This is not a clarion call for farting to become mainstream, for farting is subversive by nature and always will be. Far better it remains an underground movement, a leftfield force ready to be unleashed in classrooms, trains, and for the truly daring, weddings.

Poems have been written about love, love lost and mornings which have broken. Alas, there is no ode to the true pleasure of working man: that first fart of the day.

Those in the know will understand . . . that morning stretch as you sleepily make your way to the bathroom . . . the first shift in your abdomen, (usually while making a pee) that alerts you to the fact that something special is about to happen . . . a change in stance and some fancy footwork, maybe? Perhaps a knee is slightly raised. We all have our special techniques. You can feel that trapped air shouldering its way, bit by bit, through your pipes, determined to exit. Nothing will stop it. It is a blast forged in the pits of hell.

Kisses may come from heaven, but a fart is the devils work.

And already, before its even over, you can hear her screams of disgust, “You f@#king pig!”

Ah yes, morning has broken!

Mug shot.... A story from the Argentinian Edge

2011-12-08T12:59:00.000+02:00

Because it's the season to be jolly, and jolly funny, I've hustled together some of my favorite funny people to appear as guest bloggers. Just my little way of spreading the Christmas Cheer.

Chanelle is a would-be-country bumkin who, straight out of school, moved to the big city. As Cape Town became too small, she moved to another big city and currently lives in Buenos Aires. When she's not making jokes, she's making people laugh and when she's not doing, that she's sleeping.

Introducing the fiercely funny Chanelle Le Roux with her tips on how to survive Big City Living...

Some might say it is luck that has resulted in me ´free from mug´ after 5 years of taking public transport and walking to work. I myself put it down to some well thought out tips in order to scare off potential 9 to 5 muggers. So here it is: 10 top-to-toe tips on how to avoid the mug.

The ponytail – unless you are a gymnast who just can’t live without one - don’t do it! The ponytail is the handle to harassment. It is a lot easier to grab and pull a bopping ponytail than it is lose hair. On that note don’t be scared to wash your hair infrequently to get that grunge look. People tend not to approach dirty looking folk.

Make down – ease off on the make up when you are walking to and from work. This will make you look tired and if you are anything like me when you are tired, muggers will avoid coming even 5 metres close to you. Bags under your eyes are a great way to make people think you just might be on drugs and if you are, people will generally steer clear of you.

Under the hood – hoodys are a great way to scare off potential muggers. Not only do you feel as hard core as a gangster but you could look like one and if you look like one you might act like one and if you act like one the mugger might think you have some kind of gangster weapon you could bust out if he comes close.

The shoes – if you’re working at a fancy corporation where heels are required then you can probably afford a car anyway, but if you don’t, it’s all about the All Stars kicks. Semi-gangster shoes make you look the part of someone not to be fucked with AND they are easy to run in. If a mugger is surveying his potential mugees he will more than likely go for the Helen in heels who can’t run fast in her Jimmy Choos rather than the All Star Alison who can run away if need be.

Other goes-without-saying ‘get-up´; avoid girly handbags that are easy to rip off your shoulder. Rather wear a backpack and while you’re at it, throw some ‘gun range member’ patches on it.

The Limp – I was going to say the walk but the limp is more fitting. Seeing as you are not on a catwalk but rather more than likely on dirty city streets, it isn’t necessary to maintain a sexy strut on your way to work. Limp! Even if you feel ridiculous, do it! I have perfected the limp over the years but in order to get you started remember: the limp is not 'I’ve just stubbed my toe' limp but rather the ‘I’ve got something heavier in my left pocket than in my right pocket¨ limp. It is a difficult thing to master but when muggers see it they know that they may not be dealing with the defenceless beauty pageant contestant. Limp with confidence, don’t saunter and don’t look at the ground either. A tough looking hunch works well with the limp.

Drop some 50-cent – not the money because that is what you are trying to keep away from the mugger, but rather - the rapper. Listen to rap or rock for that matter. It a good way to make you feel like you are angry with the world and if you can channel that into the vibe you put out then that’s just what the muggers will steer clear of. Don’t be scared to adopt a bitchy look on your face.

Props – a mugger is more than likely to stay away from someone

like Mary Poppins' who has an umbrella in her hand ready to use in the event that someone attacks her (don’t let her fool you, it’s not just used for flying). If you have something in your hand that you could potentially use as a weapon, muggers tend to stay away from you. If you don’t have anything and feel that someone is approaching you, fiddle in your pockets. They might think you are about to whip out some mad mace.

Get chatty - no need to befriend your potential mugger but if you feel that you are being followed or about to be mugged make a hard 180, look right at your mugger and say something. Anything. Comment on the weather will usually do just fine. If you acknowledge the mugger he knows he has been seen and that makes it easier for you to identify him in a line up if he ever got caught.

Unleashing the loco – this is my favourite (mainly because my natural nature is ‘not all there’). It really does work. Whenever I have felt a mugger is not far behind and ready to attack I unleash the weirdest sounds combined with any kind of abnormal movement my body can make. I can guarantee you that if the mugee looks an ounce of crazy the mugger will stay away. It wouldn’t hurt to make the odd twitch while you walk too.

chocola-tear

2011-11-18T12:09:00.002+02:00

Look, I don’t know who invented advent calendars but truly, it’s just a horrible idea.

My mom gave Mr. Professorpants his first ever advent calendar. He was 3 at the time. Now, I’m not sure what your adult willpower is like, but I’ll wager that a you can roughly halve that and then halve it again to estimate the willpower of a 3 year old.

My mom patiently explained to a 3 year old Mr. PP how it works. Feeling proud that she’d done a good job at clarifying Advent Calendars 101, she left the room. Mistake number one, or should I say mistake number two. Mistake number one was buying the bloody calendar in the first place. Things got real quiet in the room and 10 minutes later, Mr. PP came out with a chocolate moustache (and beard for that matter). Upon investigation, we saw that we were already on the 20^th of December.

Luckily, there weren’t actually 20 chocolates missing, but rather that only 5 had been consumed – just not in the correct date order you understand. (Dates? Really? Dates for pre-schoolers?) For a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of parent like me, I considered it a triumph that there were any chocolates left at all.

My mom, on the other hand, was horrified. Don’t your kids understand the virtue of delayed satisfaction, she asked? Um, that would be a definite no. I hung my head feigning shame, whilst wondering if I could nick a few choccies myself and blame it on the kid. Come to think of it, surely the whole phrase ‘delayed satisfaction’ is a bit of an oxymoron?

Perhaps I should point out at this stage that the date wasn’t even the first of December. Its was mid November. I just knew that there was not a hope in hell of trying to stretch out this bloody calendar till the 25 December and wondered how many calendars we'd make our way through before Christmas day.

Apparently, its a nutritional no-no to start the day with a sugar rush. My mom said that Mr.PP should have breakfast before attacking the calendar. Of course, I sagely agreed, wondering how on earth I’d prevent the Dawn-Chocolate-Attack (considering that Mr. PP is up and eating before I’ve had a chance to formally exit Lala-land.)

Eventually (grasping a straws now) I said to my mom, (in what I could only hope was an accusing tone) “Well what did you say to him? I mean how did you explain it?”

Then she said, “I told him that he must have one every day until they’re finished and then when they’re finished, it’ll be Christmas day”. You see, that’s where she went wrong. He just thought that if he ate them quicker, then Christmas would come sooner. Mother of mother, I mean honestly, you'd think she’d know better.

P.S. Consider this a warning, if you’re pre-menstrual, that advent calendar is toast.

P.S.S. If you think the advent calendar thing went badly for Mr. PP, times that by 10 for TooFastTooFurious.

I'll get a round toit

2011-10-30T18:28:00.001+02:00

It’s a rainy day. A perfect day to conquer a pile of paperwork. Mmm. I think that perhaps I should first start writing down ideas for my planned book: “Procrastination Techniques From Around The World” (ehem, while the ideas are still fresh).

Hold on. When last did I check the hair growth on my face? I know it’s nearly Movember but even so. I’d better tweeze my chin. I can’t be seen at home like this, really. Better to do it now incase more whiskers grow.

I really think that I’ll make some progress with that paperwork today. I’ve already prepared my brain to think laterally by spending a couple of hours looking at pictures of Heath Ledger, Javier Bardem and Gerard Pique online. This will stand me in good stead when it comes to using the net as a reference tool. I’ve also done my best to find interviews on YouTube where the interviewer doesn’t say more than the interviewee. There are none.

Has that pile of paperwork inflated in the last couple of minutes? I could swear it looked smaller a moment a go. It’s definitely on the top of my to-do list but what kind of person would I be if I didn’t first update my social networking status and check for messages? As it is, due to my twitter inertia I discovered too late that Ryk Neethling was on TV this morning. He was up early, I was up early, would could have shared a moment.

But I missed it, so to cheer me up I thought that I might start a bit of a conversation on Facebook with the status update of: Foolish Friday? Think of a song title then add "in my big pants" to the end and see how long you can keep a straight face. I'll go first. Smooth Criminal in my big pants. Turns out only 4 people found it as hilarious as me.

I understand that before you start any paperwork, it’s important to exercise your brain with a bit of reading. So I’ve just dedicated some time to perusing a few dictionaries and thesauruses and have had quite a few revelations. Napalm is not a moisturizer. Imagine my shock. Who would name something so nasty so nicely? And apparently, angry and hungry are the only two words that end in ‘gry’. But one will often lead to the other so I think that they need to include ‘hangry’ which is hungry and angry at the same time. I also wonder why the word reckless is reckless when it really should be reckmore?

Did I mention that there’s number work involved in this paperwork? Which brings me to the YouTube clip of ‘Miss USA 2011’ entrants who were asked if Math should be taught in Schools. Its not fair to ask a trick question like that. I mean we all know that number-crunchers and Mathematicians are just rotten showoffs.

Before I get stuck into those figures, just remind me again what happens when the left and right column don’t balance? Hang on. Is that fluff I see on my keyboard? I’d better go get the ear-buds.

horsing around...

2011-10-21T13:02:00.000+02:00

Everybody knows at least one travel-wanker. You know the type. They say Barthelona instead of Barcelona. Or yaaawts instead of yachts. Or kwa-soar instead of croissant. Or Paree instead of Paris. All of which are equally annoying. Even worse, they’re the kind of people who act blasé about travel but make sure that you overhear them say stuff like “I’m so over New York. Really, I can’t be bothered to stop there unless it’s on my way to ski”. * These are all reasons why I’m a bit reluctant to tell all about my recent travels. However, I feel it’s my duty to forewarn you about the perils of becoming a horseman.

Our visit to the Gaucho ranch had absolutely nothing to do with my cowboy-fetish or my weakness for farmhands with Spanish accents. We were excited to leave the city and see a bit of the country side - though having flown over it only a few days before, pretty much knew that it was mostly just pampas, pampas and more pampas as far as the eye could see. I’m sure outdoorsy types would be able to tell me about the wealth of fauna and flora to be found there, but a simple girl like me? I just saw pampas grass.

Upon arrival, ranch-hands promptly plied us with red-wine and a “typical of Argentina” pie called an empanada. Just as well, because booze before noon goes straight to my legs and I need something (like an empanada) to keep me vertical. Warning No.1: beware of the establishment that serves booze before noon.

Little did I know, the wine was intended to give us courage for the horse-riding. It’s no secret that I am no equestrian aficionado. Horses can sense my fear - though why a horse would be nervous of something that’s afraid of them I’ll never know. I mean really, what’s the point? Do they try and out-nervous you?

Due to my lingering in the background (hoping there wouldn’t be enough beasts to go round) I saw (mild panic setting in) that the best horses were already taken. I was left with a choice between a mini-pony (pampas height) and a very wild looking horse (much, much taller than pampas height.) Naturally, I chose the wild one. I never found out his real name, but lets call him “Bad Attitude”, or BA for short.

BA was grumpy that he had to stand next to the platform thingy so that I could get on. He made a lot of sharp head movements and farting noises to express his disgust. Clearly, he was the gaucho’s favorite and was used to a high level of equestrian excellence and was pissed off at being lumped with a novice rider like me. As BA and I left the corral, the turkeys made a lot of noise and I knew that they knew something about BA that I didn’t. How does that song go? Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry…

He kept pulling at the reigns in a very irritable fashion, strayed (deliberately, I think) from the herd and eventually ended up kicking another horse, who dared follow too closely. He also kept staring at me with mad eyes, which is probably exactly how mine looked to him.

By the end, my nerves were shot. Big kisser and I almost had an argy-bargy because he rode up next to me and made that kck-kck noise with his mouth, which only encouraged BA’s bad behaviour.

I was never so relieved to touch terra firma. With my dreams of becoming honorary gaucho-girl in ruins, all I could do was drink a lot of Argentinian beer chased by caffeine infused Yerba Mata (I don’t care what they say, that stuff is lethal.)

In future I shall stick to the tango. At least I won’t have as far to fall.

* (True comment said by original travel-wanker).

auditions being held today for kings of leon ...

2011-10-09T18:01:00.000+02:00

While at the Coldplay concert this week (I know, I know…concert-wanker alert), I had a revelation. I think it’s common knowledge that the opening act has to audition in order to secure their spot in the limelight. Actually, I may have either made that up or heard it from an unreliable source. Anyhow, it occurred to me that people who wish to attend a live concert, should not merely have the cash to do so, but should also go through a fairly stringent audition process aswell.

The thinking behind this, of course, is to group like-minded people together. But isn’t that what ‘golden circle’, ‘standing’ and ‘seated’ already do, I hear you say? No. When golden circle and standing have sold out, then the only thing left is seated, even if you’re not really the sitting type. I daresay, even golden circle and standing should be divided up. Here are a few more realistic ways of grouping an audience:

Inclined-to-whinge

There are always, always, ALWAYS people who whinge before, during or after a concert. Sometimes, they do all three (if they’re really good at it). “Oh my god, the queue”, “stop pushing”, “the acoustics suck”, “you’ve just messed your beer on me”, “could you get off your boyfriend’s shoulder’s - I can’t see”, ”it took us 3 hours to get out of there”. These are all typical (but not limited to) whinge-points aimed at friends or strangers.

If they’re not brave enough to whinge to strangers, then they will find a way to ear-fuck you if they’re in your circle of friends: “Actually, I thought we were all going to stick together”, ”I can’t believe you just abandoned me”, “I can’t believe some people come to a concert and get drunk”, “I can’t believe you are so drunk’, “‘I wish I was more drunk”. These are typical (but not limited to) whinge-points aimed at you by someone you know and (quite horrifically) chose to accompany to the concert. These people will not even make the short-list in the audition. They will be sent straight home. Also, unfriend immediately and not only on Facebook.

Too-short-to-enjoy

I don’t like to be shortist, but this group often accidentally overlaps with the inclined-to-whinge group. It’s long been an intention of mine to patent “blow up shoes” (sold at the “official merchandise” kiosk at the concert). They would be slip on (like hotel slippers) and inflatable (like a lilo) and can be inflated to suit your needs (i.e. a lot of hot air if you are very short, not so much hot air if you are just a little bit short.) I think that there will be a huge market for these. But, if this doesn’t pan out, then surely (like in school photos – which I think work very well) short people should be sent to the front rows and should just have to make friends with other short people for the night. Sorry, but you can’t hang with your tall friends and whinge. You have to choose. Measure up and commit to the process in the audition and you’ll thank yourself later on.

Too-cool-to-enjoy

These are the would-be-muso’s who are just too cool to clap or sing along. At a glance it might even appear that they are so, so musical, that they are not enjoying the performance at all.

I-can-afford-it-so-I-went-and-then-bragged-about-it

It’s nasty Sods-Law that it’ll be one of these true concert-wankers who catch the drummer’s sticks, or the lead guitarists headband, or the vocalist’s underpants. They don’t even like the band and know none of the lyrics but because it’s the cool thing to do, they will score golden circle tickets and be the original fake fan. Sorry, but the audition process will make mincemeat out of you. In order to attend a concert you have to be able to sing either one whole song from start to finish of said band or, you have to know at least 10 chorus’s (must be different chorus’s) of said band.

Strictly-seated

This is the most dangerous group of all. They can audition and in theory could even attend the concert but must be limited to the very high seating where no-one wants to go. The Mordor of seating, if you will. There is often a very strong possibility that these people overlap with the “inclined to whinge” category. If you’re anywhere near them, if you so much as think of standing up you will be met with a vicious glare and be told to ‘sit down, I can’t see’. The audition process for these people is more of a CT scan, to see if they are incapable of standing (understandable really, though the ‘unable-to-stand’ group is different to the ‘strictly-seated’ group and are often very happy to join the seated-but-want-to-stand group.) The audition process will also clarify just how deep your grumpy affliction runs. These people will generally NOT stand up to counteract your standing up. It’s just the principle. They’ve paid for seated not standing. Arsehole. Under no circumstances will you see these folk getting swept up in the moment.

Seated-but-want-to-stand

For all the poor folk who either couldn’t afford golden circle or standing, or booked too late to get the tickets they really wanted. These are the people rock-stars really want at their concert because they serve as the best performance barometer. If the bands doing a good job at rocking the crowd, the seated-but-want-to-stand group will most certainly be jumping up (in excitement) and then back down again (trying to appease the ‘strictly-seated’s” around them). The audition process is a series of jack-in-the-box squats coupled with a head-whip and a very insincere “sorry”.

Seated-but-want-to-dance

These are in even more trouble than the seated-but-want-to-stand group. By the time they are up and dancing they really don’t give a tinker’s fart who can see and who can’t. And quite rightly so. It’s shameful to go to a music event and not dance. Embarrassing even. Imagine the poor musician who has to perform to a stationary audience? How very awful. The audition process for this group is all about personality. They don’t care if you can’t dance, they don’t care if you’ve got no rhythm, you just have to put your back into it and show that you know how to have a good time.

Sorry Coldplay. I did what I could. You’ll know for next time to audition your audience.

say whaaa?

2011-09-05T13:12:00.001+02:00

Last week was just one of those seriously disjointed ones, as I’m sure this post will reflect. I must have a vital nerve pinched somewhere in my brain, one that’s supposed to help me process information and stuff, because I havn’t been able to accomplish shit. Not only that but I think that the workmen we have on site have conspired to unravel me. As soon as I arrive back home from the hardware store, they send me back again to get something else. And then when I arrive back with something else, they tell me they need me to hire a machine of sorts. And when I arrive back with the machine they tell me they need an extra long extension cord for it. Why, if they had it their way they would insist that I bring home the building materials stone by stone, grain of sand by grain of sand at a time, just for the sheer fun of it.

Due to this unraveling I realized that I’ve totally been cocking up a whole lot of words. Like saying tenderhooks instead of tenterhooks. I see my error really. When is a hook ever tender? Though, what the hell is a tenter hook anyway? Sounds like camping equipment (shudder). I also mixed up tectonic plates and titanium plates again. My story kind of fell flat and I just got a lot of funny looks.

