Friendly Brazil and her Guardian Angels

(Original unedited image via Image: Library of Congress LC-USZ62-100442-1898)

I was chatting to a client of mine who comes from Portugal. I think we were discussing interesting aspects of Portuguese culture and the crossover (or rather difference) between the Portuguese Portuguese and the Brazilian Portuguese. 

 

“Oh, they hate us,” she said. “The Brazilians hate the Portuguese - because of colonialism.”.

 

Well blow me down. I’ve done nearly 50 laps around the Sun and I didn’t know that this division existed. I mean, I should have guessed, right? Given the bad rap that colonialism has in general. But my only frame of reference regarding Brazilians is that they absolutely LOVE everything and everyone.

 

You see back in the very early 90’s, I went to Rio with my best friend Exotica. I was working in the travel industry at the time and in those days, when the flights weren’t full, they would put out a special offer to travel agents whereby you could fly-and-stay for a ridiculously low sum of money. If there was ever a reason to long for the 90’s again, that would be it. (OK yes, and also because of the clumpy 90’s shoes.)

 

For the princely price of R1000, we got a flight and a 7-night stay in Rio , in a hotel right opposite Copacabana Beach. Despite the fact that our room was the size of a postage stamp, only slightly bigger than an office cubicle, and overlooked an ugly square courtyard, we were very excited to be there.

 

But we were broke. AF. We’d scraped together just enough money for the trip and had allocated a very lean budget for each day. We arrived at the hotel in the evening and immediately went to find an exchange booth where we could convert our US dollar travellers cheques into Brazilian Real. 

 

Now, as anyone from South Africa knows, our currency knocks about as much punch as a Hugh Grant vs Colin Firth fight in a Bridget Jones film. We automatically assumed that although we’d lost in the exchange between the SA Rand and US Dollar, we would become rich when we exchanged the US dollar to Brazilian Real. Because SURELY the Real wasn’t stronger than the dollar, right? Wrong.

 

There was a menacing mood about the streets, as we went from exchange booth to exchange booth, hoping that the bad news would change. The streets were deserted, but for thousands of swirling pieces of paper that looked like they came from a ticket-tape parade. What we didn’t know, is that Brazil had just held some kind of elections, with the uncanny result that for a brief period of time – exactly the week that Exotica and I were in Rio – their South American currency was stronger than the US dollar.  

 

So yes, we went from poor AF to poorer than F$%K. And while it seems that this is an unusually long piece about the flailing South African Rand, the pauper state of our economic affairs was to dictate how we rolled in Rio.

 

We started out with stealing bread rolls. Fortunately for us, our hotel-stay included breakfast of the continental kind. This was a blessing, because instead of trying to save things like scrambled egg in our paper napkins, we made cheese rolls and slipped them into our backpacks for lunch.

 

But, as anyone who has ever packed a lunch knows, it never lasts until lunch time. Never. Not only did we scarf the rolls way before lunch, we were also tempted by things like churros. I’m not sure if you know this, but churros are the Food of Gods. I’m convinced the Brazilian army marches on nothing but churros and coconut water. Consequently, we not only ate our lunch early in the day, we also spent our meagre allowance on things like churros. 

 

We had another crisis. We didn’t’ blend in. This was important because we were told to “look like locals” so that we didn’t get targeted by petty (and not so petty) thieves. I was alabaster white, but I DID have curly hair and a seriously round butt working in my favour - so small tick for looking Brazilian. Exotica had olive skin and dark hair. - so also tick for looking Brazilian. What gave us away was … our swimming costumes. Compared to the Brazilians, our swimming costumes looked like they came from the Victorian era. This had to be rectified. 

 

Our first day’s budget was spent on the smallest pieces of lycra known to humankind. I never wore this garment again, but I did keep it for more than a decade as a token of my bravery and courage (my butt is not the kind that you generally show off.) Thank God this was before Instagram, is all I’m saying. 

 

As a consequence, we were a) hungry b) exposed c) still hungry. 

 

We thought that a coconut water would sustain us, but secretly we wanted to take photos of ourselves sipping on this fancy-looking fruit. It didn’t sustain us, so we went walking the streets to distract ourselves. 

 

As any endurance window-shopper will know, this made things worse. We grew hungrier than ever. As we trawled the streets, drooling over shoes and clothes we couldn’t afford, a car with two guys drove by. Wolf whistling and beckoning us closer, they must have known enough English to say “lunch”, and we knew just enough Portuguese to say “sim.” 

 

Before we knew it, they had parked, and we were ushered into a restaurant wearing nothing but a whisper of lycra and a sarong. (To the inventor of the sarong: Thank you - I love you.)

 

We ate like kings, and played a giant game of charades in order to communicate. We might have invented some Portuglish (if you hold your nose and say “fish now fish now fish now now now, it does sound a little like Portuguese.) Feeling quite heady, with serotonin once more coursing through our veins, we agreed to dinner with these two strangers. Yes. We still had no idea what they were saying, and no, we still didn’t know their names. (But we’ll call them José and Carlos, for now.)

 

If you are ever in doubt as to whether Guardian Angels actually exist, wonder no longer. They do exist, but they’re rather worn out from keeping Exotica and I safe throughout our teens and twenties. 

 

At 7pm, José and Carlos arrived at our hotel. Without so much as a backwards glance, we got into their car. We drove and drove and noticed the lights of the city recede. Before long, we were driving alongside great expanses of black, which we assumed was the ocean (or mass graveyards?) There were very few lights and although we were a little on edge, truthfully, there was nowhere we could go.

 

We finally arrived at a restaurant and were greeted with margaritas. We’d never had one before and I have a hilarious image of Exotica running her tongue around the frosted salt emblazoned into my memory. She thought the salt was sugar, and was deeply disappointed by the lack of sweet bliss. (Exotica has a bit of a history with cocktails in general. You remember the story about Sun City?) 

