Being a long way away from one’s friends makes one vulnerable to attracting bizarre and absurd nicknames. A) Living in the desert and B) working for an airline (albeit in the communications department), you could say I’m asking for it. At another level, I have in many ways (to draw upon a phrase exhausted by my media theory lecturer) become ‘exoticised’.
My ex-housemate now calls me Sand-Pimperoo. Greenpant’s new name for me is Turbinfanny, and he wants to know whether I am working for Al Jazeera yet. Camel-jockey - I’ve heard more than once.
Racoon: How many towel-heads are you pulling?
C4: So tell me Heddles….you selling cheap flights these days…?
Me: No. I'm afraid I only point out emergency exits.
C4: And the brace position? That’s my personal favourite position….
I get the ‘beef or chicken’ line rather a lot.
Because I am a good sport, I let all this slide.
Last night I had the most entertaining long distance chat with my ex-roommate in from varisty. I had a missed call from her and immediately I panicked. Call me dramatic. Either something horrendous must have happened, or she was going to tell me she was gestating a child (which some would argue amounts to the same). So I phoned her back.
Me: Speak to me.
Response: [Crazed laughter]
90% of the call, we cackled like two old sissies dishing up mixed grill for res students. I blew 40 Dirhams in 5 minutes to listen to her absolutely pissing herself, while I did the same. We wheezed. We guffawed. We choked. And in between, asked eachother the same question repeatedly, “how ... thefuck ... are you?!” [Haaaaaa ... hahahaha!] “No, no - how are YOU!?”.
She’s a fine beast of a woman.
Look, we had our highs and lows during that colourful year of practically living in each other’s armpits in the room we named The Petting Zoo (for various reasons). Her lighting up a Stuyvie at 8am on a Sunday morning in bed, didn’t sit so well with me. I’ll reserve the less savoury details of our outlandish existence in that cesspit of laundry tubs of cane and cream soda and the results thereof for another post. In short, our res warden hated our living guts. We have a shoe box full of fines and disciplinary hearings summonses and a trunk full of … repossessed … clothing, which speaks for itself.
It is great to know that not even a continent, a marriage, and dramatically divergent lifestyles could come in between that good old-fashioned hysteria.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
The long distance call
I love the drive to work. Generally I crank up my aircon, followed by my radio. And I sing at the top of my lungs and in between I swear a lot, at bus-drivers overtaking in the wrong lane.
On Sunday and Monday’s trips in this week, my eyes were still half-closed, (see previous Insomnia posts), but today I am fresh from last night’s nine-hour vrek. At 06:25 am this morning I hit Sheikh Zayed Road in a splendid mood.
Sometimes I tune into the SA Radio 2000 equivalent, ‘The hooooome of classic hiiiits’. This only happens occasionally, when I am not into the R&B / Dropthapresshaaaaaa vibe of Radio 1.
It is the stuff my moonbag and rockies-wearing aunt and uncle would listen to. Dubai’s ‘hooooome of classic hiiiits’ plays a lot of Roy Orbison and Cliff Richard. If you’re lucky you’ll get some Bob Marley or some Fleetwood Mac.
Anyway. This particular morning, this Paul Simon song came on, when out of nowhere, I got these goose bumps:
It was a slow day,
And the sun was beating
On the soldiers by the side of the road,
There was a bright light -
So I turned down my aircon. Still had the goose bumps. So then I turned the radio up.
These are the days of miracle and wonder,
This is the long distance call,
The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
The way we look to us all,
The way we look to a distant constellation
That's dying in a corner of the sky,
These are the days of miracle and wonder
And don't cry baby don't cry
Don't cry -
And I was crying. Crikey. My eyes welled up with the emotion of it all. All of a sudden I was back at age five, at one of my folks’ raucous parties and Paul was pumping from the hi-fi and I was skipping around the pepper tree dodging the cans of Amstel and the potjie pot, wearing my grandmother’s long silk gloves and shorts and my home-made cardboard tiara, singing like a banshee and I was so damn happy.
There is something SO nostalgic about that song. It’s amazing. It is so growing up in South Africa.
Last time I heard it I was on a mate’s i-pod on a grey miserable day on a bus from Leeds to London, packed with unhappy looking northerners, and someone in front of me was eating these offensive-smelling cheesecurls, (but the prawn version).
Man it makes me homesick.
On Sunday and Monday’s trips in this week, my eyes were still half-closed, (see previous Insomnia posts), but today I am fresh from last night’s nine-hour vrek. At 06:25 am this morning I hit Sheikh Zayed Road in a splendid mood.