To remedy this misfiring, a friend suggested I take more Omega 3 and then, quite fortuitously (we’re on a big savings drive due to the expensive workmen), I read on my hand wash bottle that it contains Omega 3 + 6. Pah, no need to buy the supplement then, right? But they must be lying, there’s no way there’s Omega 3 in there. Have you seen how much those supplements cost?

Perhaps due to the asynapsosis I’ve been suffering, I completely didn't notice that a friend had had Botox. I just thought she looked really calm. Asynapsosis or not, I have a reputation of being fairly unaware when it comes to noticing odd things about people. We’ve even had someone for dinner before who was on heroine at the time and I didn’t notice that either. He only told us afterwards. I just thought that he looked really calm aswell. I need to remedy this unawareness because when my kids are older I’ll neither recognize if they’re on drugs or getting cosmetic procedures done on the sly.

Just to make me feel extra Not-at-my-Bestness, I saw in the local rag that tickets were on sale to watch the annual Mr. and Ms Physique that was on this weekend. For the thousandth time, I entertained the thought of really trying to become a body builder. One day. You know, just to see if I could. Then I pictured having to sit down at every meal and face things like boiled white meat and squeaky blanched string beans and for the thousandth time, I reconsidered. What’s more, I’m pretty sure God meant for egg whites to be served as meringues.

To top off my cerebral misfiring, Mr Professor Pants once again pressed me for details on how one contracts HIV. He’s paranoid about getting a dread disease. After talking through the whole “from someone else’s blood thing” I had to say (quite fast and under my breath) “and also from sexual intercourse”. What is that again mom? Umm. You know, the thing that moms and dads do when they are trying to make a baby? What! You’re going to have another baby?

By now Too Fast Too Furious (TFTF) had picked up on the conversation and wanted more specific details on the blood part. He asked how come he was covered in my blood when he was born but now he’s not allowed to touch my blood? It became too tiresome to explain how in the interim, I could have contracted HIV (again from Professor Pants… But how would you have mom? Are you trying to have another baby?) Eventually, I just had to ask TFTF why he would want to touch my blood. The obvious 6 year old answer…Because I just want to. Bloody hell. Only a week and a half then I’m on holiday. Ba-ring it on.

about being out...

2011-08-26T11:23:00.000+02:00

(Note: if you want to hold kids attention on an outing, do NOT have them facing into the sun!)

Stay at home mothers volunteer for all kinds of shit. Even if you’re a work-from-home-stay-at-home kind of mother, you still volunteer for all kinds of shit, mistakenly believing you can be in two places at once. And so it was that I found myself giving lifts to a whole bunch of kids who were going on a school outing.

This is my idea of hell. Herding snails is easier than herding kids. Fortunately, I herded a car full of boys (no high pitched, screechy girls) who are at the age when they try to make their voice sound deeper. There was mostly just a low murmur of dude this and dude that.

What I discovered in the car ride, is that kids are a bit like old people. They are able to have four completely independent conversations with four completely different topics. It would seem that they’re not too bothered with appropriate responses or even giving the illusion that they are even listening to the other person. I want to be 10 again.

While we’re speaking of listening, it occurred to me that in order to get kids to listen to you on an outing, you should ideally be, well, a bit entertaining. The very nice gentleman from National Parks had a dry sense of humour, which sadly went right over all the kids’ heads. He also had a little bit of what I call “outdoorsy snobbery”. You know, like when he asked the group what kind of bird makes that ‘ka kaaa ka kaaa” noise and some poor child said ‘a dove’. You just wait for that small snorting noise that the outdoorsy person does through their nose, which in outdoorsy speak means “As iiiffff”.

I also had some insight as to why my kids keep saying that school is boring. It is. And quite frankly, the Cape Dune System can’t really compete in the interest stakes when compared with skateboarding or big wave surfing. It’s just the way it is. I realized that for kids, listening at school is like being stuck at a dinner party with the most boring person sitting next to you and demanding that you not only listen to them, but you also LOOK AT THEM while they’re talking.

The worst part is that the boring person doesn’t even realize that they’ve lost your attention. They ignore the fidgeting and the whispering (if necessary, only to yourself) and pretty much carry on regardless. Obviously, I hear you say, school isn’t entertainment, its education. But so is the National Geographic channel and they manage to make the self-mating ritual of and earthworm sound quite exciting.

Of course, Mr. Outdoorsy Pants didn’t really care if the kids were listening or not. He passed grade 4 a long time ago. He just wants to get through the outing unscathed and with his dunes intact. Not much hope of that I’m afraid, what with children unintentionally shedding things – jerseys, juice bottles, shoes. How can they not know that they have one shoe missing? Do you know how many one shoes I found?

All I’m saying is that where kids and outings are concerned, you’d better have a plan of how you’re going to sound more exciting than what is in their lunchbox.

Some parents went all healthy and packed liquid sustenance only...

Even though he was outdoorsy, the moms felt the french exchange student made the outing worthwhile...

I do...naaat...

2011-08-19T10:38:00.000+02:00

This past week had lots of highlights. I should start with our Neighbourhood Watch update.

“… there is a very strong chance that the toads will be on the move tomorrow evening.

A contingent of over 20 males moved (what kind of moves? Hip hop? Jazz?) in the rain last Thursday, …. Some males have been heard calling (yo baby, kssk ksssk, you lookin’ for a good time?) from the ponds on the Clovelly Country club. It is highly likely that the females will be on the march (hup two three four, keep it up two three four?) tomorrow … in search of partners and ponds (you call that a pond? I call it a puddle!)….If you see a Toad on the Road please stop (I was gonna do it while my vehicle was moving? )and move it to the grass verge in the direction in which it was going (what if it’s facing the road?). If you see a lot of Toad activity (Activity? Toad tennis? Toad skating? Toad jogging?) please call… “

We did actually find one in our road. He looked very cocky. I’ll bet he got lucky…

Another highlight was the discovery that someone has published a book that is close to my heart…

Irreverent parenting, you godda to love it!

Then yesterday, I was lucky enough to be told I had nice buns. By a very old, homeless man who was most certainly drunk. I know I should take it as a compliment, but I’m just not sure what kind of standards a drunk, homeless person has. At least he didn’t say that I had a nice bakery. Ouch.

Speaking of buns, I heard on Gareth Cliff’s show that Kim Kardashian is getting married this weekend. Apparently the wedding is costing around $10 million. That’s not shameful in the least, right? What with the horn of Africa starving and all. Perhaps they’re flying all their guests there. One person per jet? E! Channel will be airing the wedding (which Kim says will be bigger than Will and Kate’s) in a two part series. Dear God, I can only hope it’s more interesting than their TV show because I know patches of lawn that live more entertaining lives than the Kardashians.

Which brings me to when Best-kisser and I surfed onto to E! Chanel (supposedly to entertain us), while we waited for our on-demand movie to load (blessed is the clever person who invented that). There was a True Hollywood Story on - an oxymoron if ever there was.

This particular THS was all about The Girls of the Playboy Mansion. HUH?!? A True Story about a reality show? I know, right. Which one is lying? I thought the point behind a reality show was that it was real. Clearly not.

After a whole 3 minutes of “true” story interviews, E! airs adverts of all the other reality shows that you can view there – sometimes INCLUDING the show that you are currently watching. I have to wonder, is this for very stupid people who may have forgotten, in all of 5 seconds, which show they were watching?

But hey, I’m all for some reality shows. Like Flying Wild Alaska. Or the Deadliest Catch. Or Mark & Olly Living with the Tribes. You know, real people doing something useful with their lives. Still, folk like Kimora Lee and the Kardashians do sometimes make us laugh. Like when they say ‘I work really hard’. Um, at what exactly?

Shame on me, I shouldn’t mock the Kardashians. It’s hard to sound intelligent when you have a silver spoon dangling out of your mouth.

so you think you can...

2011-07-29T09:51:00.000+02:00

So it’s finally cold in Cape Town and while I’m having coffee with my friend Good-Knitter this week, she’s bandying around these knitted glove thingies. You know the no finger ones like Fagan wears in Oliver Twist? I think they’re very cunning. After all, it’s tricky to pick your nose, wipe your bum and do a whole bunch of stuff if you have fingers on your gloves.

Incase you’re wondering, Best Knitter is the friend who provided me with blog-fodder for my piece ‘Hot Fuzz’, which was based on the book ‘Wild Knitting’ that she loaned me. Oh the excitement!

She kindly forwards me her monthly Knitting Newsletter, which is all about the latest patterns and has included in the past: miniature knitted Royal Families, knitted cars (life sized, go figure) and knitted cell phones (we’re all against radiation, right?) The latest pattern was very useful. Knitted cups and saucers. Riiiight.

Back to the gloves. In a patient voice she was explaining how the thumb part is created and though I was nodding knowingly, it sounded entirely unachievable as it goes waaaay beyond knit one pearl one. We decided that some people are just knitting-show offs and that there could be a show dedicated to this. So You Think You Can Knit. I daresay, it would have a wider following then you could ever imagine. Do you know that there are actual knitting café’s around the world now? I’ll bet Gwyneth Paltrow owns one.

Contestants in SYTYCK would be given three balls of wool, two needles and limited amount of time to complete their piece. Kind of like Project Runway but without all the bitchy fashionistas. Votes would be based on the most creative design (again, knit-one-pearl-one just won’t cut it here) and for interesting wool variations, perhaps incorporating things like your own hair. (And I know this can be done because Good Knitter actually knows someone who as a teddy bear knitted out of her chow’s fur.) There wouldn’t be enough chairs on stage for everyone and contestants would be plied with lots of booze.

To be fair, this idea isn’t totally original. Best Kisser (supported by the other men in the room at the time) already came up with an alternative show to So You Think You Can Dance. The unanimous decision is that So You Think You Can F(beep)K is going to be the next big thing and given the drivel on TV, I don’t doubt the producers would have a stab at it, if you’ll excuse the pun. I mean apparently there’s a market out there for the Naked News. Which reminds me, which part do you take seriously, the news or the nakedness?

Here are some other ideas Fox dotcom might want to consider:

So You Think You Can Play Ping-Pong. No fancy stuff with netherparts allowed. Strictly bat and ball here folks.

So You Think You Can Get Married. Mormons have the edge on the rest of us here and are automatically disqualified. Sharp objects must be left at home, including nail scissors (oh the shame of a bride who doesn’t have a French manicure!)

So You Think You Can Quarrel. People who have previously been on Jerry Springer won’t be allowed to compete as they’re already considered professionals. Couples who’ve been married longer than 20 years also can’t compete because they don’t even realize that they’re quarreling anymore.

So You Think You Can Serve Me. For all those annoying people who love to gripe in restaurants. Camera ‘number two’ would show the behind-the-scenes shots of what servers do to your food to get their revenge.

So You Think You Can Walk Funny : no one legged contestants allowed (unfair advantage). Props such as mechanical horses, g-strings, tight underpants, high-heels and chilli powder are allowed (to encourage diversity).

And finally,

So You Think You Can Sound Stupid. OK, OK. I know that the Kardashians already have dibs on this slot but still, there are so many stupid people out there it seems a shame not to capitalize.

tight spot...

2011-07-20T11:41:00.001+02:00

It was with great excitement that I welcomed my little-big-sister to town a week ago. For those who don’t know the family structure, she is 6 years my senior and for all that I am (um) big boned, tall and ungainly, she is petit, short and extremely agile. So much so in fact, that I’ve actually seen her be in two places at once. How we are from the same womb I will never know.

Bearing this in mind, I always make sure I’m feeling fit and have my game face on for some athletic type stuff when she’s around. It's fortuitous that I often mootch around in my gym stuff for the whole day - and so I was that I found myself scaling the mountain behind our house on the very afternoon that she arrived.

It was actually Mr. Professor-pants’ I idea so I sort of blame him and his recent fascination with Aron Ralstons’ story (a.k.a 127 Hours). He initiated the adventure because naturally, when you see a movie about how someone survived being trapped in a canyon for 5 days, rehydrating on their own pee for the last three, you want to try it. Despite the well-worn path to the beacon, the four of us decided to take the scenic route and boulder our way to the top.

I should point out that hiking with my kids is stressful. Mr. Professor-pants has turned out to be a bit of a mountain goat and manages to get himself (alarmingly quickly) to heights that I couldn’t possibly rescue him from – not even if I had an IV of adrenalin attached to me. Not only that, but Too-fast-too-furious has a nasty habit (still!) of finding random somethings en route to chew on. This could be a piece of plastic from a careless hiker’s drinking cap, a dead rock-climber’s old shoe, or a used band aid that has found renewed purpose in his mouth. Truly, I have given up on him giving up his oral fixation and plan on buying him cigars to chew on. George Burns at age 6.

I should also point out that my little-big-sister is a rock climber. A va-ery good one. One who has the ability to scale an entirely smooth surface like a hunted gecko. As we clamber away, she tries to assure me that I just need to get into the ‘zone’. WTF! What zone? The Zone Of Death? When I finally face the fact that my walrus attitude is not really working (apparently slithering is NOT very rock-climberish), I really put my back into finding this whole ‘zone’ thing.

At the time, I didn’t hear anything snap. There were no ripping noises and I didn’t accidentally break wind from physical strain. However, when I woke up the next morning, it was clear to me that I no longer had use of one of my legs. Which is a pity really, because I walk so much better with two. The pain emanated from my pubic bone (what? There’s a muscle there?) and stretched down to around my mid inner-thigh. I quick self-diagnosis on the Internet (Doctors love it when we do that) revealed that I’d done something funny to my adductor muscle – most likely the adductor brevis or longus. Hard to tell really, because my thighs look absolutely nothing like those on the anatomical drawings.

Now what is an adductor brevis between legs, you might ask. Well, you know how when you get into a car and require some enthusiastic muscle to bring the second leg in – that’s your adductors working. That and of course, it’s the muscle that helps you perform useful daily activities like split jumps, inline skating and just plain walking.

Suitably humbled, it turns out that fear isn’t enough of a motivating factor to give you instant climbing abilities. And just so you know, should you get grievous with your brevis, I can guarantee that having an ice pack on your pubic bone will not be the highlight of your year.

very fitting...

2011-06-28T16:35:00.001+02:00

Wow, such a myriad of blogging topics this week to decide on. I could tell you about the article I read which was headed “Planking fad won’t last” (nooooo, who would have said?) Or, I could go on about the sure evidence (poop, gnawed on hanky, more poop) that we found regarding the invasion of mice in our house (apologies to my niece who was sure she heard scuttling – I didn’t mean to not believe you.)

I also considered the topic of how our washing machine became a fireworks display, forcing us to purchase a new one. The new washing machine came with an instruction pamphlet, which said under DRY: “When you are not remove a loaf (surely not? a loaf?) of clothes from the dryer as soon as it stops, wrinkles (on me?) can form”. I dearly, dearly hope that this is a bad typo because I can’t afford any more unwanted wrinkles. Perhaps they meant the clothes.

However, the winning topic this week just had to be TA DAAAA… light fittings. Because we all know how very exciting light fittings are.

There comes a time in every renovators life when you are called upon to choose light fittings. It’s like a calling from Satan. Warning: Do NOT take any kids with you to make your selection. They will deliberately try and break things just to hurry you out of the shop. This is almost kind of them - in a twisted, expensive way - when you consider the fittings that you have to choose from.

When I was still in the fabric industry (they are called fabrics, dahlink, materials are something you build with) we were coached on a particular saying - incase we thought our clients didn’t like our new range. We had to tell these offending clients that “there are some people who just don’t UNDERSTAND our range.” (In other words …“you are a total peasant if you think our new range sucks.)

Lighting sales people do not have the gaul to have such a cheeky saying, because no one understands their fittings. They should hand you a pamphlet titled “To Zeff or not To Zeff” to help you make your selection – just so you can be sure what kind of zeffness you are.

To make matters worse, our house is a complete mixture of styles. Part country, part contemporary, part pirate-ship messy (a far cry from the Caribbean ship-lap style I’d hoped for - not to mention the Caribbean lifestyle). Artsy people call it eclectic, which is a fancy way of saying we couldn’t stick to a theme.

So whereas our country, slanted ceilings call for farmhouse chandeliers, the contemporary lowness of the ceilings means that chandeliers are a no go – especially if you for instance value your head. I’m kind of relieved actually, because if we could make it country, Best Kisser might insist on a wagon wheel table and one of those antler chandeliers (they really exist, trust me). Sorry, but we all know that straight men are big on cowboy-type décor. And things with blue in them.

So basically, my question this week is who exactly, buys those seriously shiny light fittings with loads of bling on them? I mean I get the whole “ it looks great when the lights are turned on thing” but I’m struggling to UNDERSTAND those kind of fittings. I can’t picture the kind of home that would match all that chrome and diamante trim. Could Russians own it? Or perhaps it’s made for a specific kind of entertainment?

And BTW, I’ll only know in 10 years time whether the ones we chose are classic or zeff. Damn.

(p.s. I had to post proof... See, they do exist)

big hair day...

2011-06-15T11:28:00.001+02:00

This week was my second installment of Project get-your-game-face-on. Quite frankly, I had to take the hint. I was receiving an unreasonable amount of mail (not spam mind you, from people who actually know me) regarding Brazilian Hair Treatments. So, despite my fear (and part-loathing) of hairdressers, I went to Moments in Time.

I should start by saying that any Salon called Moments in Time is a little bit of a euphemism. A block of chocolate is a moment in time, a glimpse of a good-looking bloke is a moment in time, hell, even taking a pee is a moment in time. The salon should be called “Lifetime Commitment”, because that is roughly the amount of time that one needs to spend in there, in order for it to make a difference. That and of course, it’s also roughly the amount of money that one needs to spend.

Sigh. What can I say; I was seduced by the words “Brazilian” and “Special”. I have a special affinity (a.k.a weakness) for all things Brazilian. It started when my best friend and I travelled there in our 20’s. You can only imagine my utter joy when I discovered that Brazilian men love buxom butts. Hooray, that would make it a whole ONE COUNTRY that digs chicks with generous butts – making Brazil, my own personal Mecca.

We thought we’d totally blend in (me with said buxom butt plus ethno-curly hair, her generally gorgeous with olive skin). We didn’t. We stuck out like sore thumbs, which was actually a good thing in the end because we were broke and we needed all the favours that the locals could provide to unwitting foreigners.

Even including the flasher on the beach (who does that kind of shit?) it was one of the best weeks of my life. Lets also not forget about Brazil nuts and Brazilian soccer teams – just to re-enforce the love affair.

But back to Moments in Time. After the inevitable “you’ve recently done your colour” question (emphasis on the YOU - Oh the SHAME!), the utterly adorable hairdresser sits down next to me to explain the procedure. Procedure, I think to myself, that doesn’t sound very quick. He goes between sounding boastful (as in, yeah baby, look at the schiz we accomplish here) and apologetic (as in, you fool, you didn’t really know what was entailed, did you?)