 

I have no idea what we ate, but we became firm friends with Margarita. We broke only with her company when we met her friend Caipirinha, who then became our new best friend.

 

After dinner, we got back in the car with what was still two absolute strangers. José, under the influence of Caipirinha, was even more animated than usual. He was a little bit like Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, and a little bit Jack Nicholson in The Shining - which was both hilarious and terrifying. Despite discouragement from Carlos, José became obsessed with the idea that Exotica and I should kiss. Once more, he employed charades to explain his desire, which made the whole thing extremely comical. If I remember correctly, he pointed to the two of us, wrung the palms of his hands together and made kissing noises to get his point across. This set us off.

 

Anyone who knows anything about laughing will know that once you start giggling when you feel you shouldn’t, there’s no holding back the tide. Especially if you’re a little tipsy. The more José gestured, saying beijo, beijo, the more we laughed and laughed. At one point I think we mustered up a peck on the lips, but this seemed to make him even more animated, which only made the laughing matters worse. 

 

We were dropped off at the hotel and never saw José and Carlos again. But we did get followed around by a man who wore white trousers, a panama hat and a loud. He kept turning up wherever we went. Surprisingly enough, we didn’t give these strange coincidences much thought - except to wonder where he got his outlandish shirts from.

 

We were also gifted with photos and promises of undying love from two Brazilian military men. Again, I have no recollection of how they tracked us down. They must have spotted us on the beach, followed us to our hotel, and then asked reception to “Call the foreign, pale girls who stick out like sore thumbs.” And wonder upon wonder, we actually went downstairs to meet them.  We must have been hungry again.

 

One morning, Exotica had managed to get me out of bed for an early beach walk. As we strolled along, marvelling at the beautiful ocean, we came across clay bowls filled popcorn and other tasty treats. They’d been arranged like a welcoming picnic. The whole setup looked rather inviting and we chalked it down to another friendly, local custom. Exotica picked up one of the broken clay bowls – thinking it was some kind of artefact – and questioned the concierge at the hotel about its origins. Within an instant he his skin turned ashen and he said “No, no, no. You no touch. You no eat.” Once we’d removed the offensive bowl from view, he explained that the “picnic” was actually an offering set out by Macumba worshipers. I can’t tell a lie; we were a little disappointed that it wasn’t a free picnic. 

 

The last grand display of warm Brazilian affection and friendliness that I recall from our trip to Rio, was bestowed on us by a stranger on the beach. On our last morning, Exotica and I were once more walking on the Copacabana. Deep in discussion – probably about what we were going to eat – we didn’t notice a man approaching us from the opposite direction. Just before our paths crossed, he made a noise which alerted us to his presence. Looking us straight in the eye, he pulled his little black swimming costume to one side, exposing his entire braai pack* to us. I pointed, nudged Exotica, and roared with laughter, assuming this was another friendly custom. But Exotica was firm. “Don’t laugh”, she said. “It just encourages them.” 

 

Friendly old Brazil taught me that although the meek shall inherit the earth, the naïve shall inherit the guardian angels. So, if you arrive in Rio and the locals look happy to see you but the guardian angels don’t, just know it’s because they are utterly exhausted from looking after foolish, broke, and reckless travellers like Exotica and I. 

By the Grace of God and Guardian Angels go we.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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with love, to you all...

(Original and unedited image: FPG/Getty Images via Huff Post)

I’m sitting in bed when I should actually be at the gym. But, seeing as though my 2021 resolutions include avoiding words like: “should”, “must” and “have to”, I don’t give a tinker’s fart, as my dad would say. Another resolution I’ve made is to is start writing again. But in an honest way. Not only in a funny way. But I’ll see. Because funny is such a safe place for me to be.

 

Also, dear reader, now is the sweet time to write again, because if there’s one thing that Covid19 has taught me, is that before you die, you better tell those you care about how you really feel. So here goes.

 

I can hardly believe that it’s been nearly two years since my high school bestie and I boarded a plane to the rust-belt. It was great. The most-young I’ve felt in bloody years. I haven’t written about the reunion till now because honestly, I haven’t been sure how to frame it. 

 

As a (sometimes) humour writer, I was hoping to harvest hilarious material from the event that I could use in my writing. Alas, I was somewhat disappointed. I was on the lookout for funny and noteworthy things to write about- like tattoo fails, loss of teeth, a mullet, or at least one gender reassignment. But I was let down.

 

Or maybe I should say that I was let up. Instead of comical moments and funny characters, I found a deep feeling of affection for my old school friends. Maybe because as I get older, I get more and more soft. Maybe it was because sufficient time had passed and by the age of 50, we had abandoned a lot of the bravado and posturing that had kept us emotionally safe during our adolescent years. I kind of felt that I was seeing my old friends in their authenticity – maybe for the first time. Or perhaps for the first time, I was willing to let them see me. I believe it was David Bowie who said something along the lines of “Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”

 

We don’t really realise it at the time, but school going years are pretty brutal. They’re a mixture of exquisite pain and exquisite joy. We’re lumped together with 600 other kids and have to figure out a way to get on with each other – or at the very least, put up with each other.  This is no small task – given that 600 people on Facebook can’t even agree on whether to click on I AGREE when Facebook changes its policy. 

 

While sitting and chatting to some of my peers at the reunion, I was ashamed at how little I knew about their own experiences of their high school years. I felt dreadful when I learned that the hostel border boys were hungry a lot of the time. How could I not have known this?  Of course, teenagers are notorious for being self-absorbed, making it almost impossible to know the inner workings, trials and tribulations of anyone else. But hell, if I’d known I could at least have brought the hostel boys some sarmies. 