Sometimes I tune into the SA Radio 2000 equivalent, ‘The hooooome of classic hiiiits’. This only happens occasionally, when I am not into the R&B / Dropthapresshaaaaaa vibe of Radio 1.
It is the stuff my moonbag and rockies-wearing aunt and uncle would listen to. Dubai’s ‘hooooome of classic hiiiits’ plays a lot of Roy Orbison and Cliff Richard. If you’re lucky you’ll get some Bob Marley or some Fleetwood Mac.
Anyway. This particular morning, this Paul Simon song came on, when out of nowhere, I got these goose bumps:
It was a slow day,
And the sun was beating
On the soldiers by the side of the road,
There was a bright light -
So I turned down my aircon. Still had the goose bumps. So then I turned the radio up.
These are the days of miracle and wonder,
This is the long distance call,
The way the camera follows us in slo-mo
The way we look to us all,
The way we look to a distant constellation
That's dying in a corner of the sky,
These are the days of miracle and wonder
And don't cry baby don't cry
Don't cry -
And I was crying. Crikey. My eyes welled up with the emotion of it all. All of a sudden I was back at age five, at one of my folks’ raucous parties and Paul was pumping from the hi-fi and I was skipping around the pepper tree dodging the cans of Amstel and the potjie pot, wearing my grandmother’s long silk gloves and shorts and my home-made cardboard tiara, singing like a banshee and I was so damn happy.
There is something SO nostalgic about that song. It’s amazing. It is so growing up in South Africa.
Last time I heard it I was on a mate’s i-pod on a grey miserable day on a bus from Leeds to London, packed with unhappy looking northerners, and someone in front of me was eating these offensive-smelling cheesecurls, (but the prawn version).
Man it makes me homesick.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Gallupping Giddy Aunts
Hold the phone.
A Gallup poll in 2006 found that only 49 percent of Americans believed U.S. Muslims are loyal to the United States and 44 percent believed that the entire religion of Islam itself is inherently extreme. [P.W. Singer: Salon.com article War of Ideas, 26/06/07]
Shocked? Not really. Try this:
Likewise, in the 2006 poll, 39 percent advocated that all Muslims in the United States be required to carry a special ID.
Special IDs … read: dompas. Rather frightening stuff. Singer’s argument is that what is required is an ideological shift. It is clear as day that the election of a new US president alone will not provide the much-needed fungicide to this mushrooming narrow-mindedness.
An overhaul of deeply entrenched belief systems requires an understanding of what they hinge upon. Undeniably, it is the unadulterated, burning bonfire of fear, onto which Dubya, Condi, Cheney, continually throw more lighter fluid, (and Qurans).
Singer’s article concludes:
America provides a model of what citizenship and integration are all about, presenting an example that shines brightly compared with the autocratic regimes of the greater Middle East … Yet we seem to be on a path to repeating the worst of our periods of prejudice of the 1960s, or even the 1940s.
In full agreement with the broad argument, at the risk of offsetting another double-pronged insomnia attack, I will state my argument that living in the UAE has dramatically shifted my perceptions of ‘autocracy’. In some cases, it can work.
Ruled by His Heighness Sheikh Mo, Dubai is progressive, open-minded, and arguably, all-encompassing. It is a success story because it has recognized the need to draw upon foreign input and accommodating foreign influences. Mo is highly respected and loved by nationals and expats. His is an open office policy where ideas and suggestions from the average bloke or bird on the street are encouraged. He is generally philosophical and aims for the betterment of his nationals and Dubai and everyone in it. He allows expats their freedom of religion, has allocated land for churches, and tolerates boozing. He is a fair guy.
In 1999 the United Nations Human Development Index (HDI) placed the UAE forty-third in its list of countries with high human development. The HDI measures overall achievements in 174 countries on the basis of life expectancy, education and general standard of living.
The UAE is, in a lot of ways, the antithesis of the Western perception of the Middle East as backward and oppressive.
The philosophy behind the UAE is outlined in a statement released in 1971 as the new state was formally established:
The United Arab Emirates has been established as an independent
state, possessing sovereignty. It is part of the greater Arab nation.
Its aim is to maintain its independence, its sovereignty, its security
and its stability, in defence against any attack on its entity or on
the entity of any of its member Emirates. It also seeks to protect
the freedoms and rights of its people and to achieve trustworthy
co-operation between the Emirates for the common good.