First, he says, we wash your hair twice. (it looks that dirty, I wonder)? Then, we rough dry it. I warn him how frightening my hair is when rough dried (think Cameron Diaz’s hair in the movie “Being John Malkovich”). Then, he says, we apply the mixture. What’s in it, I say hopefully, Brazil nuts?

It’s at this point that things get a bit vague. There’s a bit of mumbling about how the “mixture” doesn’t contain formaldehyde anymore (oh yay), just a derivative thereof (um, riiiight). When they apply it, I notice that they’re not going right down to the scalp (where the offending frizz is born). Why? I ask. Again with the vagueness. “It’s just not good for you. And it reaches the root anyway when the heat is applied.”

Ah, the dreaded heat. How hot? I ask. Well, it has to be set at two thousand degrees Celsius (OK, that part is an exaggeration. But hot, like in the 200’s). After they painted the stuff on, painstakingly section by section, I am put under the climatizer which is very sci-fi and not Brazilian looking at all. I can’t help but feel that some Brazilian music at this point might be helpful. You know, to complete the illusion of this being a fun activity. And finally, it has to be flat-ironed seven, yes only SEVEN, times.

What can I say? Hairdressers are Extremely Patient, Extremely Dexterous, Extremely Entertaining and Extremely Good at getting us to enjoy what is technically, another barbaric treatment.

I’m so having a word with Cleopatra when I get to wherever she’s gone. What’s up with all this near death experience shit all in the name smooth hair and skin? Next week I’ll let you know how the whole bathing in milk thing went.

P.S. It really is a fabulous salon!

sting deep...

2011-06-02T19:06:00.001+02:00

I avoid beauticians and hairdressers at all costs. They’re always so snooty. And brutal. Hairdressers normally wave scissors about in my face (think wand like movements) and say things like “I may be a fairy but I don’t work magic you know”. As if it’s my fault I was born with perpetual frizz. My aversion to hairdressers has an underpinning logic. You see once you start getting all precious about your hair, you know you are getting really old. True story. When I was little I remember asking my mom on a blistering hot day why she didn’t join us in the swimming pool and she said ‘because I’ve just had my hair done’. Yip, worry too much about your hair and you can be sure that you’ve crossed over to the other side.

Then we get to beauticians. Their first question to me is always, "so what are we using on our skin”. I normally try and make Lux sound like L’ Uxe to fox them, but what I really want to say is “WE are not using anything on OUR face because WE do not have access to lotions and potions at cost price like the OTHER WE does and because WE have to pay full retail price for hammed up Nivea that WE have worked out is close in cost to the GDP of a small country and that is why WE use Lux”. (BTW, Lux worked for Victoria Principal and Jaclyn Smith, right?)

After the predictable eye rolling I get, they get working on my face with medieval sounding things - steam, lances and tweezers. It’s a vicious business and I don’t see the point because I end up walking out looking twice as bad as when I walked in.

Anyhow, I blame my most recent run in with ‘beauty people’ on my dermatologist, who recommended some treatments when I explained how it’s very rude that I’ve got wrinkles and pimples in the same year. ‘Go for a course of 6 glycolic acid peels’, she says to me, ‘and rub on this cream every night.’ It’s called Differin cream. I assume they’re trying to get their point across that it’s differin to the rest? What she didn’t tell me (I finally googled it) is that along with this differin business comes an IB (Initial Breakout). I feel that words like ‘initial breakout’ shouldn’t come with any cream. And if it does, the manufacturers should call it something more accurate like “Initial Breakout Cream that Eventually Leads To Marginal Improvement”.

So last week, I finally took my aging arse to a ‘beauty’ person. Well, not my arse exactly (heaven’s no, I’d never subject anyone to that – except Dr. Oodit and BTW, sorry Dr Oodit for seeing my bum) and it was actually an Aesthetic Medicine Clinic not a ‘beauty person’ (Note to self, get lingo right).

The lady looked so nice. How was I to know she was into torture? After lulling me into a fake sense of friendliness, she proceeded to put this acid on my face. Hoooooley shit! I felt my heart rate shoot through the roof and I wanted to reach for a sharp object to stab her in the leg with. She tells me that this type of treatment has been around since ancient Egypt and I fell better as I imagine some granny Egyptian passing on home beauty remedies. Untill she adds that some died of cardiac arrest because they ‘hadn’t quite refined the dose yet’. Ah, bingo for the heart rate thing I think. She must have seen the panic-slash-hate in my eyes because she started fanning me with a fanning thing. This stopped the stinging momentarily but I was convinced that by this stage my face had melted off and we were now down to bone. I diplomatically explained that tattoos were far less painful – which was a big hint that she needs to look into some kind of effective pain-management for her clients. Something like morphine or crack might do the trick.

When she finally finished (after applying a myriad of cooling gels and other weird smelling stuff), I went through to the paying area. This should be a separate area. An area where no other people are. Unaware that my face was now very shiny and very flushed, I chat happily to other clients who I only afterwards (upon catching a visual of myself in my rearview mirror) realised were thinking ‘Oh God, that poor woman’.

And to think, I actually pay people for this service.

stuck on you...

2011-05-14T18:41:00.001+02:00

I have a friend who I go swimming with from time to time. Fortunately, we both have the ability to talk the hind leg off a donkey, which is good, because it keeps the focus away from the visual of me in Lycra. For someone like me, who has, how shall I say it, a complicated relationship with clingy clothes, I seem to spend an awful lot of time in Lycra. This may be in part because I hope to portray the ‘sporty-girl’ look – as if split jumps or 100m sprint records are imminent.

I havn’t quite caught on (clearly stuck in some kind of 80’s twilight zone) that ‘sporty-girl’ sportswear has progressed beyond Lycra, to cotton-lycra and weirdly stitched leggings called compression garments. Hopelessly left behind as I am, I still cannot compete with my swimming friend, Shorne*, who just this week was lamenting the fact that he needs to finally replace is nylon – yes NYLON – Speedo and that (who knew?) nylon Speedo’s aren’t available anymore.

After I’d finished rolling around laughing ,we both thought it only fair (to nylon manufactures) to compare these wonderfully synthetic fabrics. I feel at this point that I should first explain the design of Shorne’s Speedo. I fell in love once (in 1984) with a lifeguard that wore one that was exactly the same. White with navy stripes. A classic I’d say. I’m pretty sure if I pressed Shorne for details, he’d confess that his Speedo is also, in truth, from 1984.

I digress. Upon closer investigation, we decided that Lycra in fact, is just not to be trusted. In his words, at least nylon doesn’t get that “just took a dump in my cozzie” look when it is all worn out. One point to nylon. I added that (sexy as see-through lingerie is) I prefer my cozzie to stay thick and sturdy – especially around the bum and boob area. Why does Lycra go all thin in the places you need the most support? Two points to nylon.

What about the little bits of “rubber dandruff” that come of the cozzie, Shorne says, when the rubber starts separating from the other lycra fibres? Three points to nylon. And lets not forget, I suddenly remember, how after the winter season you take your cozzie out and the stretchy bits that are supposed to grip your buttocks, have gone all un- stretchy. Instead of nice grippy bum elastic, you are left with a frilly edge, which doesn’t grip your buttocks at all but instead fans out like Joan Collins’ peplum jackets in Dynasty. Four points to nylon.

I chose not to mention how nylon leotards nearly chaffed me nipple-less when I was I kid (nipples are so over-rated, really), but did point out that no one has ever asked for my second hand nylon leggings. And for this, I think nylon wins points five, six and seven.

Just FYI, go feel up some of those “shark-skin” type cozzies that the Olympic swimmers wear. Very un-elastic. Very shark-skin-like but much, much thinner. I also wouldn’t bend down to dive off the starting blocks wearing that – I’m just saying is all.

*Names have been protected for the sake of those that still wear nylon Speedo’s.

snooty buns...

2011-05-06T08:51:00.000+02:00

Such a toss up deciding what to write about this week. Of course, there was the whole Royal Wedding thing (eternally bloggable – FYI Princess Beatrice did manage to make contact the mother-ship via her hat). What really got me thinking thought, was the spam I got from Makro.

Somehow, I have landed myself on some spamy email list. Lucky me. Senders offer me things like American Citizenship. Lucky me again. I was also recently advised that I’d inherited 3 Million Dollars from a deceased, long lost relative whom I’ve never met, who is based in, surprise-surprise, West Africa (just send R100 000 to process the legal stuff.) Really, really lucky me.

Makro’s spam wasn’t offering me anything quite so ostentatious, but what they were offering (pre-Easter of course) was…. TA DAAAA…. Luxury Hot Cross Buns. The spin at the bottom read:

“Love at first bite (because Easter is that loving time of year?)

Scrumptious and ready to serve (Butlers are ready to serve, hot cross buns just get eaten).

A delicious new recipe (what was wrong with the old one?),

from us (duh!),

to you (thank you Captain obvious).

Tuck in and indulge (sorry, but you’re competing with chocolate here)

this Easter with your loved ones (because normally I share my religious holidays with total strangers?)”.

These are all very bold things to say, considering they are touting confectionary that has cooked raisins. Know what I’m saying.

Anyhoo, the ad reminded me of a copywriting assignment that we did. We had to come up with a campaign to entice people to end a bad habit. The usual culprits were there; smoking, drunk driving, TV watching, drug addiction etc. However, one person came up with a very threatening habit. Using the same pillow night after night. Who knew this was so foul? Our copy lecturer looked mortified and you could actually see his horror unfolding as he imagined someone trying to wrestle his favorite pillow from him. Ever the diplomat, he proceeded to ask a whole bunch of valid questions about the campaign and the imagery employed to convey the message.

Now this is where it gets interesting, her scamp (fancy word for picture) showed a pillow (foreground), top hat (mid-ground) and hat-stand (background). Motivation for the campaign was that pillows carry mites, (which to be fair, is true after all - hateful little buggers), and that you should ‘renew’ your pillow regularly with a “SABS approved, hypoallergenic pillow”. When asked what the top hat and hat stand were for, she explained that they were there to indicate the “luxuriousness” of the pillow. Because, as we all know, luxury is always synonymous with top hats.

Now while it might seem like I am dissing this classmate, I’m not. She was just doing what loads of retailers do al the time i.e. get us to buy into the whole “buy-me-because-I’m-a-luxurious-snob” thing. Like that wildly irritating Mantelli’s shortbread radio add. You know, the one that makes you want to whip the snooty sounding bint with her own ponytail.

It got me thinking. If these truly are Luxury Hot-cross buns, then they would feel horribly out of place in my home. These are the type of hot-cross buns that would insist on being served on Villeroy & Boch crockery. They’d only want to wipe their bums with triple ply luxury toilet paper (honestly, as if toilet paper could ever be luxurious) and would want to keep company with Salon-sold hair products (sorry, stumped for a name here). They would scoff at my Green Cross sandals, would tell me they are only holidaying in St.Moritz and would ask me if I really planned to go out “in that”?

Honestly, it just makes me want to buy that “Extra Slut, Hard Pressed Olive Oil”. Just out of principle.

once in a lifetime...

2011-04-14T17:38:00.001+02:00

Words can’t explain how excited I was when Best Kisser booked tickets for us to go and see Cirque du Soliel. It’s always been one of those really big-ticket items on my bucket list so, like a total kid, I was excited for weeks and weeks and weeks before. In my excitement, I become one of those irritating people who talk like they have any idea of what it takes to perform that stuff. I don’t. As if I could even begin to climb a Chinese pole…

As it was a once in a lifetime kind of thing, the shorties came along. I was well prepared with a) a lecture, should they even DARE to say that they are bored, and b) with duct tape, incase they got fidgety or chatty and need to be taped still or taped shut. Actually, the duct tape had another potential purpose. It could also be used to subdue other patrons who might think of complaining about kids who get fidgety or chatty (er, it’s a matinee. Duuuh!)

I made sure I was wearing practical clothing as I have this fear of being pulled up on stage. With my luck my dress would be tucked into my pantyhose or butt-cheeks or something equally embarrassing. You can imagine how horrified I was, in a stoked kind of way (it’s Cirque du Soliel after all), when one of the performers picked me out of the audience and squirreled me (very hush-hush) to the back of the stage.

Once out of sight of the audience, I was told to don one of the brightly coloured all-in-one Lycra costumes, like the ones that Chinese Pole performers were wearing. Luckily it was lycra, stretchy and for once living up to the one-size-fits-all name. They didn’t have time to put on all the fancy makeup, so a quick smattering of fuchsia lipstick on my lips and cheeks had to suffice.

The lead pole person asked me if I could cartwheel. Sure, I said. Haven’t done one in a while but I’ll do my best. What about an Arab spring? Ja, I said uncertainly, I’ll give it a whirl. I mean, I’m going to be making a tit of myself anyway, aren’t I? Last question was if I work-out at all. Um, a bit I say, whilst sucking in my stomach and puffing out my chest. Try as I might, my biceps will just not puff out. OK, the lead one says, I think you might just be alright.

Before I have a chance to protest, they whisper, “just follow our cues and you’ll be fine”. My heart is beating in my chest and all I can think is that I hope I don’t pee in my pants as I try to do what they’re asking of me.

Aaaand cartwheel, I hear. Three in a row. Here goes. To my surprise and utter shock I am actually soaring through the air. I end of with an Arab spring - just because I find that I can really do one - and it feels awesome. With two of the performers spotting my back, one says to me “front and backward walk-over. One after the other, with little smiley pause for the crowd in between”. The last time I did an assisted walkover was in the early 80’s. I think to myself, what the hell - I’ve got health insurance, and I go for it. Lucky for me, those Ukrainian fellows are strong. I hear the crowd clapping and think, wow, this is the schiz man! I’m feeling a bit high with it all, and time is passing in a series of fast and slow motion. The crowd seems both near and far at the same time.

You’ve been so great, they say, we’re nearly done. To end off you’re going to take a running leap onto the Chinese Pole on the left. There are two guys spotting at the bottom for you. When you get to the top, just lift your head to the audience, then fall straight back. We’ll have something ready to catch you. I’m so far into this thing that I can hardly back out now. My upper body strength is non-existent but I tell myself that I can at least clamp my thighs (er, the beefy strong part of me) and somehow stabilize myself.

Miraculously, because it’s nothing short of that, I manage to get to the top of the pole. I’m literally three stories up and as I look down, the crowd is cheering away fiercely. My muscles are burning and I’m terrified of the height but I decide to get a bit fancy and brave a triumphant wave. As I look down, I see that the two spotters are ready to catch me. They look familiar but I’m so far up that I can barely make out their features.

Ryk Neethling and Gerard Pique. Arms open, smiling faces and mouthing to me “go on, jump, you can do it”.

Ah hell, I knew I’d blow it if I mentioned Ryk and Gerard . But hey, wouldn’t it be great if it were all true?

what's that I hear...

2011-04-08T08:08:00.000+02:00

It’s a well-known cliché that only people without kids, give kids noisy toys. so I should have known better. I can only assume that the app inventors at Apple are all childless or they may have known better too.

Anyone who knows me, will know what a huge Apple fan I am. But, like most inventors, they clearly don’t put their apps to test where it counts. I’ve long been a believer that if you really want a product to show it’s true worth, it needs to be tested by kids. All that “no stain fabric” business? Means nothing till it’s gone through the short person household wreck test. And bold statements like “durable under soles” are big fat load of lard till they’ve actually been put through the mill by real, live children. (FYI, the skateboard/ substitute-bicycle-brake test is what’s called for here.)

But back to Apple. As another means to get our kids even more addicted to technology, we decided to download some “fun” apps on the iPad. Talking Tom was a winner - mostly for me. I mean have you made him sing “Copacabana”? Talking Roby (short for robot) was less funny, though typing in words like “bum” (which Roby then robotically repeats) made the kids fall about laughing. I suppose I should be grateful they didn’t type in “arse”. (Er, actually they did, but I can hardly admit to that, now can I?)

But here comes the word of caution. Do NOT, under any circumstances be tempted to download “Sound Effects”. Because it’s not just about the sounds, which in real life are irritating enough. It’s about the myriad of irritating sounds you can make when you either a) push them quickly one after the other (Burp, Scream, Raspberry), or b) push one repeatedly before it has the chance to finish (e.g. Scream becomes Scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr scr….) See what I mean?

And don’t think that innocent sounding Doodle Sound is any better. It has noises that imitate things like “bottle blow” (because that’s not an irritating sound at all). Predictably, the sounds “Fart”, “Burp”, “Slamming door” and “Retro alarm” live up to their expectations. And finally, to keep things colloquial, there is “Hi Sexy” (all 6 year olds have opportunity to say this, after all), “Shut up”(which God knows they should never be taught) and “Get out, get out now” (which is kind of how I feel sometimes but still – you just can’t say it.)

I’m back to wearing my iPod all the time.

nay...

2011-03-26T15:24:00.000+02:00

Have you ever unwittingly stumbled upon something that you didn’t want to know and then you can’t un-know it? Well then, this one’s for you.

In my search for an image that I could suitably match up with my “Helpful Guide to Understanding SA Driving Mentality”, I Googled the word “blindfolded”. Of course, I should have pre-empted the possibility that weird stuff was going to pop up, given that the word “blindfolded” is either generally associated with some kind of skanky business, or torture. I would have to say that neither are themes that I’m particularly fond of. (Ok, so I have played pin–the-tail-on-the-donkey but it was only that one time.)

After recovering from a brief but severe bout of post-traumatic stress disorder, I decided the wise thing to do would be to narrow down my search words to something more specific, namely “driving blindfolded”. Phew. Safe ground here, as some considerate soul had already anticipated such a search and had helpfully uploaded loads of stock images of all kinds of people driving blindfolded.

However, as I am scanning through the first page of thumbnails, I (unwittingly, strike two) spy an unusual looking thumbnail near the bottom of the page. It seems to be two people in a little cart. In a woodland. Being pulled by a grown man who is wearing a harness and not much else (unless you count his bikini type thingy as clothing but I should point out that it was a very small bikini type thingy.)

Obviously, (unwittingly, strike three) I had to click on the image because that’s what you do when you feel a combination of curiosity and disbelief. In truth, thought it might be some sort of tomfoolery. You know, like those idiotic races and competitions they hold, like the Redneck Olympics*, or the Gloucestershire Cheese Rolling Race. *

It wasn’t. What I discovered is a site that is dedicated to one of the lesser-known (thank goodness) activities that’s called “Pony Play”. I have to point out that this is not a site dedicated to people who love horses. No no, this is a site about fully-grown adults who dress up as, and get treated as, horses. Voluntarily. I’m unashamed to say that I have lived my whole 33(ish) years without knowing that such a thing even exists. Do these people really walk amongst us?

What’s more, I’d have to say that after reading all (well, most) of the copy on the site, I still have abso-bloody-lutely no idea why anyone would want to partake of such a thing. (I might add that there are lots of “Lord This” and “Lady That’s” involved – which only make it more curious. I mean are mostly blue-blooded folk into this sport?)