 

As I sat reminiscing with old friends – some I’d known since my first day of school - a swathe of memories, clear as day, came flooding back to me. I remembered how Robbie McGaffin gave me a silver bracelet when I was in Class 2 but when I read his note, I realized that it was actually intended for another Leanne – not me, Lianne. He must have been very pissed off that whoever delivered it gave it to the wrong girl. Sorry Robbie. I felt so awkward about the whole thing that I gave the bracelet to my domestic worker. I think she rather liked it.

 

I remembered how in class 2 my friend Shannon went climbing trees, had a dreadful fall, and managed to spectacularly slice up her upper thigh. I, on the other hand, had no fear of this happening to me as I preferred to hang around in the Y of the mulberry tree in our garden where I could munch on low hanging fruit. This was also the place from where I could “deal” mulberry leaves. Yup, some girls had milkshake that brought all the boys to the yard, but for me, it was mulberry leaves.

 

I also remembered how Shannon and I, along with our “chaperone” Andre (he got to be chaperone because he was a boy), had gone looking for weaver bird’s nests alongside the river. I’m not sure what we were going to do with them when we found them, but this was an activity that my older brother and sister used to do, so it seemed cool. There’s no telling how long we were out river-bank-combing, but all I know was we only headed home when the sun had already set. We found no nests, but we did find very worried parents (who might, in fact, just have been pissed that we kept them waiting.) Shannon and I got a whack on the behind. And Andre got nothing, because he was a boy. I think. 

 

I remembered how there was only one clothing shop in Howick and it was called the Bargain Bin. When I was in standard 6, the Bargain Bin got stock of a whole bunch of tracksuit tops. They were white, and in true 80’s style, had kind of bulky pockets made from seersucker-type fabric on the chest area. The pockets were trimmed with gold zips but I’m not sure if they could actually hold anything. But what I do know, is that when we went to the next disco-in-the-garage, at least eight of us were wearing the same tracksuit top. We didn’t care. As it turns out, the tracksuit tops were gender neutral. Talk about blazing a trail for progressive fashion.

 

I remembered how we had “home friends” and “school friends”. Home friends were kids whose parents were friends with your parents. You often didn’t greet home friends at school – especially if they were older than you – because it wasn’t cool and because somehow these friendships were secret. This might have been because we all knew how batshit crazy our parents were. 

 

You could, however, greeting school friends both inside of school and outside of school was allowed. But you could never say “Hi” to a teacher if you saw them in the shops. You just had to pretend like you didn’t see them and scuttle away. 

 

Sometimes, home friends were school friends too. Like, my mom and Shannon’s mom did yoga together, so that straddled the home-school proviso. One time, Shannon and I went along with our moms to yoga and as the class kicked off with Aaaaauuuummmm, we started giggling. But it was that kind of giggling that gets worse and worse because you’re trying to stifle it. Turns out my main yoga skill was holding in my bladder while I nearly peed myself laughing.

 

My old friend Murray was DJ for the party part of the reunion. He always had the BEST music and I was touched (almost to tears) that he remembered so many songs that were my favourite growing up. Songs I’d even forgotten I loved. Like Hurts So Good and Forever Young by Rod Stewart.

 

Speaking of music, I remembered the sacredness of buying an LP. Or, if you didn’t have enough money, you’d have to buy a 7-single. I bought the 7-single of Sing my Dream Around by Silver Pozzoli because it cost six rand and that was all I had. I think we all tried to buy different LP’s and 7-singles so that we could tape each other’s music. No point in duplicating. My friend Sarah got pocket money and she had a great music selection. Who can forget Robin Auld’s All of Woman, I Wanna Dance with Somebody by Whitney Houston, and Love Changes Everything by Climie Fisher. 

 

I was extremely envious of Sarah, because on a Saturday morning, she got to listen to the Top 40 while I had to go to ballet. She kept a log book of which songs held which position and it was all very impressive. On a Monday she’d often come to school and say, “Hey, have you heard that song XYZ?” I’d invariably say no, but she’d go ahead and sing it for me anyway. But not in a singing voice, in a talking voice, so it was very hard to know what the song actually sounded like.

 

The reunion had two parts to it. The first part took place at The Boma because bomas are a big part of rust-belt culture. Most of our 1989 year came to The Boma, but sadly I didn’t get to chat to everyone. I was genuinely interested to hear about their lives. At least Facebook offers a degree of insight. I thought it was very cute how many of the chaps were greying and sometimes balding.  Incredibly, some people looked EXACTLY the same!!!! How is this accomplished? Cryotherapy?

 

I saw my very first ever boyfriend at the boma – now almost completely grey - and memories came flooding back of my first kiss. What a fabulous thing that is, by the way. A first kiss. I mean you only get one. The thought of A FIRST KISS makes me want to become a motivational-first-kiss speaker where I’d get paid to go to schools and tell kids how wonderful a first kiss is. I’d advise them that they’d better a) pick someone nice and b) really enjoy it, because you only ever get one first kiss. Speaking of kisses, did anyone else practice French kissing on the fleshy part of their thumb? Or was it just my group of friends? (Sorry guys, I think it’s time we found out if it was just us, or everyone.)

 

With a degree of shame, I remember how girls would dance super up-close with guys when they asked us to “shuffle” at a disco. Invariably, the poor guy would get a boner and we’d think it was hilarious. If you were feeling particularly wicked, you’d deliberately push up against the poor chap, and then walk swiftly away when the music ended, leaving him in all his tent-pants glory. Sorry guys. 

 

Memories of parties in Merrivale came back to me. Some of the boys would brew mampoer, made from pineapples they buried in the yard. They were ahead of the curve and I’m sure they all made a killing during lockdown prohibition.