Among its aims, in addition to the purposes above described, is to work
for the sake of the progress of the country in all fields, for the sake
of providing a better life for its citizens, to give assistance and
support to Arab causes and interests, and to support the charter of
the United Nations and international morals.
I think Dubya and his lemmings could learn a thing or two.
A Gallup poll in 2006 found that only 49 percent of Americans believed U.S. Muslims are loyal to the United States and 44 percent believed that the entire religion of Islam itself is inherently extreme. [P.W. Singer: Salon.com article War of Ideas, 26/06/07]
Shocked? Not really. Try this:
Likewise, in the 2006 poll, 39 percent advocated that all Muslims in the United States be required to carry a special ID.
Special IDs … read: dompas. Rather frightening stuff. Singer’s argument is that what is required is an ideological shift. It is clear as day that the election of a new US president alone will not provide the much-needed fungicide to this mushrooming narrow-mindedness.
An overhaul of deeply entrenched belief systems requires an understanding of what they hinge upon. Undeniably, it is the unadulterated, burning bonfire of fear, onto which Dubya, Condi, Cheney, continually throw more lighter fluid, (and Qurans).
Singer’s article concludes:
America provides a model of what citizenship and integration are all about, presenting an example that shines brightly compared with the autocratic regimes of the greater Middle East … Yet we seem to be on a path to repeating the worst of our periods of prejudice of the 1960s, or even the 1940s.
In full agreement with the broad argument, at the risk of offsetting another double-pronged insomnia attack, I will state my argument that living in the UAE has dramatically shifted my perceptions of ‘autocracy’. In some cases, it can work.
Ruled by His Heighness Sheikh Mo, Dubai is progressive, open-minded, and arguably, all-encompassing. It is a success story because it has recognized the need to draw upon foreign input and accommodating foreign influences. Mo is highly respected and loved by nationals and expats. His is an open office policy where ideas and suggestions from the average bloke or bird on the street are encouraged. He is generally philosophical and aims for the betterment of his nationals and Dubai and everyone in it. He allows expats their freedom of religion, has allocated land for churches, and tolerates boozing. He is a fair guy.
In 1999 the United Nations Human Development Index (HDI) placed the UAE forty-third in its list of countries with high human development. The HDI measures overall achievements in 174 countries on the basis of life expectancy, education and general standard of living.
The UAE is, in a lot of ways, the antithesis of the Western perception of the Middle East as backward and oppressive.
The philosophy behind the UAE is outlined in a statement released in 1971 as the new state was formally established:
The United Arab Emirates has been established as an independent
state, possessing sovereignty. It is part of the greater Arab nation.
Its aim is to maintain its independence, its sovereignty, its security
and its stability, in defence against any attack on its entity or on
the entity of any of its member Emirates. It also seeks to protect
the freedoms and rights of its people and to achieve trustworthy
co-operation between the Emirates for the common good.
Among its aims, in addition to the purposes above described, is to work
for the sake of the progress of the country in all fields, for the sake
of providing a better life for its citizens, to give assistance and
support to Arab causes and interests, and to support the charter of
the United Nations and international morals.
I think Dubya and his lemmings could learn a thing or two.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Insomnia please release me
I’m less awake than a sea cucumber slumbering on the barrier reef.
Insomnia Part II got me. There is absolutely nothing worse than desperately needing to drop a Z and not being able to. Last night’s mind interference was akin to having Motley Crue jamming (unplugged) in my room.
Struck up a reading session at midnight. After an hour or so of this I generally begin to feel like Silvia Plath. Disembodied. Dislocated. Out of synch with the world. It is weird being awake when everyone else is out for the count and you just wish you were too and instead you have a family of wraiths breathing on you.*
Then I started thinking about that reality show in the UK, ‘Shattered’. I think the poor sod who eventually won it by staying awake for the longest made it to 11 days minus his forty winks. Personally, I would rather be forced into cannibalism.
Despite the exhaustion, I am a human production line. Cranking out decisions, dominating meetings, churning out concise, informative emails. It may be the detachment that comes with being worn out. Margaret Thatcher said that to operate at one’s optimum, one should be ‘a little tired, and a little hungry’.
Bugger that. Tonight I am going to snort a Somnil.
*In keeping with yesterday’s Adrian Mole theme, my mind was a Pandora’s Box. Whaaaahaaaa.