So honestly, if anyone out there can explain this compulsion to me I’d be grateful. Because I think I’ve been put off pony’s for life. And carts. And maybe even woodlands.

* These are real events!

the hill's are alive, with the sound of muuuuusic...

2011-03-17T11:11:00.001+02:00

I missed last weeks blog because only the very best, highly trained, technically proficient cyclists manage to break two of their spokes just days before the magnum opus of cycling events and have to get their blue tractor of a MTB to the shop and still make time to test out the repairs before THE BIG DAY. Tess, the cycling shop owner who is an epic cyclist (really, she rides the Epic) always asks me tricky questions like “did you go over a pothole?” or “did you jump a pavement?” when I bring my bike in. I think she’s trying to be funny with me.

I probably should be writing about how wearing lycra in public humbles you. Or how some women manage to cycle with makeup on (yes, mascara and base). Or how the spirit of camaraderie swept me up on race day. But the main thing I have to comment on, is the choice of pre-race music.

Now I know that most sporty people can’t dance. Sorry, but it’s just one of those universal truths. Still, there’s no need to insult them further by playing heinous music. Of course I know that the thinking behind playing music before a sporting event isn’t in fact to teach step-bull-change and that it’s purpose is primarily to psych you up. Think this is a point that the DJ might have missed.

I’ve just finished reading Lewis Pugh’s book on his insane below zero swims in Norway and the North Pole etc. He talks about how he has a pre-swim playlist that is there solely to get him into the right headspace before taking the plunge. This is going to come as a shock, but Hokey Pokey is NOT on it.

And neither should it be on any playlist. And if you think that Hokey Pokey took the cake, let me run through some of the other tracks that were played on race day.

As I arrived they were kicking off with a very fetching remix of My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean. You didn’t know there was a remix? Ah well, now I guess that changes everything folks. You rush out and get that CD now, I’ll just bet they’re flying off the shelves.

The obvious choice after Hokey Pokey, is Simple Simon Says. Obviously. Plenty of clues regarding what dance moves you should be doing. And no amp-me-up-before-I-go-go playlist is complete without Agadoo (again with the fun moves). Of course the all time winner has to be Lily The Pink. I mean what other song could totally get me in the mood for cycling 109km!? I was so desperate to hear some good music that I actually started singing along when Achy Breaky Heart came on.

Perhaps the organizers were going for a carnival kind of atmosphere. You know, choosing familiar songs that everyone can sing along to. But seriously, I just don’t think that playing the Chicken Song will ever bring out the best in anyone. Cyclists or dancers.

ignore the rules...

2011-03-03T12:56:00.001+02:00

The response to my last blog was surprising. People showed a real concern about the possibility of my karate suit getting hooked on my bicycle chain and the fact that my music taste has gone feral.

They also had a quite a bit to say about South African drivers. So much so that I felt moved to write this “Helpful Guide to Understanding SA Driving”. Feel free to pass this on to visiting foreigners - unless of course, they come from Beirut, where I believe they are already in the loop when it comes to risky driving.

We already spoke about the fact that speed limit signs are more a vague suggestion than an instruction and that numbers like "60" and "80" are a hint at what is the minimum - not the maximum. We have also spoken about how solid white lines are there solely to taunt you and that those fancy double lines with a little stripe in the middle are merely decorative.

Zebra crossings are for zebras. Clearly. The average SA driver sees a zebra crossing and, seeing no zebras waiting to cross, shoots over it.

Speed bumps, as their name implies, are to be taken at speed. No point in slowing down when there’s another one just a couple of metres ahead, right? The aim is drive fast so that you are actually airborne between speed bumps.

The phrase “traffic flow” is there to fox you - make you feel like a meek little follow-the-leader-Norman-Nobody sheep. Ignore the word flow. Defy the flow. Zigzag between cars at pace. This momentarily gets you ahead of the flock. It doesn’t matter that the MOFO car that you nearly beaned 5km ago pulls up next to you at the traffic lights. It’s the principle of the matter. You just have to get ahead.

Traffic jams are for losers. To not be a loser, you must squeeze onto the hard shoulder and force your way forward as though you are an emergency vehicle. If there’s been an accident, you must, must, MUST slow down to ask the traffic officer if there has been an accident. Because the ambulance, fire truck and police vehicles after all, aren’t enough of a hint.

At an intersection, don’t let anyone in. Just don’t or so help me, they’ll only try to keep in front of you (see "traffic flow" above). You must keep intersection interlopers waiting, and if they try to push in, cuss and make rude signs with your hands. What are they thinking? Is it your problem they’re unable to cross, thereby causing a 7km back up? Best policy is to pretend you don’t see them.

Rain? Just ignore it. No need to adjust your speed or traffic light strategy for a bit of torrential downpour. Also, don’t bother leaving home earlier than usual to allow for the delay. Everyone else should have thought of that, dammit.

Parallel parking isn’t a skill; it’s a challenge. It’s your job as a fellow person of the road to make this challenge as difficult as possible for the person in front of you, who might be trying to parallel park. If you see them indicating for a bay, drive right up their butts, and then when they start reversing into the bay, throw your hands up and mouth “WTF!”. Then watch them (because by now some other eejit has rammed up your butt so you also can’t reverse) try and magically squeeze into the bay.

If you spot a yield sign, drive faster. Only total anoraks slow down at yield signs. You don’t want to be an anorak, do you? Best to approach these as fast as you can, possibly accelerating in a dice-to-the-death kind of fashion.

Stop signs are actually technically called “rolling stops”. If you slow down enough to change into first gear you are a road nerd. You need to adopt a drug-dealer kind of roll forward, where it continually looks like you’re selling some narcs. Glaring at the cars on the other side of the stop sign will help to complete the illusion.

Although you must ignore stop signs, you can commit random stopping whenever you like. No need to indicate or put on your hazards or obey the big yellow or red stripe on the road. Just stop and then do your drug dealer glare when passers by get irate. If they’re not happy about it they should have zigzagged in front of you ages ago.

If you are old, you must wear a hat (preferably tartan or tweed.) This is an indication to those cars around you that you have absolutely no intention of either tapping into your peripheral vision, or even turning your head to check for traffic. Just wear your hat and do whatever you like. You especially have Carte Blanche when it comes to reversing out driveways – no need for caution, just wear your hat and keep facing forwards.

It is no accident that traffic circles are in the shape of a roulette table. Under no circumstances must you give clues as to the direction you intend to take. Definitely DON'T indicate that you are turning, you must keep people guessing till the very last moment and even then, don't indicate. If they know where you're going they'll probably try and follow you, just so that they can ultimately overtake you and get ahead (see "traffic flow" once again.)

Above all, you must never apologise if you’ve behaved like a *doos. It’s just a sign of weakness. No. You must flip the middle finger to finish off your doos-ness.

I’m off to buy a tartan hat.

*doos: South African (quite rude) slang for loser/idiot/wally/d..ckhead

what the hell do you think you're doing?

2011-02-18T11:45:00.001+02:00

For those not in the know, it’s cycling season in Cape Town. Enemy number one when cycling is the wind. In Cape Town they call it the Black South Easter and when they say black they don’t mean black as in LBD or Black Eyed Peas. No. They mean black as in the depths of hell, black as in the exorcist, black as in viciously hateful. This wind is not to be trifled with. You may ride like a domestique stallion when there is no wind, but trust me, the gale force South Easter will reduce you to a piece of snivelling overstretched lycra.

When there is no wind, however, enemy number two is of course the traffic. Now just to clarify for those who live outside of crusty old SA, South African’s have what’s called The Second Grader’s Approach when it comes to driving. In other words: they do it, so I will too. We’re a curious collection of people who continually discuss crime levels in the country yet are quite comfortable with exceeding the speed limit whilst talking on our cell phones in the traffic. Go figure.

Most South African’s see a speed limit sign and imagine that they also see small print that says “Not You, Just Everyone Behind You”. Solid white lines – for the same drivers who are able to read the small print on the speed limit signs – actually imply “Go ahead, Overtake on Me”. And finally, if any South African driver has to slow down – or heaven forbid, brake - for a cyclist, they form a support group and write a book, which I believe is titled “A Cyclist Ruined My Life”.

Which brings me enemy number three and why I found myself seeking out an isolated route where there are no psycho drivers. I was cruising along just fine, making small talk with some hitch-hiking mama’s who were sharing my side of the road, and gearing down to start climbing in earnest when I felt someone’s hand fiddling around in the back pocked of my cycling vest. I think that it might be the mama’s warning me about a snake in the road, or needing the time or something. The pocket fiddling gets a bit more insistent and by this stage I’ve been pulled off balance and am now at a complete standstill.

I turn around to face a young man. We just stand there staring at each other for a moment. It takes another moment for me to realize that he is not in fact flicking off a rogue grasshopper from my shirt. He’s trying to rob me.

I trawl the folds of my brain to find some useful anti-robbing information. Firstly, I recall reading that if think you are being attacked, you must make a really loud noise. I yell as loudly as I can “What the [profanity] do you think you’re doing???!?!?” This is rhetoric of course. I notice that my voice no longer belongs to me. It has been taken over by some demonic Balrog.

Secondly, I remember that you should put up a good fight. You know, make it really hard for them. They don’t want a thrasher. I consider screaming at him “I’m a 3^rd Dan, Black belt Karate” but am concerned that in the confusion he might think I’m actually saying, “take my hand let’s party.”

What ensues is us playing a game of intimidation tag. I scream at him, vowing all kinds of evil actions on him and his family. He screams at me, coming at me like a, um, robber. A fierce one. I scream back at him, bluffing that I am actually able to fight and telling him to come closer (closer??!?! WTF?) so that I can give him a belting (I think my cleats may have given me some kind of Dutch courage, I realize that now.)

Our unholy yelling and profanities have drawn enough attention for people to start coming out to see what all the hoo-ha is all about. Thank the pope, this makes him run back into the blasted bushes from whence he came.

Of course, there’s nothing like a bit of unhealthy introspection to really turn you into a basket case, so here’s why I’m peeved.

Firstly and mostly I am freaked out that I am the kind of frightening sight that I have the ability to chase off a drugged up robber. Am I that Amazonian? Must be how I look in cycling shorts.

Secondly. Clearly, I’m built for fight not flight. This is very disappointing news.

Thirdly, I’ve had to change the playlist on my iPod to mostly serious rap and hard-core hip-hop. The un-edited, lots of swearing, 8 Mile kind of stuff that gets you all agro.

Lastly. It really is very uncomfortable riding in karate clothes.

hang ten...

2011-02-02T10:24:00.004+02:00

I have a buddy who took up surfing a while ago. She kept telling that I’d have to join her for a session because she was sure I’d love it. I find it encouraging, really, that people should invite me to do sporty things with them. It must mean that they think I have that sporting potential. The other possibility, of course, is that they’re secretly filming me for YouTube (e.g. woman makes idiot of herself on bicycle)

I decide to join her. She assures me that paying R100 for the lesson, rental of surfboard and wetsuit is a good deal. I can’t help but feel that they should in fact be paying me to get into the arctic water, but decide that being hardcore, grungy, surfer dudes, they won’t see my point. Alarm bells go off when I spot the rental wetsuits. Red with yellow sleeves. Anyone who has any respect for anyone, should know that when performing any kind of sports activity - especially when it involves tight clothing and water - the accompanying kit should be nothing other than black. I’m absolutely certain they won’t have a suit to fit me but they tell me that the tighter the better when it comes to wetsuits. Riiiight.

By the time we reach the changing rooms I’m seriously edgy. I’m going to have to get my buddy to hold the wetsuit open while I clamber up to the top of the changing booth. Pin-dropping into the blasted thing is the only way around it. I finally get my gear on and after not too long feel pressure around the top of my shoulders, as if a heavy toddler is sitting on them. I realize that it’s the shoulder part of the wetsuit that wants to move closer to the body part again. I can barely lift my arms to my sides and wonder how in heaven’s name I'll be able to paddle.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to face the people in the surf-shop and notice that as I walk, I hear a sandpapering sound. Ah, I think, they’re doing maintenance on the building somewhere. It’s very curios though, because the sandpapering sound is only there when I walk, and it stops when I stop. Are the sandpapering men stopping to stare when I stop walking? No. It is in fact my thighs that are rubbing together and short of walking like a cowboy (even more conspicuous) I realize that I’m just going to have to talk loudly or whistle to distract people from the sandpapering noise.

Navigating a long board in the Muizenberg wind is nothing short of dangerous - I see people scatter as I am allocated my board. I notice that it doesn’t look anything like a pro surfer’s, which is a little disappointing. After dislocating my shoulder and decapitating a few passers by, we get to the beach.

Here the drill starts with how you have to go from lying prone, to jumping (jumping?) up onto your knees first, and then from your knees, jump up (from your knees?) up onto the board into standing position. Mmm. We practice. Stroke one, stroke two into the imaginary wave and then jump one, jump two and we’re up. Seems easy enough, on land of course.

We hit the surf. To me it looks nothing like pipeline, which is a good thing, because I’m not really a pipeline pro after all, now am I. It’s Iguaçu in flood, with one wave doubling up on the next. I barely notice the frigid water, so occupied am I with staying on my board. The instructor has cottoned on to the fact that I’m cheating. Apparently you’re not supposed to grip the board with your instep and big toes. Understandably really, considering the cramp that I now have in both feet.

My heart is in my lungs and my lungs are in my throat and just as I feel my soul leaving my body and moving toward the white light, we hit the back line. I’m out of breath and glad that I left my dignity back in the change room or else it would have drowned for sure in the ocean, never to be recovered.

A new wave (excuse the pun) of panic hits me has I hear the instructor yell at me “OK, your wave! Quick, paddle one, two”. I want to scream back “Are you completely [insert profanity] insane??!?!” but instead, I pull off a very convincing hippie-surfer comment... “hey man, I’m gonna like chill for a bit on the back line and enjoy just being out here, like”.

I eventually catch a wave (on my knees) and then a few more (on my stomach) and by the end I'm so wiped out that I don’t know which way's up, down, front, or back. The highlight? My mate saying to me “er, I think your board’s the wrong way dude”. And now I have to go to that beach in disguise.

yup, i'm about done here

2011-01-22T11:53:00.000+02:00

I’m sure my faithful followers have been rocking in the foetal position because they’re in agony over missing my weekly blog. Sometimes a sabbatical is necessary, especially if a would-be funny writer has neither found anything funny, or has been unwilling to make up anything funny. School holidays will do that to you. That’s the real truth why JK Rowling wrote most of the Harry Potter books in coffee shops, bus-stops, tubes and such – she couldn’t get any dang work done at home.

A good friend of mine called me yesterday and said, “Oh God (used as exclamation, not calling me names), I thought of you yesterday (I get that a lot…), wait till I tell you what Peter * did yesterday”. (*name has been changed to protect the perpetrator).

She went on to tell me how Peter and his friend were playing quietly. Now just to explain, Peter’s mother confessed to me recently that she thought my sons were outright badly behaved. That was, of course, until she had a son of her own. I took it as good news actually, because up until then I thought her daughter was abnormally well behaved, and I suspected that she might be doping her. You know, using Pethadine, Dormicum, Ecstacy or everything all at once to get her to sit still and be so dog-gone bloody polite.

OK, so back to it. Poor mother – not being the veteran mom of 2 sons - didn’t realize that 2 minutes of silence is a fiercely dangerous sign. When she finally got her sheesh together and checked on them, she discovered they’d made a smorgasbord of an unholy mess with the medicine cabinet.

The blessing was – if you can call it that – was that they hadn’t decided to chug on any of the contents. Perhaps in retrospect if they had, the mayhem would have ended sooner. Apparently, the rules of the game were pour the contents of a lifetimes worth of drugs (syrup of course, pills are plain tiddlywinks) in a big puddle on the floor. Perhaps there was tribal chanting involved, who knows, but upon closer inspection she also discovered a large amount of Vicks (vapour rub) smeared generously over the furniture. The wood must have looked a bit sickly, thus the eucalyptus massage. Very thoughtful.

She told me that she was sure the best retribution was an unholy thrashing – to equal the unholy mess. I tried to remind her that unholy wackings or not, boys will be messy, destructive boys and that one only needs to look at most male sports to see that males actually don’t mind a good thrashing. What would be a more effective punishment? Make the little bugger knit.

um, no you haven't told me about...

2010-12-30T13:54:00.002+02:00

We were recently at a dinner party type thing when I was reminded of one of the irksome habits that parents have. They tell these really long-winded stories about their kids. Sometimes they’re entertaining and sometimes they’re not. If the story is not entertaining, the parent might try to string it out a bit. You know, to make things seem more exciting.

A favorite (but I’d have to say, unsuccessful) stringing out tactic is talking about your offspring (to add an air of mystery?) as “my son” or “my daughter”, instead of using their name. Note: intonation must be dragged out at the end….e.g. my sooooon, or my dauuughter, with dramatic long pause before continuing. At least I think the reason that parent does it is to add drama. Why else would they do it?

Ah. Perhaps other people don’t have this problem. Perhaps it’s just me. I must look a bit slow. Possibly even outright stupid. Obviously, the parent thinks I don’t remember “their son’s” name - even though I’ve met him, like, a hundred times. Or perhaps they think I havn’t met him at all, which makes me wonder why on earth they’re telling me a (long) story about someone I’ve never met?

Perhaps they’re quite, quite sure I havn’t met him and mean to introduce him to me via their story telling. Again, I obviously look like I’m unable to remember their offspring’s name, because they keep saying “my son” and not “ Tom”. I must look like I need constant reminding of who this “Tom’ is. (Note to self: try to look more intelligent.)

So, the universal rules are as follows.

1. Your story must be interesting

2. If your story’s not interesting, you must lie it interesting

3. If you are talking to someone about “your son” and they’ve already met him, just say “Tom”. They'll know who you’re on about. Trust me on this.

4. If you are talking to someone about “your son” and they don’t know him, just say “my son, Tom” and then make your story very, very short. A one liner will do. Especially if the person you’re talking to doesn’t have kids themselves. Doubly especially if they do have kids, because then they will want to hear about their own kids, and not yours.

5. If you are talking to someone about “your son” and they don’t know him and you still feel compelled to tell a story about him, you only have to say “my son, Tom” once. You don’t need to keep saying “my son”. Really. “Tom” is the only word that needs to be repeated. Please remember, the same rules apply to “my daughter” and definitely, definitely to “my hubby”.

(I apologise most profusely for all the times if I’ve ever bored you to tears by talking about my kids. Truly. I owe you a bottle of Bubbly.)

i babysit too...

2010-12-23T12:23:00.002+02:00

I’m starting to wonder if I’m one of those people that look incredibly gullible. Perhaps, I have “Pick on me – I’m a sucker” tattooed in indelible ink on my forehead, visible only to con men and the likes. Perhaps, on the other hand, I just look like a desperate mother (but all the time???!!!) that wants to get rid of her kids.