 

By the time you are nearly 50, life has invariably dealt you a few blows. At the reunion, I learned that some friends had lost loved ones, some had gone through painful divorces, most had endured many of life’s sadness, illness and pain. 

 

Listening to friends and hearing their stories reminded me of some of the sadder moments in high school. How one day a girl ran out of home economics class in tears but we didn’t know what was wrong or how to comfort her. How one day, another girl and I were discussing bulimia and confessed we’d both given it a try. How I danced with my friend’s crush at the Valentines disco and then felt terrible about it so I bought her a box of chocolates. How, at the same disco, my other friend was thumped on the head by her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend. (OK, that incident was actually a little funny. Clearly not such a great Valentines disco, that year.)  How once, some older girls came up to me once at lunch break and told me “You love yourself so much” and how I wanted to tell them that actually I hated myself because I had chubby thighs. How a lovely boy asked me to go with him to a disco but then when he arrived I suddently felt terrified and couldn’t do it and he was so upset. (Sorry!) How teenage heartbreak is so crushing. How boys sometimes asked you to dance and you sometimes turned them down. (Sorry boys! You were very brave.) How often you had a crush on someone and they never even knew. Or worse, they did know and didn’t feel the same. How many of us were having sex in high school, but no-one really talked about it, so we all felt isolated in our experience.

 

I remembered that one of our darling friend’s sisters got anorexia. One lunch break, we were being critical about our own bodies, as girls and women are prone to do. In a gentle voice, this sweet boy said “Don’t say that. You girls are all so beautiful.” Just thinking about his kindness makes me want to cry. In my darkest moments, I often remember his caring words and kind heart.

 

Memories of inspiring people and moments from school also came flooding back. I remembered how a girl called Ros came to our school in around Standard 3. Ros did gymnastics and could do the splits. The actual splits!!! Up till then I hadn’t thought it humanly possible that real people could do the splits. I thought it was just Olympic athletes on TV who could do it. Ros inspired me to work on doing the splits and within the year I could do it. Thanks Ros. (I can still do the splits but I can’t get up from them anymore! LOL.) 

 

I remembered an incredible group of girls who could ride horses. Actual horses! I was both envious and in awe of them. Still am because my own history with horses is very sketchy. Whenever I’ve ridden one, I feel like I should apologise because they don’t seem to like it very much. 

 

I remembered the warm and welcoming homes of many of my friends. How my best friend’s home became my second home and many times, saved me from myself. How when we were in a pensive mood, we’d listen to songs like Christ De Burgh’s “Lonely Sky” in her basement room, but that we couldn’t agree with how it should be sung (low, soft and sentimental, or loud and passionate.) 

 

Memories of walking to school singing Making Love out of Nothing At All bubbled to the surface. I remembered how we struggled to sing the very low and very high notes (OK Dave, yes, I’m looking at you.) But it didn’t matter; we belted it out anyway.  (Good on you, Air Supply, for your fantastic range!)

 

I remembered how we’d hang out at my friend Lauren’s house and her sweet mum almost always had home-baked biscuits. I remembered how La used to whip all our arses at swimming, and how pissed we felt when someone who hadn’t been to training all season managed to beat her. (You know who you are...)  

 

I remembered how my friend Marion helped me understand the genetics section of Biology. Thanks Marion, were it not for you I’d surely have failed. I remembered almost bringing Mr Accutt and Mr Muirhead to tears with my impossibly poor accounting and math skills (or lack thereof. Sorry Mr Accutt and Mr Muirhead. Was it only me who utterly sucked (ehem… still suck) at numbers? 

 

Sweet memories of checking out Mr Harley’s legs in geography popped into my mind. He wore short white T-Sav rugby shorts and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one looking. Come to think of it, I suddenly remembered that all the boys wore T-Sav rugby shorts, and that branded clothes weren’t even a thing. 

 

I remembered going on a school camp and one poor girl started having epileptic fits. It was quite a thing and because didn’t want to be left out of the action, I thought I’d add a bit of spice to the drama. I told the girls who shared the epileptic-girls’ bungalow that I’d read that when people were having a fit, they were known to strangle people that were in their vicinity. The poor girls were freaked out so they told the teacher and he reprimanded me for making up stores.  (Side note: the first time this girl had a fit was outside the Sudwala Caves. One of the boys thought she was break-dancing and told us that he thought she was pretty good.) Last laugh is on me though, as I also started having epileptic fits in Standard 9 and I didn’t look like I was break dancing. I peed in my pants. Karma’s a bitch.

 

One of the most interesting things about attending the reunion, was being confronted with the thought: If I didn’t have a history with these folk and was to meet them for the first time today, would we still be friends?  After all, time, travel, life-experiences, and relationships have a way of changing the values and world-views we adopt from our hometown and upbringing. There’s no answer to this question, and truthfully, does it matter? What I can say, is that there are so few people in one’s life with whom you share such a rich history and legacy. And that surely counts for something. 

 

The fact that you don’t have to explain yourself. That in the company of our school peers, you can hear a song and know that it takes you back to the same talent show, school camp, or garage-disco. The fact that when I Think We’re Alone Now plays, you all know the chorus. The fact that you shared afternoons after school watching back-to-back Pop Shop shows that someone had video-taped. The fact that you were all envious of the families who had boats and could go skiing on Midmar Dam. The fact that, at one point, you all wore paisley, newsprint, neon socks, street dancer shoes or Madonna sandals.  The fact that almost all of you, for certain, stole one of those marshmallow mice that are frosted with white mystery sweet dust from the corner café.