Insomnia Part II got me. There is absolutely nothing worse than desperately needing to drop a Z and not being able to. Last night’s mind interference was akin to having Motley Crue jamming (unplugged) in my room.
Struck up a reading session at midnight. After an hour or so of this I generally begin to feel like Silvia Plath. Disembodied. Dislocated. Out of synch with the world. It is weird being awake when everyone else is out for the count and you just wish you were too and instead you have a family of wraiths breathing on you.*
Then I started thinking about that reality show in the UK, ‘Shattered’. I think the poor sod who eventually won it by staying awake for the longest made it to 11 days minus his forty winks. Personally, I would rather be forced into cannibalism.
Despite the exhaustion, I am a human production line. Cranking out decisions, dominating meetings, churning out concise, informative emails. It may be the detachment that comes with being worn out. Margaret Thatcher said that to operate at one’s optimum, one should be ‘a little tired, and a little hungry’.
Bugger that. Tonight I am going to snort a Somnil.
*In keeping with yesterday’s Adrian Mole theme, my mind was a Pandora’s Box. Whaaaahaaaa.
Bushed
Cripes. Feeling like I’ve been hit by a Bundey’s Ball of Fun tour bus.
We’ve shown Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O a fair bit of Dubai this weekend, but due to the stinking weather it was more an immersion into the lifestyle experience than a jam-packed sightseeing extravaganza. It’s been marvelous. One more of these tours and I will dethrone Robin Leech as the best host in television history.
Sleepless in Seattle
Man I am dog tired. You know that under water vibe? Today I am a salmon, swimming upstream in an inbox full of inane Polish query-mongering. Insomnia is something I would only wish upon All Blacks supporters, and maybe Mugabe.
Arbitrary thoughts, normally tossed aside, always seem worth exploring at 01:30 when you are lying awake like an ADD child on a glucose rush after a Fizzer binge. Underlining most of them is a pressing need for decisiveness. Ironically, at 02:00 you are no longer decisive anyway. Pros become cons, cons become neutral, and the bastards wash indiscriminately over your conscious mind, which by now has become as unruly as a Russian shot-put champion’s bikini line*.
Daniel Carter vs Schalk
What to wear to work / what not to wear
[Shit it’s late. I am going to DIE at work tomorrow.]
When to take leave for which trips. Trips vs other trips. SA in September VS London in October, or both? Skiing vs Sri Lanka, etc.
[I love my life.]
Is my current job worth a damn in the scheme of things?
This week’s gym timetable. Spinning vs yoga. VS VS VS.
[Intermittent analysis of the weekend. I love my life.]
Analysis of Scar Tissue and Anthony Kiedis’s farked up life. Imagining I am him. Realization: I’m not an addict, it’s cool …
Pondering Life as a Polish salmon.
Was Blood Diamond another one-dimensional Tears-of-the-Sun-in-sheep’s-clothing / Ra-rah America load of horse poo, or a fair attempt at least, at telling the African story. I suspect it was the former. But it was worth it to hear Leo call some chap a doos.
*I always feel like Adrian Mole when I write these posts about the inner workings of my mind. Sue me.
We’ve shown Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O a fair bit of Dubai this weekend, but due to the stinking weather it was more an immersion into the lifestyle experience than a jam-packed sightseeing extravaganza. It’s been marvelous. One more of these tours and I will dethrone Robin Leech as the best host in television history.
Sleepless in Seattle
Man I am dog tired. You know that under water vibe? Today I am a salmon, swimming upstream in an inbox full of inane Polish query-mongering. Insomnia is something I would only wish upon All Blacks supporters, and maybe Mugabe.
Arbitrary thoughts, normally tossed aside, always seem worth exploring at 01:30 when you are lying awake like an ADD child on a glucose rush after a Fizzer binge. Underlining most of them is a pressing need for decisiveness. Ironically, at 02:00 you are no longer decisive anyway. Pros become cons, cons become neutral, and the bastards wash indiscriminately over your conscious mind, which by now has become as unruly as a Russian shot-put champion’s bikini line*.
Daniel Carter vs Schalk
What to wear to work / what not to wear
[Shit it’s late. I am going to DIE at work tomorrow.]
When to take leave for which trips. Trips vs other trips. SA in September VS London in October, or both? Skiing vs Sri Lanka, etc.
[I love my life.]
Is my current job worth a damn in the scheme of things?
This week’s gym timetable. Spinning vs yoga. VS VS VS.
[Intermittent analysis of the weekend. I love my life.]