After I’ve taken Rainman and Too-fast-too-furious surfing, we have to stop and have snacks and hot chocolates to the value of a small holiday home. It’s a great little joint which has recently acquired a new waitress. Now just to clarify, I have nothing against waitresses. I too have waitressed. Also, I have nothing against tattoos. I too have some. Same goes for piercings.

We pull up a perch. The new waitress comes over. She launches right in. ‘So, what do people do with their kids over New Year?’ Ah, I think to myself, she’s looking at me thinking “whoa, what a party animal, I'll bet she really wants to cut loose on New Year.’ Then I reconsider, having just remembered that I don’t look like a party animal at all. I just look like a mother. Mmm, perhaps she’s just making polite conversation (a.k.a I’d like a big fat tip for being chatty).

‘Oh’, I say, ‘since we've had kids we kind of hang at home, have one or two beers, shoot the breeze, maybe cut some rug on the kitchen dance-floor’. ‘Well’, she says, ‘I’m kind of over the whole drink-till-you-fall-down thing and thought I’d offer babysitting at my house for parents who’d like to go out and party.’ I nearly blurt out, “you have a house and not a caravan?” but catch myself just in time.

I’m trying to hide my “are-you-effing-insane face” and am fighting the urge to say, ‘Ja, for sure and totally man. I’m definitely going to leave my kid on New Years Eve with a broke, tattooed waitress, whom I hasten to add, is also a stranger. Not only that, but I’m gonna tell my mates to do it too, you bleeding eejit!’

Instead I say, ‘the tricky part might be when the intoxicated parents have to come and pick up their kids and see them to bed. I don’t think Goodfellows are game for that kind of thing.’ I consider suggesting that it might, in fact, be more lucrative if she ran “hangover sitting” for the morning after, but decide against it. I’m also bewildered as to why she hasn’t clocked the part about me saying that we normally stay home.

I think it’s important to mention that at no stage has she bothered to engage her potential clients. The actual kids. Not even a “Hi guys, how was the surf? Cowabunga dude”.

What’s more, I have to tell you, this isn’t the first time that this has happened to me. When shortie Jnr. was a baby, I was walking down the street when a transvestite asked me for a cigarette. After explaining that I didn’t smoke, s/he said that s/he’d be equally happy with some cash or some wine. I explained that I didn’t have any of those either. Her/his parting shot (as though we were old family friends) was “I also do babysitting hey”. WTF!!! Do I look like I’d hand my baby over to you??!?!

I know you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I think it’s fairly safe to judge them by their impossibly short skirt. And, just as a word of advice to all would-be babysitters - have you ever seen an airhostess that looks like a member of hells angels? Nope. So if you want the job, for Gods sake dress the part and cover up those dang tattoos, just till you've got the job. And please also remember, not being a total stranger normally counts.

screw the two front teeth...

2010-12-09T17:29:00.004+02:00

Christmas is looming and this year I’m just not in the mood. The whole dang year I wasn’t in the mood.

I know I’m going to sound like The Grinch, but really, the smell of burning plastic is not one of my favorites. Especially as most of the purchasing that’s been going down is for really bloody boring, obligatory stuff that has been bought under extreme pressure. Did I hear organic-luxury-exfoliating soap on a rope? It would’ve be much more fun if the Kardashian family had lent me their credit cards because then I could buy things that people would actually get excited about … a Ferrari for Mr. Professor Pants (I’ll look after it till he’s 18), a surf-holiday for Best Kisser (because unlike me he can actually surf), and a flame thrower for Oli (just for the hell of it). Come to think of it, Oli would probably quite like to own a tattoo parlour aswell. Heaven knows, the Kardashians don’t need any more shit. Truly.

What really concerns me the most this year is what’s on my kid’s wish list to Santa. Weapons. This is not a very Christmassy theme I think. I’ve already had to eat huge helpings of humble pie for saying (pre-kids, of course) that my kids would never eat sweets. Pwaaahhahahah. As if. I’ve had to double that humble pie helping for saying “my kids will never own toy guns”. Clearly, they must have the same relationship to weaponry as I have to carbs. The minute you deny yourself, you just want it more. Out of principal.

The no gun law stood unbroken for all of about 24 hours. I had to relent. The little buggers were fashioning dangerous looking guns (think rifles with bayonets – where did they even see those????) out of pieces of wood. Pointy kindling and such. Not very sanitary, especially if, say, it pokes in your brothers eye. Or breaks his skin and actually draws blood.

So, I tried the overkill approach and bought them an entire arsenal. It worked. They very quickly tired of playing with their guns, except when friends who aren’t allowed guns came to play. Then they played with them a lot. More than once I've had to literally wrestle the weapon away from a visiting kid because they became like Gollum - huddled in a dark corner and calling the gun "my precioussssssss" and what have you. Frightening stuff, really.

Anyway, since Rainman’s recent fascination with James Bond (again with the inappropriateness… ) their romance with weapons – namely handguns are the fetish – has been rekindled. I try to tell myself that someone has to be defenders of the law. And has to work for MI5. And has to join the army (somewhere, just not here). Not all gun owners are gangsters. And not all gangsters have guns; they have other things with sharp ends. And I’ve decided that a fascination with knives would be much more dangerous. So, I’ll take my chances with a toy gun thanks.

P.s. An aside. Don’t try drinking lots of Espresso to help you through Christmas shopping. I’ve tried. I can never go back to that mall now.

hot fuzz...

2010-12-01T20:14:00.003+02:00

It’s not often that I upload image heavy blog entries (blinking SA bandwidth being what it is) but with Christmas round the corner I thought everyone deserved a treat. I remembered an exciting book (gift ideas you see) that I once borrowed from my friend Heidi. Now, I’ve heard the joy of giving is that much greater if you’ve put a lot of effort into the gift. Imagine the overwhelming giving-satisfaction if you’ve gone to the trouble of actually making something with your own bare hand? So, here are some stunning Christmas idea’s that I know will just blow your socks off. To entice you to read further I’ll even give you the title of the book …. Wild Knitting.

WTF!! Knitting, so help me Christmas, has never, ever been a wild activity.

With all the bad publicity that furs get, PETA will be glad to know that the best big thing in warm-wear isn't mink at all. No, no, it's armadillo. Crusty, you might be thinking. Ah ha, but not if it's knitted...

This devastatingly sexy, knitted (strike 1) jumpsuit (strike 2) will be just the jolly thing to get everyone in the festive mood...you know, laughing, cheering, laughing...

For all those flat-dwellers out there who long for their own little patch of garden... A fully knitted garden! The bricks are especially practical. No lugging heavy decor-paving around, no siree. No watering required either, just a quick hoover every now and then (plastic flowers optional).

And, if you're looking for something stylish and unique for a table setting... knitted fruit!

Been wondering how you'll keep your fine form over the festive season? The solution lies before you...knitted ice-creams. An added bonus is that it could quite possibly double up as a teeth-cleaning exercise (think floss and fuzzy type of toothbrush).

... no melting in the sun either...

What could be more fetching than a knitted bikini? Not only that, but imagine ...

a) how well this weathers in the water; and

b) how it must itch the living hell out of your private parts. As if beach sand wasn't enough.

When Emirates Airlines gets a hold of this image, by jove they will change their air hostess uniforms! These are made especially nice by the wonderful, romantic light that has made the images all furry. No wait, that's a lint halo. Strike 1..Pastels. Strike 2..bingo wing sleeves

It's not so much about the outfits as it is about the whole picture. Knitwear on the beach? Must be Brighton. The stylist took an especially long time to style the lady on the right's hair. At a second glance, she must have taken equally as long on the other woman's hair.

Is the man in your life an outdoorsy type? Show him you love him by knitting him a pastoral pully. The ensamble would not be complete without the bobble hat to round off the theme. Note the blue (sky) with white (clouds) and yellow pompom (sun). Take me to bed baby...

For those out there who needed a closeup of the design...

Finding the perfect office Christmas party dress is always such a bind. Look no further. Not only that, but if you look carefully you'll see the fake, knitted cigarette in her hand. Getting in early on those New Years resolutions we are ... (NOTE: the foldover boob is not included in the pattern.)

Last, but by no means least, some very cunning fancy dress ideas for that New Year's eve party you always have to dicky yourself up for. These are totally re-usable anytime, anywhere...You know, kike that 70's theme bridesmaid dress you'e been able to wear over and

over and over again.

inappropriately fine, er, thanks...

2010-11-25T18:50:00.001+02:00

There really are loads things that irk me about being a parent, but seriously, one of my pet hates has to be when people get preachy. And one of my pet preachy words that I love to hate is the word “inappropriate”. Preachy parents in particular over-use it like a Navy man’s wanking hand. They seem to forget that the word “appropriate”, by it’s very nature, has an elastic quality to it.

For instance, I think it’s wildly inappropriate to wear stilettos in a nightclub. Why? Because if I did I would wipeout within about 10 seconds. However, for someone more accustomed to these high hells, it would be deemed essential. Depending, of course on their urgency to look hot and bag some fresh meat. (Apropos stilettos: made more for lying down then for walking around and dare I say dancing, if you feel me.)

Here’s another example. In South Africa, it’s considered “inappropriate” (aaargh, even writing the word just bores me to tears) to greet your dinner guests in your slippers, and even more inappropriate to ask them to remove their shoes. However, in some parts of Europe (maybe all parts, who the hell knows) and in places like Japan, it’s not only appropriate to receive guests in your “house shoes” (a.k.a. slippers), but you are also perfectly within your rights to ask them to take off their “outside” shoes before you’ll allow them in. See what I mean?

I’m hoping (for your sake) that you’re not closely acquainted with anyone who uses the word “inappropriate”. But if a friend of yours does let is slip (for real, out in the open, not under their breath) here’s how you might handle it. Pretend you didn’t hear them or sniff loudly and look away. Letting out an exasperated sounding sigh or mumbling something under your breath (“eejit” normally works well) can sometimes stop their preachy train of thought. Watch out for the “lemon lips” look though. Preachy people are very, very good at pulling sour faces. Apparently flipping the middle finger is considered excessive so save this for when you really need it (e.g. shopping centers, road rage, parking lots).

In a nutshell, unless you find me or my offspring doing something truly, universally inappropriate (batting off in public, reading porn on the train, eating boogers) then save your energy. If you don’t, you’re just going to come across as poncy. Trust me.

Oy, Mary...

2010-11-19T11:47:00.001+02:00

It’s that time of year when nativity plays abound. I don’t often get schmoozy and schmaltzy about how cute kids are, but honestly, little kids plays just do it for me. Laughing and crying at the same time I tell ya.

Anyhow, it got me thinking about how inaccurate the plays are. I mean for starters, I don’t know who wrote “The Little Drummer Boy” but I’ll tell you one thing, the ox and lamb definitely do NOT keep time. And, although I’m a big fan of percussion, if I’d just given birth, there’s no way in hell I’d want a noisy drummer boy around. How selfish, can’t he see there’s a newborn trying to sleep?

Back to the inaccuracies. I propose it’s time someone wrote a more accurate script because I have a feeling this is how it really rolled…

SCENE ONE

(ENTER ANGEL GABRIEL. MARY IS CHILLING, PERHAPS READING SOME PERISHING SCROLL)

Mary: Whaaaat the…. Who are you? Or should I say, what are you?

Gabriel: (Loudly and very formally) I am Archangel Gabriel and I would have thought my wings would have given you a clue.

Mary: Right. No need to speak so loudly, I’m right here next to you. Um, sorry, but if it’s not too much trouble, could you stop waving those wings around. You’re dangerously close to the new urn I just bought. It’s not just decorative you know. I actually have to fetch water in it.

Gabriel: Oh hel…um, oh shoot. Sorry, I get a bit carried away.

Mary: What can I do for you today?

Gabriel: (under his breath…As if! Did she not just hear me say I am an ANGEL?) Well, Mary (condescending tone), I am actually here to do something for you today. Soon, you will have a baby. Well not soon, in about 9 months time. And you will call him Jesus and he will be our Saviour.

Mary: There must be some mistake. I don’t know how to say this, but, I can’t be pregnant. I’m, um…. a virgin. (softly)

Gabriel: Sorry, I didn’t get that. You’re a what?

Mary: A virgin alright, a virgin (much louder)

Gabriel: Oh! Oh, how foolish of me. I left out the important part. You’ve got an immaculate contraption.

Mary: A what?

Gabriel: Dang, I think I said that wrong… what’s it called again. Oh yes, you’ve had an Immaculate Conception. You are able to bear a child without first having to….

Mary: OK, OK, I get the idea. Lucky me. How do you expect me to explain this to Joseph? I am married you know, this isn’t just about me.

Gabriel: Shoot, yes. Well, you look like a bright girl, I’m sure you’ll think of something. Um, perhaps I could leave you a feather from my wing. You know, as proof that I’ve been here and all.

Mary: Looks very similar to a pigeon feather but whatever.

Gabriel: Righto then, my work here is done for now. Good luck with the whole pregnancy thing and don’t worry about the puffy ankles. They eventually go down.

Mary: (under her breath) How would you know, eejit.

(Louder) One question though. Do I really have to name him Jesus? It’s just that Joseph was at school with a guy called Jesus and I tell you, he was a real arseho… um, sorry, not a cool guy. He’s not going to like naming our son that one bit.

Gabriel: (sighing) Mary. I’m the messenger and I think you have a fair idea of who sent me. He gave clear instructions and I wouldn’t suggest messing with him. Know what I mean?

Mary: You know what? Whatever. Its not like I’ve had any say thus far so thanks for the awesome news but I’d like to finish my scroll before my ankles start to swell.

SCENE 2

(SHEPHERDS SETTLING IN FOR THE NIGHT)

Levi: Ish! Hey Ishmael, check out that star dude. It’s moving closer and getting bigger.

Ishmael: Dude, you been smoking that pipe of yours again? You’ve got to stay off the strong stuff; it’s starting to mess with your head.

Levi: Ish, don’t be an arsehole, just listen to me. I swear, that star is moving and getting bigger and closer.

(GABRIEL SWOOPS DOWN AND LANDS NEXT TO THEM)

Ishmael: By Jove! Whaaat the?

Gabriel (under his breath) Always the same blinking response! Uneducated Philistines, don’t they know an angel when they see one?

Jove: (sounding sleepy) Did someone call me? Whaaaat the?

Gabriel: (under his breath) Again with the “whaaat the!”

(Loudly) Um, as you can see, gentlemen (as if). I am an angel. Archangel Gabriel to be exact, and I’m here to tell you that your Saviour that has been born this very night in Bethlehem. You will find him in a stable…

Levi and Ishmael: Dude, no need to be so loud. The sheep are sleeping man. Who was born in a what?

Gabriel: A Saviour. Sa vior. In a stable. Sta ble. You know, where they keep livestock.

Jove: What the heck is our Saviour doing in a stable?

Gabriel: All the inns were full. I know you types don’t pay much attention to current affairs but its there’s that whole tax and be counted thing going on right now, so they had to make do.

Ishmael: (under his breath to the others) Poor woman who had to give birth in a stable.

Jove: (under his breath) No shit dude. That’s barbaric!

Gabriel: Righto then, if you’re all clear on this then I’ll be off. Think you can find your way there?

Levi: With all due respect dude, I know you’re like an angel and we’re just mere mortals but we’re like shepherds. We know how to mission.

SCENE 3

(THREE WISE MEN SITTING ROUND PLAYING BACKGAMMON)

Gaspar: Good move Balty. Now I’m going to kick your derriere!

Bathasar: You havn’t beaten me in backgammon since the last plague old chap. Don’t see it happening today.

Melchior: Childish banter. Can’t you two just play like civilized adults? We’re wise men, godammit. Magi, not schoolboys!

Gaspar: Mel, don’t be such an old fart. I’m over this whole being wise the whole dang time. When we’re alone it’s cool just to shoot the breeze. You know, decompress a little.

GABRIEL ENTERS – WINGS FLAPPPING LOUDLY

Gaspar, Balthasar, and Melchior: Whaaaat the….?

Gabriel: (under his breath) I’d have thought this lot would have inkling. But nooooo. (Sighs loudly and speaks in a bored voice) I am angel Gabriel and I bring you good news.

Bathasar: My horse won the race? Powerpocket boys, told you that horse is headed for big things.

Gabriel: No no NO! This is bigger than winning the races. This is about your Saviour, who has been born this very night in Bethlehem.

Melchior: Bethlehem? Isn’t that were that whole tax and be counted thing is happening? Bit of an inconvenient time and place don’t you think?

Gabriel: (condescending) Some people are above inconvenient times and places. Did you not hear me say the word “Saviour”?

Bathasar: Alright, alright. No need to be snippy about it. What would you have us do?

Gabriel: (getting impatient) Go and see him of course. Saviour, Saviour, I said Saviour. What’s wrong with you people? Don’t you want to be the first people to meet your Saviour?

Melchior: Alright, alright. I suppose you have a point old chap. Well leave shortly.

Gabriel: See that you do. And be sure to bring some pressies. I can’t imagine the shepherds thought to take anything for the family. A home cooked meal might be nice.

Gaspar: Not really our thing you know, we’re wise men, not chefs.

Gabriel: What e ver. Just make it count ok. It’s unlikely you’re going to get another shot at this whole being saved thing in a hurry.

Gaspar: Jolly good show. I wonder old chap, don’t suppose you know what your wingspan is? Might be useful to know that.

Gabriel: (very condescending) I’d have thought, old chap, that the size of my wingspan pales in comparison to the news I’ve just brought you. Good day to you all. (DEPARTS)

Melchior: Bit of a scratchy fellow, don’t you think? Not really what I imagined. He’s obviously chosen the austere formal approach over kind, cute and lovable.

Gaspar: Mel, you’re such an idiot! The kind, cute and lovable ones are the cherubs.

Melchior: (under his breath) Wise arse.

Gabriel: (whilst flying back to heaven) Pfffft! Barbaric Philistines, the whole lot of them.

(IN CHORUS) And so concludes our real rendition, we hope you’ve enjoyed our play. We saved you the birthing scene for sure, but at Easter we’ll have our say.

if leggings could talk...

2010-11-12T09:45:00.002+02:00

Today’s tale is a cautionary one. Now I’m not proud to say this, but it’s a habit of mine to go grocery shopping directly from the gym. It’s about saving time and also let’s face it, I’m unlikely to bump into Ryk Neethling or Gerard Pique at the mall, so I really don’t see the need to primp and preen too much. A recent(ish) set of circumstances, however, has made me reconsider my policy on appropriate shopping attire.

Around a year ago, I was mooching round the condiment section in Pick ‘n Pay, when a youngish chap in a wheelchair approached me. He was maybe in his mid 20’s, seemed friendly and his big blue eyes were like the ones belonging to that cute cat in Shrek. You know… kind of sad, kind of beautiful, kind of you-can’t-ignore me eyes.

He told me how he not only worked at Pick ‘n Pay, but also ran five of his own (yes five) businesses simultaneously, and was managing to squeeze in some studying.