 

Thank you, to everyone I was at school with. You’ve all contributed to my life in one way or another. You’ve all added meaning, and gave me a solid grounding. Whether we knew it or not at the time, we were the lucky ones. Whether in pain or joy, good memories or bad, we share a history that helped shape us. And well, that’s pretty damn amazing.

 

 

 

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that time I met my writing hero...

(Original undedited image via LA Times.com)

By now, regular readers of my blog (yes, I see you five in the back row there) will know that we have a guest cottage that we rent out. It brings in a penny or two over the short summer season and brings entertainment, in the form of unconventional tenants, for the rest of the year. 

You might remember our last tenant Jason, a.k.a Druid of the Magical Herb, who somewhat corrupted my view of people who are looking for an impermanent abode. But such is life that there are bills to pay, children to educate, and caviar to be purchased for the dogs. 

As usual, I recently posted an advertisement on various platforms for the cottage. As I’m sure you can guess, people who are interested in temporary accommodation are normally between something: jobs, cities, marriages, girlfriends, crimes… that sort of thing. This, surprisingly, doesn’t deter me in any way. I kind of like hearing people’s stories and how they end up staying with us. 

We’ve had high-powered executives (OK, one of them did flood the cottage, but it wasn’t on purpose. He’s now a Buddhist somewhere out in the country, I think.) We’ve had writers who don’t write, we’ve had documentary makers who don’t vacuum (like, not even once, in 6 months), we’ve had couples who do shedloads of washing, turning the cottage décor into “Chinese laundry chic” (pre-drought, you understand). And we’ve also had an unusually high number of single guys whose girlfriends insist on them securing the lease – and then break up with them literally the week after they move in (which is just weird, if you ask me. Could there be something in the ether down there?)

But this year, someone famous came to check out the cottage. Someone who also happens to be one of my all-time hero writers. 

I should backtrack here a bit. For the longest time – probably most of my life – I didn’t know that there was such a thing as “humour writing” or a job called “humour columnist”. Sure, I’d read my share of Laughter is the Best Medicine in the Reader’s Digest magazine, but I don’t think I’d really read any actual humour columns. 

But then, all of a sudden, in probably the same month, I discovered Dave Barry and said hero writer (I’ll call him Al. Al Lias). A whole world of writing possibilities opened up to me. One where things like made-up words were possible. Where on-point grammar wasn’t the point. Where you could cuss if you like. Where research was optional (eschewed, even!) And where you could write with your tongue planted firmly in your cheek.  

Dave Barry is American, and primarily known for his colonoscopy piece that did the rounds (and continues to do so, years after the fact). His other writing is just as hilarious but people just seem to find colonoscopy writing funny on the whole.  Al-my-writing hero, is a SAFA and is both eloquent and mirthiless (see what I did there?) with his humour. He slays at satire and is a master of Irony. My brother introduced me to Al’s writing and I’ve never looked back. In fact, I think for the longest time, I thought he was the ONLY humour columnist in the country (that’s if you don’t count Barry Ronge’s movie reviews – but I’m still not sure whether Barry meant to be funny or not.)

Anyway, back to Al. He messaged me while we were driving back from Cape St. Francis (Mmm. St. Cape Francis in Winter. Now that’s a blog for another day.) Had I not been prone to vast amounts of napping in the car, I would have taken the time to Google Al before we met. Also, I just wasn’t arsed to do my homework. I figured I’d just suss him out when we met. (After all, my track record with snap judgments has been smashing up till now.)

The minute we met, he looked very familiar to me. Shit. I should have researched (i.e. stalked him on social media) him. Did I know him from the gym? Was he a parent at one of my kids’ schools? Did he work at AP Jones? My mind computing slowly - as it tends to do - I flicked through my mental Rolodex, hoping that it would magically stop at the right place and that the identity of the person would jump out at me.

We exchanged polite conversation. It came to light that Al had read my blog when he said that I had no need to worry as he was “no Jason in the weed growing department”. I have to say, sometimes being a writer is a very shy business. On one hand, you want people to read your stuff, and on the other had it horrifies you that they will, incases they think you write like a doos*(or worse, that they think you actually ARE a doos). I was struck with a case of the latter. It was when Al said “I dabble in writing myself a bit” that I suddenly realised who it was that I was talking to.

I immediately become flustered and over-animated and a little sweaty and it should also be said that I regretted my choice of outfit (stinky gym tights and a scruffy hoodie that literally has stains on it from the ’80s). I felt super self-conscious about my orthodontics and tried to hide them as I talked and smiled - which just made me look constipated, I’m sure. (Side note: I’m going to start telling people that I have orthodontics because I got into a really bad bar fight which wrecked my teeth. Far more interesting than the truth.)

Lucky for me, Al is nice-in-real-life and didn’t seem to notice me being especially weird and overly chatty. Of course, he may be writing rude stuff about me as we speak. But you know what, I’ve had that coming because we all know that writers deal with weird stuff and weird people by writing about them.

Al didn’t lease the cottage. He found somewhere nicerer I think – somewhere with a less weird lessee. I’m a bit bummed to be honest, because when I discovered who he was, I confess that my mind ran away with me a little. 

I imagined an exciting life where Al and I would go shopping in charity stores for jackets with elbow patches together. We’d go away on humour-writing weekends, drink loads of wine and whiskey, and come up with made-up words. He’d be Hemingwayesque and I’d be the literary equivalent of Melissa McCarthy. I’d take up smoking and he’d make tea. He’d be my new best writing friend and we’d go to Havana and pretend to speak Spanish. And we’d laugh and we’d laugh. 

Damn that it’s not true. Still, there’s always next year.

*doos: South African slang for idiot. (Not as bad as Cee U Next Tuesday but worse than poephol.**)

**poephol: South African slang for a harmless idiot. (Not as bad as arsehole but worse than silly-billy.)

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never trust a vintage dress...