Analysis of Scar Tissue and Anthony Kiedis’s farked up life. Imagining I am him. Realization: I’m not an addict, it’s cool …
Pondering Life as a Polish salmon.
Was Blood Diamond another one-dimensional Tears-of-the-Sun-in-sheep’s-clothing / Ra-rah America load of horse poo, or a fair attempt at least, at telling the African story. I suspect it was the former. But it was worth it to hear Leo call some chap a doos.
*I always feel like Adrian Mole when I write these posts about the inner workings of my mind. Sue me.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Great words
For unknown reasons, certain words hold immense appeal for me. Mention one of them, and it is all I can do to prevent myself from cracking apart at the sides with pure mirth.
Sometimes it is not even necessary for someone to even physically utter the words to induce hysteria. There are days when I will be brushing my teeth/applying mascara/pulling up to a four-way stop, and out of NOWHERE a Tourettes-like guffaw will escape me at the mere thought of any of the following [note: disturbingly, most are Afrikaans]:
Boep (SO much better than ‘paunch’)
Possum (the creature)
Vatlappie (oven gloves – shit what a pearler!)
Boskak (why, why is it such a funny goddamn word?)
Maybe my subconscious dredges up associations based on memories of funny farkers actually saying them with particular relish.
In the same way, it is amusing calling people by other people’s names.
From: Heddles
Sent: 21 June 2007 07:52 AM
To: mate
Subject: Dank Die Here Dis Donderdag
Hi Bob Marley
Thanks so much for a smashing dinner, I swear that was the best lasagne EVER. Garfield would have DIED!
Once I was called Bok van Blerk before I even knew who Bok van Blerk was. I laughed for days.
It is hilarious to throw random names like Salman Rushdie/ PJ Powers/ Kenny Rogers / Queen Latifah into emails/texts. The good Lord only knows why.
Sometimes it is not even necessary for someone to even physically utter the words to induce hysteria. There are days when I will be brushing my teeth/applying mascara/pulling up to a four-way stop, and out of NOWHERE a Tourettes-like guffaw will escape me at the mere thought of any of the following [note: disturbingly, most are Afrikaans]:
Boep (SO much better than ‘paunch’)
Possum (the creature)
Vatlappie (oven gloves – shit what a pearler!)
Boskak (why, why is it such a funny goddamn word?)
Maybe my subconscious dredges up associations based on memories of funny farkers actually saying them with particular relish.
In the same way, it is amusing calling people by other people’s names.
From: Heddles
Sent: 21 June 2007 07:52 AM
To: mate
Subject: Dank Die Here Dis Donderdag
Hi Bob Marley
Thanks so much for a smashing dinner, I swear that was the best lasagne EVER. Garfield would have DIED!
Once I was called Bok van Blerk before I even knew who Bok van Blerk was. I laughed for days.
It is hilarious to throw random names like Salman Rushdie/ PJ Powers/ Kenny Rogers / Queen Latifah into emails/texts. The good Lord only knows why.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Life Scrabble
Bless my mother’s dear little cotton secret sockies. In the midst of my sorting out visit visas (AGAIN) pandemonium, answering inane Polish queries, taking mind-numbing inventories of lists and lists of word documents, and keeping my social email banter up at a respectable tempo, I received the most delightful interruption:
Email Scrabble from my mother, sent to all our relatives.
>
> CHANGE ONE LETTER OF THE BOTTOM WORD POSTED AND SEE WHO GETS STUCK AND
>
> CAN'T CONTINUE!
>
> RULES:
>
> YOU CANNOT ADD LETTERS
>
> YOU CANNOT USE FOREIGN LANGUAGES
>
> YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE ONE LETTER
>
> Send it back to the person that sent it to you, plus 10 new people.
>
> STARTING WORD: foot
>
> Hannah - boot
>
> Mary -bout
>
> Dan - boat
>
> Taylor- coat
>
> Nat - coal
>
> Brian - cool
>
> Bryan – fool
I will leave it at Bryan. What a rockstar.
I particularly enjoy the CAPITALISED instructions. Just makes me want to get stuck right on in.
Anyway, severe dehydration has set in as I have now retuned to my desk after hoofing it to the Arabic Typing Office. It’s a 10 minute walk in the sun and it’s got to be at least 100 degrees out there, and I am pushing beads like an Arabian mare at the Desert Classic.