What are you studying, I ask? Fashion Design. For obvious reasons, most people would have smelt a rat, but I was so busy berating myself for being such a slacker compared to this bewheeled chap that I was completely taken off guard when he made his request. He asked if I perhaps knew of anyone - perhaps even someone like me - who would be willing to donate a second-hand pair of Lycra leggings to him. He was insistent that they be secondhand. His fashion project challenge, you see, was to create something new out of something old. The project was due right away, no time to spare, need them this week, sure to flunk without them.

"Of course" I say, I definitely have an old pair and if he could give me his name I’d leave them at the courtesy desk the following day. NO, he says (a little too loudly, I thought). Don’t leave them at the desk. It’s happened before and another thieving staff member has stolen them.

This, of course, was a second opportunity for me to smell a rat. "It’s happened before?" Should have been my first question, if only to myself. "Why would another person want a smelly old pair of leggings?" Should have been my second question, if only to myself. I turned down his offer of personally fetching them at my home. I didn’t want to seem cruel but had to point out that we have 70 stairs up to our front door. I kept them in my car for a couple of weeks, thinking I’d be sure to bump into him again.

Fast forward to just before Christmas. I’m back at Pick ‘n Pay. Again, directly from the gym, again in my leggings. Before I know it, wheelchair-boy is alongside me. He’s looking unshaven and disheveled and says that he tried to top himself on the weekend. Oh no! Why? I cry. (Again, I didn’t want to seem heartless by saying; Dude, I totally understand. I mean you’re in a bloody wheelchair, right?) Well, he says, not only is he working at Pick ‘n Pay, but he also is running five (yes, five) of his own businesses simultaneously, and to make matters worse, he has a fashion project due the very next day that he has been unable to complete due to not having the right materials and do I by any chance know someone who would be willing to give him a second-hand pair of leggings? OK, now I smell the rat and realize the rat is uncomfortably at crotch level. I am seriously un-nerved. What kind of warped MOFO would want my smelly old leggings???!!! I mumble some excuse about recently having given all my second-hand leggings to the shelter and shift off as quickly as possible.

Nine blinking months later, I’m cruising the mall (again, I confess, the gym leggings feature) when I hear a squeaky, wheely noise following me. Oh crap, I think to myself and quicken my pace. Squeaky, wheely noise speeds up aswell (how can I compete with wheels, I mean really) and before I know it wheelchair-boy is alongside me. He dives right in. '"You know what I hate", he says. People who won’t give you their leggings, I think to myself. "School", he says (obviously, cueing me to ask "which school and why"). I manage to mumble something like “yes, you and many other scholars feel the same”. I’m now quite breathless from trying to get him off my tail and can't come up with anything more punchy to deter him.

Then begins our game of cat and mouse, with me stopping at random shops, jumping from aisle to aisle like Mrs. Smith and in general trying to get wheelchair-boy off my tail. The wylie bugger catches up with me in the fresh produce section and tells me EXACTLY THE SAME BLOODY STORY!!!! By now I’m equally creeped out and peeved because he doesn’t even recognize that I’m THE SAME CHICK HE KEEPS HARASSING!!!! Dude, I eventually say. You’re in such luck. Leggings are seriously in fashion, I’ve just seen loads at Woolies for like 80 bux a pair and your lecturers will never know the difference. NO, he says. They’ll know. His voice is very throaty and his eyes are glinting, as he adds (a little too loudly, I thought) NO, THEY HAVE TO BE SECOND-HAND.

Now, everyone I’ve told this story to has their own theory as to why wheelchair-boy wants my smelly old leggings but I’ll tell you this much. I’ll wear them till I see him again, then I’m gonna say to him, “You. Me. Coffee. And you’re going to tell me what in God's name you’re doing with all these leggings.” And when I find out, I’ll tell you. But for now, any theories are welcome.

pass the smack...

2010-11-04T12:19:00.000+02:00

There comes a time in every person’s life when you consider drugs. Now I’m not talking hardcore shit; like smack, tik, crack or any other monosyllabic substance that could cause irreversible brain damage– just maybe a little something to enhance your 3D and, er... 4D experience.

Though I wish I could indulge you with some wild gossip about the concoction of Prozac, Paxil and Valium that I’m on, I must be honest. Other than my brief foray with an anticonvulsant - which I’ve been assured I actually needed - the only other drug I think I could have a successful long lasting relationship with, is sports stimulants.

A few months ago, a couple of friends of mine consulted with a woman who used to be a body builder and is now just your regular perfectly sculpted pain in the arse. Including her advice on eating portions that are not larger than a thimble, she handed over a bottle (each) of “natural stimulants” which, supposedly, was to enhance their training. The next day, I read on facebook (the oracle of all personal revelations) how one of the girls in question had lost her mind after taking the “natural stimulant” and was still (24hrs later) crawling round on the floor trying to find it. The other reported that post dosage; her heart had actually popped out her chest and had offered to brew a cup of chamomile. To this day I often find her mumbling the words to "pump up the jam". Of course, she offered the rest of the offending bottle of drugs to me and I was keen to try it. Mostly because I’m curious, but also because I’m known to err on the side of recklessness.

I don’t take painkillers often, but when I do I like it to be a sure thing and pretty much triple the recommended dose. I also never bother with naff stuff like Panado and always reach for the drug with the biggest possible kick. Pain isn’t one of those things I’m prepared to cock around with. I had my doubts as to whether these “natural stimulants” would do anything for me at all. 30 min before my training routine, I popped one and waited 10 minutes. Nothing. Of course it doesn’t bloody work, I thought to myself. Was I actually expecting to morph into Jane Fonda immediately? I chased the administered drug with my normal cup of coffee, thinking this might chivvy things along. Nope. Still nothing.

Having accepting that no transformation was imminent – I trudged off to the gym. Holy crap, then it happened. 10 minutes into my workout, the drug finally kicked in. Before I knew it, I was snorting like a racehorse and was able to perform feats that havn’t yet been invented. I think people around me were making the circle bigger for fear of me karate kicking the living daylights out of them. Who knows what I sounded like; my heart was now firmly lodged in my eardrums so I had to turn my iPod up super-loud. I was focused, fierce, subtle and meant business. If I’d been brave enough to look in the mirror, I’m sure I would have seen my skin turn that extreme blotchy red that is not only fetching, but also wickedly sexy. I felt exceptionally light and then realized, there’s nothing natural about these drugs. No siree.

They must have had some vicious chemical in them, like a bad boyfriend who makes you feel horribly good for a while, then horribly bad for a longer while. When I finally finished teaching those medicine balls a lesson, I floated to my car and took a look at my eyes in the rear-view mirror. Pinpricks. Consider yourself warned. Beware of thermogenics, they’re not what they say they are…but boy they can make you dance.

gggggggupcha, ggella gggella....

2010-10-27T14:00:00.003+02:00

I’m sure my fans (like Jesus when he first started out, I have a small but devoted following of around 12 people) were wildly disappointed when I missed last week’s blog post. I was airborne in more than one sense and unable to write. Flying over the North Pole didn’t make me feel as high as you’d expect (blasted cloud cover) but I daresay the concoction of Excedrin, Neurofen, Antihistamine and several Bloody Mary’s did. God love Emirates Airlines and the near sexual favours I had to perform to secure my emergency exit seat. Verbal striptease I like to call it.

Because there really is a God out there, I was able to rest up my puffy airline ankles (where did my leg end and the foot begin?) overnight in Dubai. But I need to start with my moment of arrival. After 17 hours of flying - sitting next to a woman from Iran whom I might add, was clearly competing with me for all the vodka and whiskey on the trolley - I was relieved to land on terra firma. Sitting stationary for an eternity left me unsure of whether my wobbly legs were very light, or very heavy. Gravity I tell you. Gets me every time.

As we queued in the arrivals hall, I gazed round in wonder. This, I decided, is what heaven must be like. Every single surface has a sheen to it, the smell of expensive perfume permeated the air and the upright pillars that supported the well-lit ceiling were (I shit you not) white, with sparkly bits in the mix. It was as if Dubai’s architectural sultan said “find me every shiny, twinkly surface that has ever been made and bring it hither for my construction”. Wait, was that violins I heard? A “NO CAMPING” sign would have completed the illusion for me.

But for the bad publicity that Islam has suffered over the last 9 years, the immigration officials looked almost angelic in their white Thobes and Ghutra’s. I felt the effect would have been complete if they could have chosen garlands instead of black igals to hold their ghutras in place. I know black and white is classic but the contrast was all too harsh darling, all too harsh.

If French is the language of love, Italian the language of food and Afrikaans the language of clearing-your-throat, then surely Arabic is the language of cussing. Why do they sound so pissed off the whole time? The noises they make are akin to someone’s last words as they are being garroted. Ggggggupcha gggella gggella gaaaaaa. Their much shaking of hands, heads and fingers reinforces my assumption. I prayed they wouldn’t find a stray poppy seed from my breakfast roll amongst my clothes. I can’t imagine what they would sound like if they really were pissed off.

I reflect on the graffiti that someone scratched onto the elevator door. Aladdin. I wonder how many there are here? I consider scratching “open sesame” alongside but decide against it - hidden cameras are forever on my mind and I'm pretty sure the UAE has a zero tolerance attitude towards vandalism. I get to my room and flick the light switch. Nothing. I immediately assume that this is how they enforce “night-time is bed-time”. After going through a series of stretching exercises that involve keeping the door open with my toe (picture a small shaft of corridor light) and feeling up every wall surface within reach, I eventually find a nifty little box that says “place card here”. Bingo, but how the hell am I supposed to find the dang box in the dark? Now I'm convinced that there are hidden cameras filming me and I am the butt end of some arabic joke. I'm impressed however, that they are realistic about the heat here. The windows don’t open at all.

En route to the dining hall I stop at the hotel curio shop. As you may know, permitted images on decor are limited and there's a lot of geometric shit going down on wall hangings and such, though they clearly have no problem with camels. Apparently, when it comes to Dubai men’s fashion, nothing goes better with metallic than metallic. I spot a leather jacket with fur trim for sale and have to wonder WTF? Do locals turn up the aircon full tilt just so they can have a chance to wear winter fashions? Also, from what I’ve seen on TV here so far, I can only say that costume design in Arabic countries must be a very dull career choice indeed.

I will end my report on Dubai by saying this; they clearly pay no attention to time – 3am is no different to 3pm for them, their toilets have dangerously high water levels (maybe to encourage bidet use?), and if you want to see crushing crowds – go to the 18carrat section at the airport Gold shop. Oh, and perhaps steer away from anything that says "minced meat". I don't doubt it.

real rack

2010-10-08T02:00:00.003+02:00

Obviously, as I arrived in the USA this week, I have stumbled upon a myriad of hot topics for blogging. Probably enough to fuel a lifetime of writing, such is the funniness of the American nation. That might be a bit unfair really, because truth be told I find lots of things funny about lots of foreign nations.

OK, so after we’ve gone for a powerful power walk, spotted a dolphin, chatted about crap and had a fiercely frozen smoothie, we end up in Belmont Shore. At least I think it’s where we were. I’ve been very confused since arriving in California because all the neighbourhoods look so similar to me - probably because they are so similar. Even though I am still wearing my sporty “Wheelchair-man Fetish” lycra leggings (which trust me, is a frightening story for another day), we feel smart enough to cruise the shops and check out what’s happenin’ stateside in the fashion world. After trawling a few costume shops - remember Halloween is round the corner - and pondering the appropriateness of some costumes (Sexy Harem Girl, Hospital Scrubs Girl and Wicked Nurse Knockout spring to mind) we find a really cool boutique called Saga.

The clothes were great, but what really got my attention was a screen in the shop. Not so discreetly tucked away, it was playing an advertorial on a loop for a product called Pick-Me-Up breast lift tape. It starts with showing a woman’s breasts, naked as the day they reached puberty. One is covered by something I later found out is called a “Smooth’em Nipple Concealer”, which actually looks much, much more tragic than it sounds. At first I thought it was plastic surgery gone wrong. You know, like they mislaid the poor woman’s nipple during the procedure and decided to put a piece of flat pinkish fabric there instead, hoping of course that she’d never notice. Then you see a finely groomed woman’s hand niftily placing a oblong shaped, transparent sticker thing over the other breast.

The finely groomed hand first attaches it along the bottom of the breast, just below the remaining nipple, hikes the breast up and sticks it to the flesh just under the collarbone. Now, although there is a great improvement in breast perkiness, I have to say that it looks like a bad joke waiting to happen. What happens if you are a sweaty person (everyone is in a nightclub, aren’t they?) and this causes the adhesive to become unstuck. I can just see the scene unfolding. Guy notices girl in bar. Guy goes over to chat her up. Guy notices incredibly perky breasts. Girl notices guy noticing incredibly perky breasts. Girl gets all sweaty and nervous because she knows perkiness is fake. Sweat causes adhesive to stop working. Guy notices one breast dropping down un-nervingly quickly to less perkiness. Guy withdraws offer to buy girl a drink. Girl is so embarrassed that she never regains her normal skin tone. Really, it’s just to horrific to think about.

Me being the weirdo I am, I quickly write down the www address and vow to look up this product as soon as we’re home. The site is called purestylegirlfriends.com but it should be called faketitsandarse.com. Here, very briefly, are some of the products you can purchase. Bump and Jump-a-cup (bigger - always bigger - with more cleavage), Bump-a-Booty (pads to sculpt and shape the derrière - because butts always need more padding, right?), Cover-a-cup (who knows) Gather-the-girls (to gather together wayward tits that are holidaying under your armpits) and of course my all time favorites - Smooth ‘em Non or fully Adhesive’s (to squish and cover nipples).

I cannot imagine a guys disappointment, and a girl’s embarrassment, when they finally get into the sack. Her spell on him will be broken the minute he discovers that not only are her breasts saggy and wayward, but her bum ain’t nothing butt. It’s like lying about being clever. Sooner or later you’re just going to sound dumb.

doesn't taste like chicken...

2010-10-01T10:40:00.002+02:00

We went camping this past weekend. Normally, coming from me, that would be enough said. But camping is a can of worms for another day. One of the shorties that came on the trip was sick. He announced it quite loudly when he arrived so I made my kids eat two oranges in quick succession to be on the safe side. I also threatened them with a fierce lashing if they shared the sick shortie’s bowl, glass or general breathing space. My oldest son got the rotor virus on our first camping trip (who takes a one year old camping? Duh!) and it kind of tainted the whole outdoorsy experience for me. Again I digress; this is about kids and medicine.

Why do kids need drugs in the first place? Because they get sick. If ever there was a mammoth design flaw, it would be that kids have to get sick at all. Until you’re old enough to read a novel, watch 5 DVD’s back to back and - dare I say - embrace drugs wholeheartedly, you shouldn’t get sick. It should just be a universal truth. Like you can’t get knocked up before puberty. You know, that kind of a rule.

I feel there’s a big market out there for something like fake medicine for kids. Something that tastes sort of like medicine, but much, much nicer. The rationale behind my thinking is that by the time the little blighters actually fall ill, taking medicine is old hat.

The main thing about kid’s medicine is the taste. It seems to be impossibly tricky to make medicine that doesn’t taste like toilet cleaner. Said sick camper confirmed this. He wouldn’t even touch the stuff he normally likes, never mind wolf down the chalky, banana flavoured anti-biotics his poor mother was trying to administer. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure bananas should be banana flavoured. And as for the whole chalky consistency… not really one of the winning textures for oral consumption. Apropos antibiotics, I’ve had a strong feeling for quite some time that they should be made in suppository form. Now that would be a solution. Psst, slip ‘em one while they’re sleeping. In fact ALL kid’s medicine should be in suppository form.

As for Buscopan, supposedly for stomach cramps, I have a theory. It tastes so vile that it makes you puke your guts out, so the cramps go away. It’s a no gut no cramp theory. I just know it’s manufactured in Lucifer’s Laboratory and the year it was invented it won the “Most Disgusting Medicine Award”. How they expect anyone to get that stuff down, let alone keep it down, I have no idea.

And lastly, a word of warning; whatever you do, don’t try Omega 3 in syrup form. It seems like a cunningly good idea but know that it tastes like you’ve’ given a dodgy salmon a blowjob.

what's in a name...

2010-09-22T14:49:00.001+02:00

I have to give my friend Sean credit for this blog idea. I wish I had thought of it first, but I didn’t and it was simply too good to pass up. His mail to me (concisely put I thought) said quite simply, ‘Jamie Oliver has named his latest kid Buddy Bear. (Ok, he actually said brat, but he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s evil but delightful.) The others are called Petal Blossom Rainbow, Daisy Boo and Poppy Honey. After you have finished vomiting, perhaps there is a future article in this.’

Why in the name of God would you set up your own flesh and blood for such ridicule? I remember thinking when Poppy Honey was born that the name was quite cute. You know, because he is a cook and all and doesn’t like to stray too far from foodie words.

But Buddy Bear? Cheese, that’s going to sit really well with him when he’s a strapping teenager. Let’s not even mention that his poor girlfriend/wife/lover will have to call out “Oh Buddy Bear” in the throes of passion. Yup, that’s sexy right there folks. Poor bloke, he’s going to have to introduce himself as “Hi, I’m Jamie Oliver’s son” for the rest of his life. As for Petal Blossom (because we didn’t quite catch the flower theme on the first name) Rainbow (implying rainbow coloured florals?) and Daisy (again with the garden talk) Boo (Boo, gave you a fright? Boo Hoo? Boo Radley? Boo is close to Pooh?) Quite frankly, there are no words.

It’s not only celebrities who come up with joke-worthy names for their kids. Why, in my very own Grandmothers family, all nine sisters were all called a different version of Sue. Sue, Soekie, Susanna, Ou Soes, Soesie and who knows what the feck else. It’s like those redneck brothers in that TV show from the eighties. You know, Newheart…. "Hi, I'm Larry, this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl.

I suppose I should be grateful for parents who are creative when they decide on names for their children. A popular inspiration, I’m sure you’ll agree, is when parent’s combine their names to create a wholly new name. Or they combine two names they do like to create one name that neither of them like. Just Google “combining names” and see just how many people out there think this a cunning idea. As one site puts it; There are no wrong names. (Er, I beg to differ) Combining parts of Mom and Dad are what makes this baby special in the first place. (Riiiight.) Still, you have to marvel; Petronella comes from Peter and Ronelle. Fredella comes from Fred and Ella. Vanessa and Lisette make a stunning Vannette, and joining Jessica and Faye means you get to be… Jessaye.* Who can guess where names like Shanaaz, Hilette and Denvey originate from. I’m only grateful Victoria and David Beckham didn’t decide to do this. Brooklyn (TMI to know where you were conceived BTW) could have been Vivid, and Romeo might have been Davoria.

Needless to say, I knew a girl who changed her name when she was in her twenties. I wondered why and secretly hoped I’d finally met someone who was on the run from the law. She wasn’t, poor girl. It was because her parents had named her Griekie.