(Original unedited image via Pintrest)

By now, you’ll know that things are hotting up for my 30^thReunion back home. My google search has progressed to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 minutes.” I have a feeling I’ll still be doing squats and sit-ups on the plane in a frantic attempt to look, well, better. I do feel a certain sense of triumph, however, as I’ve come up with a cunning solution to deal with the aging “smoker’s lines” around my mouth. (I don’t even smoke, which makes me wonder if I’ve spent my life puckering up my lips a lot?) Yesterday I gave it a trial run. I’ll be keeping a stash of orange rind slices that I can wedge underneath my top lip. Works like a charm until you have to speak. 

All kinds of weird feelings and insecurities have popped up with this impending event. Things I normally never really think about. Like what I should wear. What’s the perfect outfit to communicate that I’ve made enough of an effort but I also kind of don’t give two fucks? Most folks go with jeans and a T-shirt but when I wear jeans it feels like I have a straight-jacket on my legs. Considering that my daily outfit is normally smelly gym clothes, appropriate reunion attire has kept me awake at night a bit. Looking at the weather forecast, one thing is for sure: My primary accessory will be my hot water bottle. 

One of my other main concerns is around tiredness. As much as I’m really looking forward to seeing everyone, I kind of also feel tired at the thought. 11pm is a late night for me so the thought of staying up till an unknown late hour is a little like telling me to run on the spot till you stay stop. It reminds me of the first time I went to a rave in London. 

Exotica and her man, Rasta, were already well into the rave scene and it was not their first rodeo, so to speak, with using a little help to stay awake. I, on the other hand, had not been around this particular block yet and had the usual concerns about my partying staying- power. Consequently, I decided to prepare myself.

As it was, the woman we were housekeepers for, needed to get her car from the country to London. I was to drive with Exotica and Rasta, drop off the car, and then head to the rave. Poor Exotica and Rasta were subjected to my constant babble for the hour and a half long drive it took us to get to London. You see, I’d decided that, in order to bypass my natural ability to be struck down with unstoppable tiredness, by sipping on mug after mug of coffee for the entire day. This left me acting like the character Spud from Trainspotting who drops speed before an interview to “give him the edge”.

There’s more to the story though. The weekend before, Exotica and I had gone pottering around Camden Town. I’d bought a black sheer swing top from a 2^ndhand vintage shop and decided to don this for the rave. Just like I’m experiencing the same stress about reunion gear, I had similar concerns about rave gear. And although I knew that ravers generally wore tie-dyed, crocheted kinds of kit, I didn’t think I could pull it off because, having just arrived in London, I wasn’t “Ecstasy Skinny” yet. Accordingly, my kit of choice was: black caterpillar boots (the only shoes I owned), black cycling shorts (good stretch for big dance moves, no chafe, no chance of my butt showing) and said sheer swing top. 

There’s a couple of things I didn’t know about raves and vintage swing tops which I know now. Firstly, if you decide to imbibe in staying awake substances other than coffee, you’re going to dance your arse off. And, if like me, you’re quite a sweaty person, you’ll get pretty dang slick and wet. Secondly, vintage swing tops can be made out of a fabric called “Georgette”. Wikipedia describes it as “originally made from silk, Georgette is made with highly twisted yarns.” 

Now, logic would dictate that when yarns become wet – especially twisted yarns – they’ll stretch. Not so. Apparently, it does the opposite. In addition, I discovered that my Georgette top wasn’t made from silk, but rather a blend of something and rayon. Rayon, I discovered, likes to shrink.

As each new trancy track was played, I danced and sweated and danced and sweated. And the seam that once sat neatly beneath my bustline, now found itself somewhere mid nipple. My hemline was no better. My swing top had gone from mid-thigh to  - as my dad would call it – a fanny pelmet. 

Never have I been so happy for short leggings. 

Needless to say, I’ll not be taking any chances at my reunion. I’ll play it safe with trousers and a sensible top. But I will imbibe in coffee. E for the over 40’s. (I’m hoping they’ll also be serving morphine pie for dessert. Where do all these inexplicable body aches come from?)

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30th reunion and other musings...

(Original unedited image via www.masterfile.com)

For those five of you who regularly read my irregular blog posts, you’ll know that my 30^threunion is looming. The prospect of seeing a whole lot of people who last saw me with 80’s hair and legwarmers is a little daunting (oh those aerobics leotard days!) Consequently, I’ve been pondering how I can present the best possible version of me, aged 40-something. 

The problem is that my other attempts at any aesthetic improvements have gone horribly awry. Need I remind you about the time that I decided to wax my top lip and lost the courage to rip it off due to the ungodly pain? (I’ve subsequently found out that you’re not supposed to let it set hard before you RIP it off – alas, information I could sorely have used before!) Ah yes, who could forget me walking around for weeks afterward with little flecks of wax on my upper lip.

But there’s a few past improvements we haven’t yet explored. I should start with my hair. By way of introduction, I should by rights put “hair taming” as a unique skill on my CV. Since I can remember I’ve been wrangling my hair – with little success. The wild curls and frizz manage to assert themselves no matter what. 

When I was in Standard 7, I was invited to a Matric Dance. The fellow in question was a hot surfer and quite frankly, I couldn’t believe my luck. I stumbled upon him when Exotica, my two cousins and I developed a fool proof tactic to meet hot guys. We’d eye the chap in question, decide on a name, and rush up to him saying “Steeeeeve! How awesome to see you! What are you doing here? It’s been so long!”. The bewildered fellow would then insist he’d never met us in his life. We’d then fake our apology, claiming that it was all an innocent mistake but that it was nice to meet him anyway. And voila! Thus, we’d made our introduction. (In retrospect, it was more an ambush than a tactic.) 