To end off, just because I’m so fond of poking fun at celebrities and all, I’ve made a list of some of some of my favorites:

Zuma – son to Gwen Stefani. Clearly. Because he’s such a great role model.

Kal-el – son to Nicholas Cage. Because Arabic names are so hip right now. Let’s not forget the Kal-el was also Superman’s birth name.

Coco – daughter to Courtney Cox. Very original. We’d never have guessed.

Peaches Honeyblossom – daughter to Bob Geldof. Never too far from the hippie era.

Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily – daughter to Michael Hutchence. An obviously choice because it just rolls of the tongue, doesn’t it?

Teddy Jo, Speck Wildhorse and Hud – sons of John Cougar Mellencamp. Understandable I suppose. I mean if you voluntarily adopted the middle name Cougar for yourself. Also, it ain’t southern if it ain’t two names or single syllable.

Apple and Moses – offspring of Gwyneth Paltrow. Ok, I get it. Your names Gwyneth. You wanted to keep it simple.

Zahara Marley, Maddox Chivan, Siloh Nouvel, Pax Thien – football team belonging to Brad and Angelina. We’re so cool, so rich and co good looking we can name our kids whatever we want.

Sparrow. Genderless offspring to Nicole Ritchie. Mmmm. One flew over the cuckoo’s nest?

Hopper – son to Sean Penn – not a lot I can say about this one.

Kyd – son to David Duchovny – very short sighted. Kyd for short time, adult for longer.

Last but not least…

Jermajesty – son to Jermaine Jackson. Not at all because he was trying to outdo brother MJ’s Prince Michael 1, Prince Michael 2 and Paris Michael.

*I shit you not. These are real combinations that I found on the web. Frightening.

allies unite...

2010-09-17T09:19:00.002+02:00

I know why wrinklies, specifically grandparents, get along so well with kids - they have so much in common. True, there are some oldies out there (Grumpy Old Farts - a.k.a GOF’s) who don’t want to ackowledge the similarity but my advice to them is: make allies where you can. In order to demonstrate my theory, I’ve made a list of the similarities between wrinklies and kids. This is well researched and written whilst sober. More or less.

They have to wear flat, sensible shoes with non-slip soles. They have to eat food that’s easy to chew and even easier to digest. Under no circumstances serve them spicy food. Upsets their mind before it upsets their stomach. They miss the point. They take a long time to get to the point. They very often can’t see the point at all, even after it’s pointed out. They think they know everything. They pretend to know everything. They’ll tell you everything they think you ought to know.

They have a flexible approach when it comes to time-keeping. No wait, make that a complete disregard for time-keeping. They get cranky in restaurants when the waiter doesn’t come quickly with their food. They get cranky about quite a lot of things, most of which are things you can do absolutely nothing about.

They make funny noises when they eat. They pee in their pants. Strike that and make it, they struggle to keep many of their bodily fluids where they belong. They don’t always realise when there is food stuck on their face.

They are prone to dawdling. They walk slowly on purpose, just to irritate you. They walk slowly unintentionally, but it still irritates you. They repeat themselves. A lot. They repeat their jokes. A lot. They can make you contemplate pouring your evening drink a little early. They take a really long time to tell a really short story.

They dress themselves in weird clothes then comment on the clothes that other people are wearing. They stare at strangers. They point at strangers. They (seemingly) don’t really care what people think of them.

They steal shiny things. They lie about their age. They forget their age. They’re quite nosy. They’re petulant when they don’t get their own way. They swear under their breath. They swear out loud at inopportune moments. They talk to themselves. They’re frightened by loud noises, unless that is, they’re making it themselves. They’re not big on compromise and though they’re actually quite adaptable, they’d rather inconvenience you than inconvenience themselves. I think perhaps the only thing (other than having a good memory, that is) that they don’t have in common is a blue-rinse. But I’ll bet if you asked a kid, well hell, they'd be all for it.

don't, it'll break..

2010-09-09T15:39:00.000+02:00

I think we can all agree that the people who invented pop-up books may not actually have real, live children.

Most pop-up books carry a “not suitable for children under 36 months warning”, but there is always some eejit who gives it as a gift when the kid’s like, a year old. I’m not even sure kids have got the hang of page turning by 36 months, but hey, who am I to say. Perhaps my kids are unreasonably cack-handed, but even by the time they’d reached 5 ½ they’d still not mastered the art of pop-up books.

And there’s good reason for this. The pop-up parts are made of cardboard. Kids hands seem to be, on the whole, kind of wet. Clammy, if you like. This is another mystery; I put it down to body fluids. But is there an endless supply of body fluids that can emanate from them? I think not. Maybe they’re, um, what’s the word… ah yes, hygroscopic. Yes, like coffee or sugar or at the coast. As Wikipedia defines it: they have the ability to attract water molecules from the surrounding environment. Impressive, I’d say. If it wasn’t so bloody dodgy. Needless to say, cardboard plus clammy equals a soggy kind of wetboard - not very poppy-uppy at all. If, by the grace of God, the pop-up bits manage to stay dry, there is the maneuverability factor.

Now believe it or not, cardboard isn’t as slidey or poppy-uppy as one would think. Granted, it may have to do with who is charged with operating the moving bits. I now understand why moving parts on the whole, are made out of metal with a touch of grease. Some clever sciency type must have figured out that cardboard - surprise-surprise - does not cut the mustard when it comes to durability. Why the hell didn’t they didn’t tap into this pearl of wisdom when they invented pop-up books? And if metal isn’t an option for book construction (i.e. too heavy; could be used as a weapon) surely we could recycle all the rogue plastic in the world to make slick, maneuverable pop-up books instead of these iffy cardboard ones that stay intact for all of 12 hours? I mean I really thought that this was the era of seriously innovative shit.

And another thing. The title for every pop-up book may as well be “Don’t touch or it’ll break”. Because that is what you have to say every time you turn the page. It really becomes very boring.

And why is this pop-up book business such a ball ache to me? Because of the Oscar winning drama that ensues when the kid who broke it finds out that not only is the book broken, but also pretty much unfixable. Mostly, the offending, stuffed-up book gets tossed across the room (either by me or by the home-wrecker in question), which renders it (with any luck) completely unsalvageable. No wonder TV is such a hit with families. They’re much, much harder to break. Well, mostly.

my dark side ...

2010-09-01T12:38:00.003+02:00

There really wasn’t anything that had me laughing about families or kids this week. Unsurprisingly really, because possibly they’re mostly a bit bloody ho-hum. I managed to steer clear of smack, booze (mostly) and valium which I think is not only noteworthy but proves that I’m really putting my back into this role-model slash mothering business. So what do you do when you feel your week’s been a bit mundane? You experiment with your bodily functions of course. Here’s my brief foray into my dark side.

Over time I’ve read a lot of literature (in retrospect, maybe too much) about the benefits of having a clean colon. Now, I can’t consciously remember ever having gone in there to do a spring-clean myself and apparently All Bran doesn’t actually cut as much mustard as you’d think. Mmm, what to do? The thought of having someone stick a pipe up my rear-end just seemed too dire as an initial step. What sort of conversation could I possibly strike up with the person doing it I have to wonder? I decided the next best thing would be to give an “Iso-Osmotic Bowel Clearance Solution” a whirl.

I think the name they give it - Klean-Prep - somewhat glosses over it’s true potential. It should be called “Complete Overhaul” or “Power hose pipe-wash”, something like that. To indicate the potency of this stuff I’ll say this. There are four sachets per pack and after drinking the contents of just one sachet – which I hasten to add, gets mixed into one whole litre of water – I was sure that all my innards had pretty much entirely disintegrated.

You’re supposed to down 250ml of Satan’s Solution every 15 min. Even under normal circumstances, drinking four litres of anything in four hours can make you feel like puking. Add to that four litres of water, four sachets of evil tasting Iso-osmotic Bowel Clearance Solution and quite frankly, there should be some sort of award if you can keep it all down. Not least of all because the solution hardly tastes like a solution at all. In fact it never ceases to amaze me how things that are supposedly good for you – like solutions – taste like they come from bowels of Lucifer, and things that are supposedly bad for you – like chocolate and whiskey – taste like they are made in God’s kitchen itself.

I blame myself, really, for not taking the time to gain more insight into what the experience held. Here are a few clues I gleaned (after the fact) from the packaging and insert:

1. Eat no solid food for at least 2 hours before taking Klean-Prep. I can only assume that this is so you don’t ruin your relationship with the foodstuff that you may have consumed.

2. Klean-Prep is designed to cleanse the bowel and will cause diarrhoea-like watery bowel movements. A more accurate description would be: hold onto your seat because your rear-end’s going to have the kick of a fire hose

3. The first of these liquid bowel movements should occur within 1-2 hours of starting to drink the solution. How about: 5mins after you get your first 250ml down, you will let out and exceptionally loud fart, one so loud that it has people running for cover, three houses away. 5 min after that, you will start shooting through the eye of a needle.

4. You should stay near a toilet while talking Klean-Prep. They say that like you have any choice in the matter. Even Johnny Depp couldn’t tempt me to stray from the toilet.

5. Nausea, abdominal fullness and bloating may be experienced. Tick. Abdominal cramps, vomiting and anal irritation can occur. Tick. The only thing they left out is that it actually affects your vision. Truly. Your bowels must be connected to your eyes in some way because I was weeping and the room went blurry. At some stage I think I saw stars.

Amongst other things, unless completely necessary, I now avoid boxes with words like diarrhoea, nausea, cramps, vomiting and irritation. Just spelling them makes me feel them. I’m also investigating whether it’s legal to combine so many types of Sodium (who knew?) into one preparation. I feel sure there’s should be a law against it.

In closing, I swear so help me God that nothing I have ever ingested (in my past few lifetimes, even) has any aromatic resemblance with what came out in the end, or at the end. I was left with the horrific realisation that just a few minutes before, that odour actually resided inside me. The bonus of this exercise, however, is that I’m sure that if I stand in front of a fan with my mouth wide open, I will actually be able to whistle out my bum. Now that’s not something you can do every day.

step away from the red and no-one will get hurt...

2010-08-26T15:29:00.001+02:00

I went shopping this week, which in itself is quite something because I hate shopping. Despite the fact that this might make me a bit manly, I did find some cute dresses for little girls. It could have been my need for variety – because I have sons and all – but I was excited enough to mentally to through my list of deserving-little-girls to see who’d get one.

Then I remembered. Little girls have a more of a porno-slash-kitsch attitude to clothes. They wouldn’t be caught dead in the black and white gingham that I was all worked up about. Generally, there are clothes that parents would like kids to be wearing ... and then there’s all the other clothes ...

I think I’ll start with colours, namely pastels. I’m not even sure adults should wear pastels. Unless that is, you’re trying to pull a sickie and hope to get sent home from work because you’re looking a bit wan. You know, like wan of the sick wans. Maybe babygro designers hope that vomit is somewhat camouflaged against pastels, but truth be told, the sour smell gives it away.

Let's not forget the proverbial navy, green and khaki - a riveting choice - for little boys. Because like, they’re NEVER going to have to wear those colours once they’re grown men. Couple that with some very fetching prints of super-friendly looking wrestlers (the type you really want to take home to mum and dad), these tees are real style-makers. No really, I don’t know about you, but I would LOVE to have a picture of an earring-wearing wrestler (whose expression looks like he’s suffering from bad constipation) on my t-shirt. I can only imagine this started of as a bad joke. Hideous, is the first word that comes to mind. Followed swiftly by hideous again.

I don’t even think we need to discuss those “people-branding” kind of prints. For sure, Barbie, Hannah Montana, Ben Ten and the Jonas Brothers have their place in the world. But it’s not on t-shirts, nighties or god forbid, dresses. They shouldn’t even be on mugs or satchels. I might settle for them on the cover of a school file.

This entry would not be complete without mentioning pink. Pinkness is a big concern to me. Not because it’s pink, but because there’s SO DANG MUCH of it around. Seriously. I have noticed that unless it is pink, preferably with Liberace-type bling and made out of what I can only assume is slimy fabric from the future, little girls will simply not wear it. Also, the fact that girls only give attention to pink things is bad news for things like stop signs, which once they have their drivers license will be ignored, just for being red. It seems that unless given round Yuletide, don’t bother with giving a cute red outfit. I’ll just be put in the “re-gift” drawer. It’s enough to make you want an emo-kid, honestly. Just for the variety.

the kitchen's closed...

2010-08-17T12:34:00.001+02:00

Celebrity parents. It’s enough to make you want to chew your arm off, really. Of all the truly mind blowing things that celebrities say, the most irritating have to be the things they blab about parenting.

For starters… “We’re very hands on and don’t have a lot of help.” Um, riiiight. Let me get this straight. You have like, three to six kids and you don’t have a “lot” of help? Puh-leeeease. You and Mr Handsome-pants are away for work (modeling, singing, acting, designing your fashion range, getting caught philandering) for what, 4-8 weeks of the year? Even if you fly the coop at different times, that would mean for roughly 8-16 weeks of the year, only one parent at a time is responsible for the whole shebang?

I can only assume that their idea of “not a lot of help” is very different to mine. I’m sorry, truly I am, but I simply cannot believe, nor picture, one celebrity parent doing the hard yards with two, let alone six, kids. On their own. With not a “lot” of help. Given that they also have to take time out to learn lines, have meetings, socialise, get pampered and preened, rehearse, practice, smoke joints, get pampered and preened, go to the gym and get their plastic surgery done, it would seem that they may just be pony-ing up the truth. Just a bit. Cheeses. We’re hands on… gimme a break.

My favorite quotes have to be the ones on nutrition. Heidi Klum – bless her tiny size six bum – was quoted saying something like: “We all eat the same meal, right from the baby to the oldest. And when the kitchen is closed, the kitchen is closed." (She did say, in fairness, that the baby’s food is liquidized.) Given Mrs Seals svelte form, I’d say the kitchen was probably never really open in the first place. And if it was, it couldn’t have been for very long. Anyone who has tried to get a baby, toddler or child to settle when they are still hungry, knows that it is a daring statement to say, “the kitchen is closed”. Unless, that is, the “little bit of help” is getting up to fix a snack for the offending hungry child while the folks aren’t looking.

And then, folks, there’s Tom Cruise. Poster boy for the Vitamins to Cure Post-natal Depression Campaign. And all this time I thought he was an actor and not a world famous Psychiatrist! Shame on me. Er, Tom dear, it’s called Complimentary Medicine. It’s supposed to compliment not replace, the other medicine you might need. Geddit? You can tell that his split between spending time in the real word and on a set is not quite equal - that green screen may finally be getting to him. Vitamin advice, dear friends, from a man who hasn’t even had the balls to age gracefully. Perhaps I should write him a note telling him that anti-oxidants, vitamins and good nutrition are recommended for staying youthful? Plastic surgery, Tom? Nope, not me. Botox Tom? Bo whaaat? Fillers Tom? Never even heard of them! Real natural, Tom. No really, we can tell. Nice one.

give me the sensory deprivation room, please...

2010-08-09T13:05:00.000+02:00

I was nearly famous last week. Actually, that could be a bit of an exaggeration. I went to watch “Men who stare at goats” and swore (quite loudly, in fact) that in one scene, they'd stolen my idea. The one idea that could have made me famous. At least I thought they stolen my idea... till I Googled it and read that not only isn't it solely my idea, but its already famous and a true and horrific fact.

I’m getting diverted – sigh, George Clooney has a way of doing that to me. I won’t reveal the whole plot, but I will go so far as to say it’s set in some godforsaken deserty place with lots of US soldiers running around. Could be Iraq or Afghanistan (locations make a big impression on me, you can tell). Anyhow, there’s this Guantanamo Bay type scene where you see an inmate in the “hole” (why is it called a “hole” and is there such a thing as outmates? And while we’re at it, they’re really not treated like mates at all). He’s kitted in the usual outrageous range overalls, there’s a strobe light strobing and a music playing. LOUDLY. And which music would that be? No, not The Prodigy. No, not Metallica, Korn or ACDC either. But … the Barney theme song. So then I knew. Like for sure, sure, sure. It’s not just me. The whole hot damn world finally recognises the damage created by torturous nursery rhymes and tunes composed for kids television. Most grown ups will do anything for break from the monotonous caterwauling. They may even go so far as to sit in on a neighbour doing DIY with a angle grinder.

Do jingle writers deliberately do this? Don’t they know that - musically speaking - what parents need is something like chilled out jazz or Reggae (joint optional) or some perky pop (Simply Slim optional)? You know who your true friends are by the music they give you. If they give you nursery rhymes etc. they may secretly be keen on watching you launch yourself over a cliff. You see the truth is this. Adults assume that kids want to listen to music that sounds like kids i.e. a bit deranged, manic with too much soprano and falsetto. They don’t. They’re more than happy to hear good old rock with maybe a bit of punk thrown in there. Sound evidence that kiddies’ sing-along music is plain frightening can be found in scary movies. Have you noticed that if they really want to scare the living shit out of you they always use tinkly kids voices singing in the background? It’s normally a song like Twinkle Twinkle or Ring-a-ring-a-roses. (BTW. Death by firing squad to the bastards who wrote 10 Green Bottles and Alice the Camel. Simply heinous. Horribly hateful.)

If it will set your mind at ease (as you plan your Nursery Rhyme CD torching strategy ... New Years bon fires work very well) they’ve actually done research on how it’s not a certain type of music that stimulates your child’s brain, but more that they listen to a wide range of music. Apparently kids can hear the melody behind the electric guitar even if their parents can’t. Maybe because they’ve no preconceived ideas about what the “right” music to listen to is. True story. Google it, it’s out there somewhere. Just maybe lay off ACDC, Korn and Metallica. I mean really, no one understands their music.

apgar shmapgar...

2010-08-08T14:06:00.000+02:00

When babies are born, they’re immediately whisked away for an Apgar test. Sigh; their first 5 seconds of life and they are already being tested. And this test, I daresay, is hardly one they’ve had time to prepare for. Does in vitro life make you Apgar fit? I think not. Lets look at what the Apgar is all about...

A = Appearance. There has been absolutely no opportunity for the newborn to spend time on a tanning bed. Thank goodness what they’re looking for is “pink” and not “golden-brown”. BTW, if your extremities are blue - sorry - you’ve lost a point. This is the last time in a child’s life that it will be considered a plus to be pink.

P = Pulse. The poor infant doesn’t know if they are supposed to be working up their pulse (75% of their max) or working towards an impressively low “resting pulse” (domain of the super-fit). Sheesh, talk about a surprise test.

G = Grimace. This is probably the most telling part of the test that indicates what you, the parent, is in for. If Wikipedia is to be believed, the scoring on “Grimace” goes somewhat against what most parents are hoping for in the long run. In the world according to Apgar, Grimace is a plus. Again, the only time in your life this will be considered a winning sign. The infant that scores the highest is the one who cries and pulls away when stimulated. The average achiever grimaces or gives a feeble cry when stimulated and a poor-performance-could-do-better infant scores nil when they don’t respond to stimulation. This is both rude and unfair. You’ve been in a warm, quiet cocoon for 9 months with nothing but the sway of your mother’s hips to worry about and now they expect you to perform like a circus seal? If a newly-borns wakeup attitude is anything like mine, I don’t blame them for scoring nil. At best I give a mumbly grunt when woken up before … well, before I’ve woken up. Additional note: the scoring on “grimace” is measured also by the words: reflex (ok, that’s ones fine) and irritability (of course they’re irritated and guess what, they’re going to stay like that for at LEAST 3 months.)

A = Activity a.k.am muscle tone. This one I have a real problem with. If you were lying in a hammock for say 9 months, maybe spinning it around every couple of days, you wouldn’t develop much muscle tone. I fear I that even at my age I’d score horribly low on the Apgar test in this department. I know they’re been swimming around in water, but there’s hardly enough room for laps. And even in vitro athletes would loose their fitness for sure in the last 8 weeks when things become too cramped. Yoga? Maybe. Pilates? Very unlikely. And heaven knows, no weight training whatsoever. It’s a miracle any newborns score at all.

Finally, the most mysterious of all. R = respiration. Now honestly, I ask you with my palms facing upward! Newborns have really, really NOT had any chance to practice this. Much like the “Grimace” part of the test, a strong, lusty cry is considered a plus. Top Score in fact. And since when is a cry considered breathing? Go figure.

Hooah!

2010-08-08T13:44:00.000+02:00

Best-Kisser and I alway used to have the same argument when we’d watch a military themed movie. We could not agree on whether they were saying Hoorah, or Oohray, or Oohaah. If I’d just Googled it earlier we could have saved ourselves a lot of heated debate. As it turns out, we were both kind of right.

Ooh-rah is said by the Marines, and originates from when the submarine was about to dive; the PA system would announce DIVE DIVE, followed by the Klaxon alarm, which sounded roughly like AARUGHA! All I can say is thank goodness the sound was passed down verbally and not written, otherwise we would have had a lot of interesting versions of AARUGHA which may have sounded more like drowning Marines, instead of alert Marines. Given the tricky spelling of the word, it has evolved into what is now Ooh-rah or Hoo-rah. Much simpler. Much more, um, alert sounding.

Hooah, on the other hand, is said by the Army and comes from the acronym, H.U.A, which stands for Heard, Understood, Acknowledged. And it is this attitude, my friends, which I am looking for in my household. There can be no confusion when you hear Hooah. It has all bases covered. Heard? Yes, I’ve heard. Understood? Yes, yes, I’ve definitely got it. Acknowledged? Yes, acknowledged. In another words...“action to be taken imminently.”

I have wondered many times if my children also Googled Hooah vs. Ooh-rah and stumbled instead upon AARUGHA, because this is what it sounds like when I ask them to do something. Yes, I get the drowning marines version and not the choppy, yippy version. Please put on your shoes and socks. AARUGHA! Please go and brush your teeth. AARUGHA! Please go and do your homework, like now. AARUGHA! Please tidy up your toys. AARUGHA! To make matters more convincing, they have coupled their AARUGHA! with an appropriate drowning-marine face. They give me a look like I’ve just asked them to complete a commando style obstacle course, blindfolded, backwards, in the snow.

It’s my fault, really. Instead of teaching them the simple Hooah I want to hear, I have been teaching them manners instead. And quite honestly, if I have to choose between manners and an obedient Hooah, I’ll take the Hooah any day.

the sidewinder sleeps tonight...

2010-08-08T12:09:00.000+02:00

Here is a little known fact about newlyborns. Shortly after their Apgar test, they are whisked away to an Intensive Training Course. This course teaches them, in an accelerated learning style, to use up as much bed space as is infantly possible. The class top achiever is the infant who has been able to “train” their parents to sleep on a section of bed not wider than a gymnasts balancing beam. The infant that manages to hoof a parent completely off the bed, will graduate maxima cum laude.

There are quite a few tactics that they’re taught. The fist one, which I’m sure was the inspiration behind the song “the sidewinder sleeps tonight”, is where the infant wriggles, and squirms so much that it is impossible for any co-bedders (note, I did NOT use the word co-sleepers…) to get any sleep at all. And if they do get some shuteye, it is just that. No REM, No deep restorative sleep. Just 40 winks la la Churchill style. BTW: the person who wrote “the sidewinder sleeps tonight” did not actually stick to the theme, if you read the lyrics. They went totally off track, probably because they were so tired, having shared their bed with an infant or small child the night before.

The other tactic is called “Rugby-Posting” (if you have two parents in bed), or “T-Baring” (if there is only one parent left). Here, the infant it taught to lie parallel to the headboard, stretch back with their head till it hits one parent in the stomach and kick their legs out sharply, until it connects with the other parents sternum. They have to continue doing that all night regardless of the parents moving further and further away from the head and/or foot end. Many parents have tried to thwart this strategy by maneuvering themselves to sleep parallel to the infant again, but this has proven unsuccessful as they invariably set off the infant’s sleep-to-move alarm and then they end up having to reposition themselves all over again into the H or T bar position. They also end up with no blanket.

Probably the most effective tactic is one called the “Rotating Starfish”. Here, they are taught to first kick off all bedding, then find their way to the middle of the bed, where they will spread out like a star fish and rotate round and round pretty much all night. This is highly effective because it means that the parent has to continually adjust their position. Once is never enough. Don’t underestimate newborns and infants. They are born with their game-face on.

a whole mile o' trouble...

2010-08-06T11:54:00.000+02:00

Clearly, it was called the “Fan Mile” and not the ‘Family Mile’, for a reason. It should have been called, “The Optimistic Mile”, as upon arrival I saw many optimistic faces. And why not? After all, if nothing else, soccer is a game for optimists. Where else will you see fierce, agile men battling out with the very real possibility of ending up with a nil-nil score? Thank god for sudden death shootouts. OK, not really, but you get my drift.

We (that is to say us and the rest of Cape Town) just felt it would be a moment our kids should know they were part of. Their sketchy soccer heritage if you like - a once in a lifetime opportunity. Naively, we should have anticipated that’d we wouldn’t be the only family who flirted briefly with soccer mania. Seemingly, 250 000 soccer fans brought their kids (and some cousins) who by the look of things, weren’t ‘feeling’ it at all.

What we saw, in fact, was very fake-happy looks on parent’s faces. Gritted teeth as they carried whining, whinging children, toddlers and shorties of various sizes who clearly, had abso-effing-lutely no sense of decorum whatsoever. A once in a lifetime event? Couldn’t give a dang. Can you feel the love tonight? No, not really, mostly I’m just hungry dad. I think most parents thought they’d be able to show their shorties a photo of themselves (family portrait a- la-fan-mile style) one day and be able to say: You were there. You felt the gees. You loved the vibe. But nooooh, what were the shorties after? Crappy snacks and psychedelic drinks.

Can’t say I blame them. If you were shortie enough you got to ride on a parent’s shoulders or back. If you were a middly shortie, you had to walk. And what did you see? A whole bunch of stranger’s waistlines or crotches (mostly from the back, admittedly) maybe a few flag ponchos, a weird wig or two; but that’s about it. Were shorties feeling boastful, show-offy and smug about SA winters? No, not really. Because when you’re a kid hot is hot, cold is cold, and comfortable is comfortable - there’s just no talking yourself into believing you feel great when you don’t.

And as I gazed at the parent’s faces, I saw longing. There was an unwritten camaraderie based on knowing that whilst you thought you were being sportishly noble, all you really wanted to do was chug back a few lagers and discuss how fabulous SA is with some random foreigners.

I’ll never do a sporting event with shorties again. Not till they’re biggies. Hell, there were even 70 year olds having more fun, I shit you not. Beers in hands, blue rinse and all, wandering round the fan mile looking right merry and jaunty. Lucky bastards.

children are mistrustful, especially at bedtime...

2010-08-06T11:51:00.000+02:00

Kids get all suspicious at bedtime. Holey shirt, they have bigger trust issues than the Kennedy family. I was at a friend’s house for bath time/dinner time/bed time (a.k.a pass me another whiskey time) and thought I’d earn sterling points (big guy up there, you’d better be watching) by offering to put her two year old to bed. I just felt it was the nice thing to do. My shorties are nearly middlies, and I thought how I would have loved it if someone had done that for me back in the day (sniff sniff, sad violin music playing). I know the family well. Like really well. I know their shortie well too. Like really well. A few times a week well. You’d think this would count for something. Apparently not.

Dinnertime is out the way and serotonin is on the way up. Sleepy little eyes make me feel super optimistic and I think ha, I am armed with “The Snail and the Whale” - I simply can’t go wrong. Bob Marley’s “every little thing, is gonna be alright” is wafting around in my head. The sweet scent of un-interrupted grown up time is imminent, I just have to get shortie to sleep. Things are going swimmingly. Holding hands I walk said shortie down the passage to his room. We’re smiling, chatting amiably, exchanging conspiratorial nods of the head. Yes, nod nod, sleep sleep. I can so do this. Lie on the bed, another smile, another nod and some suggestions for favourite pages. Ooooh goodie! Was that another eye rub? We pass the part where the snail and the whale hook up, we move beyond their adventures to far off lands and golden sands; we look shocked when the whale gets beached (fake sadness from me of course, I know he gets saved, duh!) At the turn of the last page I give my mandatory THE END (which sometimes actually appears and is sometimes written in invisible ink that only parents can see). OK, so I take it we’re ready to snuggle in for the night?

The little bugger. He starts waving the book in the air and I think perhaps he is asking for a second round. I’ll do it if I must. But noooooh. He is asking for mommy- actually crying, no less - and looking me as if I’m a stranger that’s just broken into his room. No memory what-so-effing-ever of the fantastic book bonding we’d just shared. You’d swear by the look on his face that I’d slipped him rohypnol. Blast it. So close and yet so far.

But here’s the mystery. He has the Alzheimer’s audacity to mistrust me when he’s just bought into an extremely far-fetched story about a highly questionable relationship between a snail and a whale. WTF!! Now that’s a relationship that’s going nowhere for sure! And while we’re at it, lets take a look at the other inconsistencies that shorties trust without question. Pooh bear wears a jacket (not even a jacket, a bloody bolero for pete s sake!) but no pants. Sorry, but given a choice I’ll take undies over a bolero any day. Exposed bum VS exposed boobies? Simply no question about it. Poor Rabbit gets to wear nada. Same goes for Tigger. Maybe it’s because they both bounce (were they originally drawn with bouncy bits?) Piglet gets to wear a very naff romper (hello, pink and stripey = screaming queen!) It makes him look both feminine and infantile at the same time – no wonder no-one takes him seriously. Eyeore only gets a tail ribbon, which hardly hides his sensibilities and pompous owl wears nothing. Being the intellectual he is, I daresay I expected more from him.

But I’m the one that shortie mistrusts. Not the non-underpanted, non-trousered animals that can talk. Makes me wonder how the little blighter sees me. Best not to go there...

an Ode to Shorties...

2010-08-06T11:45:00.000+02:00

To get me into a positive mind-frame (it being school holidays and all) I wanted to find a way to talk about some of the wacky stuff kids have come up with that make me laugh. I really didn’t want to stray too far from my normal hardcore profile and sound all sweetie-pie and gushy, so I’ve put it into very lame prose instead. (Just be grateful I didn’t choose limerick style. It seems you can’t make up a limerick that has no swearing and that isn’t rude! Well, I sure as hell couldn’t come up with any!) I even wrote it without whiskey in hand. Such progress.

This Ode is to shorties to show that although

I whinge and I moan and I treat them as foe

I think they’re quite cool - they’re honest and funny

And can still make me smile as they milk me for money

Only shorties can ask, without fear of scorn

When a paunchy man’s baby is due to be born

They think blind dates are for people who’re blind

A bonus if you’re ugly, as your date won’t mind

They see the upside of things that are normally glum

Like wheelchairs and crutches and a big wobbly bum

Everyday I’m in awe of how they never get tired

Of fish fingers and noodles - how the hell are they wired?

They think Spinach is the language spoken in Spain

And when you let them have coke, you’d swear its cocaine

I overheard that the Ironman is an actual competition

For men who have a fierce ironing ambition

Repeat DVD’s are no worry for them

As junior Alzheimer’s is cured by age ten

They think I’m a teen coz I cycle and run

Clearly they think oldies can’t get this done

I was asked if the golf ball or club travels faster

Will Google be able to give me the answer?

Smart little buggers, they know I don’t know

They’re just trying to tell me they know that I’m slow

Even when they say “you can’t come to my party”

Ten seconds later they’ll still give you a Smartie

And though I know they’re naughty and full of kak*

I still think that mostly, kids really rock

P.S. Theses are real things that have really been said. I shit you not, true story. From the mouth of babes…

* kak... afrikaans word for er...um.. nonsense

yes, what exactly are little girls made of...

2010-08-06T11:40:00.000+02:00

School holidays. God’s ultimate way of testing our love for our kids. Day one was deceptively fine. So fine in fact that it gave me reasonable hope that we might all survive the next 5 weeks with all our limbs intact. That was until day two - The Party. Or should I say, the little girls party. Goodbye ears.

Just to clarify things, I love little girls. As a mother with two sons, I’ve always had little girl envy. The clothes, the pink, the gingham, the makeup, the sweet maternal nature, the ballet, the girly bedrooms, the long hair, the shoes with bling, the hair goodies, the cuddles, the girly smell; you name it. It took one girly party to make me feel grateful for my masculine lot in life.

A friend of mine once said to her daughter (well, only once in front of me, she may say it daily for all I know), it’s not what you’re saying (clenched-teeth face); it’s the PITCH of your voice (fierce-face). At the time, I didn’t fully grasp what she meant, but after witnessing, or rather hearing, the fairer sex is en masse; I now know what she was on about. It shouldn’t be allowed. They clearly try to out-soprano one another. One’s enough, two’s The Mikado, three is an auditory assault. Their pitch makes Vuvuzelas sound like Bach. The Unbearable Pitchness of Being is what I call it.

I’m kind of peeved with myself for going in the first place. I know better. Unless the host is a good friend, children’s parties are the pits. Before I had kids I thought they’d be delicious fun. They’re not. You have to look all friendly and interested and ooh and aah over the birthday kid and his/her mother, who is trying desperately to win the over-achiever of the year award. Know what I mean?

I normally don’t know any of the other moms. Conversation is stilted. I end up consuming copious amounts of coffee in an attempt to fuel dialog. Add to the mix several half-eaten cupcakes that get tossed my way and I end up feeling entirely queasy (my body being the pure temple that it is.) Nowadays when I open a kiddie’s party invitation, the queasiness sets in by way of association. The worst thing is that most hosts refuse to serve booze (necessary to counteract the effects of the coffee, nothing else), as it’s deemed inappropriate. Inappropriate! I ask you! Bloody party poopers! And while we’re on hot-tips for parties, why do we bother serving the cake part with the cup cakes? The only thing that gets eaten is the icing. Yes, save yourself the hassle and just tube some icing into a cupcake paper thingy and top it with a smartie. No waste, no crumbs, no PT.

So, my big achievement for this week is sending in my submissions to the Oxford Dictionary of Collective Nouns. Along with a grunt of men, a thug of boys, a grumble of old farts, a moan of farmers (this one is true, really) and a mad of mothers, the new collective noun for a group of little girls is…yes you guessed it, a pitch of girls. And I dearly, dearly hope, that the next little girl’s party I am invited to includes the game “let’s learn sign language”. Ouch. Adieu.

how to freak out a g.o.f.

2010-08-06T11:35:00.000+02:00

I had a near run in with not one, but two GOFs this week (for the unenlightened few, this stands for Grumpy Old Fart), which left me feeling not only grumpy but also bummed that I’d left my GOF sniper at home. OK, I don’t really have a GOF sniper but I’m thinking of getting one. The ad in the classifieds will read: sniper needed for ad hoc work, mostly required for mall outings and restaurants. Must be sympathetic to children and mothers. Must be extremely good shot. Must be practically invisible to GOFs. No track record necessary, just a passion for your calling.

I know GOF snipers don’t really exist, but it did get me thinking. You see I obviously don’t look fierce or dangerous or intimidating. I’m sure that Dad’s don’t have problems with GOFs when they take their kids out. I think their masculine disposition seem to communicate “HIGH IN TESTOSTERONE. POSSIBLY OVERSTRESSED. DON’T FUSS WITH ME.” Now that I’ve realised that I clearly look nicer than what I really am, I have decided try out some new approaches.

Option one: Dress as a ninja and when people bother me or my kids, I’ll adopt a squatting stance with hands in front of face (martial arts style), hissing loudly at them while squinting viciously. The downside to this approach is that I think ninja suits are quite hot, which is fine for winter but not so much for summer. Also, it might scare the kids, which isn’t the idea. Upside: black is slimming.

Option two: Dress as Goth, complete with new tattoos and lots of dark nail varnish and lipstick. Summer suit will include fishnet tights (ventilation) and in winter I’ll wear stockings with sculls on them. Big, buckled, biker boots mandatory. The tats will have to seem convincing though. No naff flowers or butterflies and stuff. Perhaps a merciless looking dragon on my forearm (note: will have to roll up long sleeves in winter so it’s visible) and love/hate on my knuckles will do the trick. Ooh, I could get a few piercings too. Yes, this one could work. I’m absolutely positive Goths and Punks take no schtick from GOFs.

Option three: Dress as witch (again; black, slimming, BIG plus) and when GOFs give me uphill I’ll wiggle my fingers at them, flutter my eyes and mutter curse sounding words under my breath. I might include some real curses and cunningly disguised swear words, “like eff you loser”, and “up your’s lame-o”. This might not be overly convincing and I also don’t know if I could keep a straight face. Not sure if the pointy hat is at all fetching either.

Option four: Dress in flowing white linen, as in esoteric, peace-loving, Gandhi type. This could really work well for me (i.e. fake the inner calm till I make the inner calm) and I’m sure to un-nerve the living shit out of the offending GOF. When they start whining I could turn round, hug them hard and say something like: blessings oh troubled one, please contain your venomous speech, I have undamaged goods with me that wish to remain untarnished by your brutal energy. Heaven knows I’d give this a shot just for the hell of it!

Option five: Dress as mad scientist. I already have the corduroys and as my hair’s natural tendency is a lot like Einstein’s, I’m half way there. When the GOF starts up I could just look their way, glaze over and calmly say “do you know most imbeciles talk before they think. Now where did I leave my potbellied pig”? The final touch would be to pluck a non-existent piece of lint of the GOFs shirt, giggle, nod, and then walk away. If that doesn’t leave them disarmed then I just don’t know. I could complete the deranged genius look by wearing my bra (PEP, not La Senza) on top of my chunky jersey. Wicked.

If any of these have already been tried and tested, please let me know which one works best. Am desperate.