Anyhow, the night of the matric dance came about and I asked my mom take me to have a blow-wave – which was the only way to get the curls out. She obliged (bless her), but we both forgot an important detail. The matric dance was in Hillcrest, a part of KZN that is known for heavy mist.

Those of you with straight hair will never be able to contemplate the risk that precipitation poses for someone with frizzy hair. As we pulled up to the school hall, the mist was thick as can be. And while Matric-Dance-Boy insisted that we hang around outside the hall to wait for his friends to arrive, I felt both my hair and my panic rising. The result was way, way worse than Rubenesque curls. It was beehive in height, and rather than curls, I had kind of straight, frizzy, poofy hairstyle going on. I’d have been welcome in a band with Diana Ross. To make matters worse, it would seem that ALL the other girls had gorgeous, sleek, obedient hair. It was a long night.

My next Version 2.0 effort saw me getting fake nails for my best friend’s wedding. For the life of me, I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea. I think it was an attempt to look more feminine as I’d recently cut my hair super short and looked like my brother’s brother. What nailish people don’t tell you, is that there are a whole ton of things you can’t do once you have long nails. Opening car doors becomes a nightmare because they hook underneath the bit that hinges. Grabbing anything, for that matter, becomes a subtle art. Because you can’t use the tips of your fingers to grip, you have to kind of lay them flat. (On this note, scrunching up and holding a wad of loo paper becomes almost impossible – but we won’t get into that.) I spent the night alternately dropping things and tapping on my wine glass, well, because it was such a novelty to have tappy nails. The very next day I was found ripping them off one by one and nibbling on what plastic was left in an effort to get them off. (Side note: Like a bad boyfriend, I gave fake nails one more try. I put DIY nails on and went to dinner. As I was squeezing lemon on my fish, one took flight. I still don’t know where it landed.)

More recently, I thought I’d give the fake eyelash trend a bash. I’m not even gonna tell a lie – I think they look awesome, even if they do look fake. Anyhow, I spent fifteen million hears of my life getting them put on and they were irritating AF! It felt like someone had dropped a ton of mascara on my eyelids, but scratchy mascara, with little knives. Almost immediately, I started pulling them off – which left me with a truly awesome look as some remained and some came off. I looked like I’d been in an unusual bar fight where you have to randomly tear eyelashes from your opponent’s eyes.

Then, this morning, just as I thought I might get myself some fillers in my lips, I saw a lady in the gym which reminded me why I shouldn’t. Lips, it seems, are defined by definite lines. As we age we lose pigmentation which means that even if you plump up your lips, it just makes your top lip look kind of puffy. Like you actually don’t have lips. Like you’ve been injured, or just been to the dentist. So ja, fuck that shit. It ain't gonna fly.

Of course, I still have one last trick up my sleeve: weight loss. Though I must be honest here, as time draws near my google search history has switched from “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 years” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 months” to “How to lose 30 kgs in 3 weeks”. And if you watch this space carefully, I might even share how I successfully lost 30kgs between the time that I left Cape Town to the time that I arrived in Durban. But don’t be too hopeful. I know I’m not.

P.S. I feel my current orthodontic braces are the cherry on the cake. In order to limit lacerations made by the metal braces, I’ve not only developed a list but also now possess the special skill of “spit-shower speak”. Lucky me. Wear your raincoats to the reunion folks.

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bare truths and bear tattoos...

(Original unedited image via www.thevintagenews.com)

Over the last week or so, I’ve been looking up images of bears in every nook and cranny of the internet. I won’t lie, it’s been a bit frantic. But you see I have a goal: a new tattoo. And I have a deadline: my 30^thschool reunion.

So why the bear obsession, I hear you say? To answer this, I need to backtrack a bit. Ever since left school I’ve actively avoided all my school reunions. For the 10^threunion, I still didn’t have a degree or diploma. I think I was pregnant and looking rather “swell”. I’d really done nothing noteworthy and literally had no accomplishments to my name, other than I could speak a rough, sweary form of German that I learned from a dodgy ex-boyfriend.

Then my 20^threunion rolled around and, well, things were pretty much the same. I still hadn’t accomplished very much and while I wasn’t pregnant, I still kind of looked that way. I did at one stage consider robbing a bank just to make some kind of name for myself but thought better of it. I hadn’t taken up any brag-worthy sports like surfing or marathon running. I still hadn’t nailed a new skill, like playing the banjo or cello. I still hadn’t gone through a magical transformation and did not look like a swimwear model or a body-builder. I hadn’t even been on drugs so I couldn’t even do motivational speaking on how tough it was to recover. 

Truth is, I was ashamed at my failure to win at life. To make matters worse, all my siblings and seemingly everyone else on the planet was busy with noble career choices like nursing and teaching and inventing cures for people with two left feet. 

But now my 30^thschool reunion is looming and while the status quo more or less remains the same regarding my lack of looks, fame, success, and fortune, I do have a hankering to meet up with old friends and share some memories. 

This is not to say I haven’t been practicing imaginary conversations about why no-one has written a book about my life. I’ve considered bald-faced lies like “Oh, I’m a spy and can’t tell anyone about it. This chubby-mumsy look I’ve got going on is just a disguise.” I’ve even considered more outlandish lies like “I work in a secret laboratory and can’t talk about my work. You wouldn’t understand it anyway.” The most believable lie I can come up with is that my job is to shave male Olympic swimmers. (Might also be a secret fantasy. Hard to know.)

Anyhow, back to bears and tattoos. I thought that, seeing as though I’m not going to be able to pull off the image of being a beautiful, svelte, well-preserved, successful, famous, rich, highly-educated, math-nailing woman of the world, I’d better go for something else: A devil-may-care (= overthinker), don’t give-a-fuck (= actually, I give too many fucks), anti-establishment (= don’t sign homework books), minimalist (= poor), freelancer (= mostly unemployed), heavily-tattooed (= a few naff tattoos) persona. But see the problem is that I don’t have enough tattoos to be convincing enough. 

So, I Googled “bear tattoos”. Big no-no. All the bear tattoos I found were these fierce, growly, teeth-bared tattoos. So, I Googled “bear drawing”. Mmm. Getting there, but lots of illustrations that looked like they belonged in a kid’s picture book rather than on my skin. Nope, not hardcore enough to match my New 30^thReunion Persona. Getting desperate, I searched “bear sketch” on Instagram and I found that, between the images of sweet teddy bears, vicious bears, baby bears, polar bears, and koala bears, there were sketches of men, mostly hairy and often posing suggestively.  Who knew that “bear” was also slang for a hot, hairy man?

Anyway, I finally found an image I liked and set about emailing a few tattoo artists I follow on Instagram. Can we just take a moment to lament the what-the-fuckery is up with some tattoo artists? On my quest to find the perfect tattooist to execute “bear”, I was reminded of a story my niece told me. (Um, and just to clarify, she’s in her 20’s. She’s not, like, ten.)

She’d wanted a tattoo for a while. I think it was of a wildflower. She found an image she liked and made a booking with a tattoo artist that was recommended to her. Dunno WTF his name was but we’ll call him “Gary”. As she’s a self-confessed, not-good-at-maps kind of person, she arrived a little late to find a very disgruntled, surly Gary. To make matters worse, his tattoo parlour wasn’t so much a parlour as a home, and he didn’t have a tattoo bed, but rather a drab, brown couch that lacked both cushions and cleanliness. 

She showed him the tattoo image. Gary then proceeded to lecture her about “how can you expect me (*harp sound* an artiste!) to copy someone else’s tattoo?” and “don’t you have any pride?” and “why would you want to have someone else’s tattoo on your body?” Understandably taken aback at his rude tirade, she gently tried to explain that it was hard to tell a tattoo artist to tattoo something without showing them what it is you want to have tattooed. He wasn’t hearing any of it. And she left - tattooless - but with the comfort that she hadn’t parted with any cash and that she didn’t bear the indelible marks of a madman. 

Anyhow, what brought this story to mind was that – armed with my bear-sketch - I approached a tattooist who had done a tattoo for me a few years ago. At the time, she was a junior tattoo artist and had no qualms about taking my money, copying someone else’s art, and using my skin as her training canvass. Fast forward a few years to when she’s honed her craft, developed her “style” and now won’t “copy someone else’s art”. Oh, the shifting sands of morality! She’s happy to “change the sketch”, but here’s the thing: I won’t get to see the sketch until I’ve paid the deposit. Erm. But what if I don’t like your sketch and I’ve paid you the money? And also, isn’t this a bit like reinventing the wheel as I already have a sketch that I know that I like? 

Isn’t insisting that someone accept and pay for your art a bit like saying to your client “I know you want that yellow blouse, but here, have this black one that by-the-way also doesn’t fit you."  Or, it could be like me telling my clients, “Ummm, ja, I know you want me to write about your work in your website, but I’d rather just write a fun story.”

To be perfectly honest, I have a problem with “artistic sensibilities” on the whole. If you want to puke paint on Lady Gaga and call it art, bully for you. Just don’t expect me to call it art. And if you want to poop paint-filled eggs out of your lady bits onto white paper and call it art, go right ahead. Just don’t ask me to buy it, love it, or call it art. And if you want to insert wool into your hoo-hoo and knit with it as it comes out, well fuck that shit. I mean really. That’s just taking the piss. 

But back to copying. If you go with Mark Twain’s theory that “originality does not exist”,you might accept that everyone (yes, including “arteeestes”) has drawn on others people's images, works, looks, ideas, and processes to feed their creativity. And hell-lo, this is especially relevant to tattoo artists! For the love of all things that are holy, tattoo parlours have endless tattoo books and poster references in their waiting rooms from where you can select your tattoo. So duh! Don’t give me this preciousness about “copying” and your “art”. Maybe I can explain it by way of a fashion analogy: We can’t always be designers. Sometimes we have to be the seamstress who simply executes the design.

On that note, one of the words that’s bandied around a lot by tattoo artists is “trust”. I have a problem with this. There, I said it. See, telling your client that they need to “trust” you with something that you will have for the rest of your life (but that they will never see again), is like saying “Hey! Let’s have a baby together. But I only want to make it. You the one who has to live with it forever.”  Also, jaaaaa, and um, sorry to hurt your feelings but what if I don’t like your doodle and now I’m stuck with it. Like forever. 

Lastly, WTF’s with the heavy-metal? I get that you have to maintain your “cool” tattooee image but honestly, I can take the pain of the needle better than the pressure of having to pretend that I like men-screaming-in-pain kind of music. (I have a secret suspicion that when all the clients leave, the tattooists switch to Tchaikovsky or Carly Rae Jepsen.)

You know what the irony behind all this me-trying-to-look-cool for my reunion shit is? It’s that I can’t even claim that there’s some “deep meaning” behind the bear tattoo. It isn’t my “spirit animal” or "totem." It doesn’t remind me of a teddy bear I loved as a kid. And it certainly doesn’t reflect the constellations in any way. I only chose it because like a bear, I’m also big with soft edges, I love to sleep, I like eating fish and berries, and I also look really awkward when I run.

... 

(As a side note, if we chose, say, a “Circus” theme for the reunion I could go as both the tattooed lady and the bearded lady at the same time. What can I say, perimenopause has a way of stimulating chin whiskers.)

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