So I have now got Miss Reginald Dwight’s visa application form in right-aligned, illegible italics. And because my A-rab Sugardaddio is in Hong Kong this week, Kotters is her proud sponsor. He has kindly agreed to meet me at Immigration to sign the form. He is now classified in my books as indispensable.
Email Scrabble from my mother, sent to all our relatives.
>
> CHANGE ONE LETTER OF THE BOTTOM WORD POSTED AND SEE WHO GETS STUCK AND
>
> CAN'T CONTINUE!
>
> RULES:
>
> YOU CANNOT ADD LETTERS
>
> YOU CANNOT USE FOREIGN LANGUAGES
>
> YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE ONE LETTER
>
> Send it back to the person that sent it to you, plus 10 new people.
>
> STARTING WORD: foot
>
> Hannah - boot
>
> Mary -bout
>
> Dan - boat
>
> Taylor- coat
>
> Nat - coal
>
> Brian - cool
>
> Bryan – fool
I will leave it at Bryan. What a rockstar.
I particularly enjoy the CAPITALISED instructions. Just makes me want to get stuck right on in.
Anyway, severe dehydration has set in as I have now retuned to my desk after hoofing it to the Arabic Typing Office. It’s a 10 minute walk in the sun and it’s got to be at least 100 degrees out there, and I am pushing beads like an Arabian mare at the Desert Classic.
So I have now got Miss Reginald Dwight’s visa application form in right-aligned, illegible italics. And because my A-rab Sugardaddio is in Hong Kong this week, Kotters is her proud sponsor. He has kindly agreed to meet me at Immigration to sign the form. He is now classified in my books as indispensable.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Goose
My friend (my special friend) is getting hitched.
The Goose and I have known each other since we were size 0’s with grasshopper legs, sliding down muddy banks in cardboard boxes. We were both accompanying our Heroes (hers, her big brother, and mine, my two big cousins). At first I eyeballed her with suspicion. She wore a floral skirt. On a fishing excursion. I was muddier than she was and wearing boy’s shorts.
I warmed to her when I discovered we shared the same interest in dressing up (me in my grandmother’s crimpalene dressing gown, silk gloves and high heels 5 sizes too big, her in a silky blue number and kilos of lipstick, fanning herself with a feather duster). We looked like two emaciated, underage drag queens.
Our pursuits gradually became more versatile – we played with dinkie cars but we also had dolls. Baked cakes but rode BMXes. Barbies and pool-cricket.
We were conned into hours of tickling the Heroes’ backs for zero payment. It was a slow learning curve – the R2 coins we were promised per ten minutes’ graft never materialized (we were so happy it didn’t occur to us to toyi-toyi).
Goose did ballet and I did horse-riding. We created the best damn hotel in KZN at age 10, for her little sister and her friend to come and stay in: Hotel Pearson. We made the most killer promotional video for it. It was Freddy Mercury meets Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous. The service was astounding.
We waitressed together. We went to Westville Boy’s High socials together, not knowing a soul, and would end up slow dancing with the same two dorks every time (me with waistcoat-and-glasses boy, her with a little child-gecko who came up to her shoulder, transfixed by her beestings).
We painted our nails Tippex-white and read Blush magazines and talked about boys. A lot. Ad nauseum.
Then we went to Varisty and held each other’s hair while we chundered. Ever the control-freak, she insisted on having a bath once when we were 17 sheets to the wind. I demanded that she sing to me so I knew she wasn’t drowning. She picked ‘I luuuurve Paris in the Springtiiiiiiiiiime …’ Special.
After Varsity I missed driving around Grahamstown in her hunk of junk listening to tapes. The Goose went to England with her family and I moved to Jozi. That didn’t really separate us, in fact, for a while, we were closer than ever. We both found ourselves in the stinking armpit of hell regarding the men in our lives at the same time that first year, and there were large quantities of mutual snot and trane spilt down various cathartic channels (phone/email/text).
Since then it hasn’t really mattered how often we’ve spoken/emailed/texted. We still see each other’s inner grasshopper every time we meet.
And now she is getting married. I suppose this is where our parallel lives dramatically diverge for the first time. She has found a wonderful, crazy, funny, intelligent guy who adores the pants off her. And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.
The Goose and I have known each other since we were size 0’s with grasshopper legs, sliding down muddy banks in cardboard boxes. We were both accompanying our Heroes (hers, her big brother, and mine, my two big cousins). At first I eyeballed her with suspicion. She wore a floral skirt. On a fishing excursion. I was muddier than she was and wearing boy’s shorts.
I warmed to her when I discovered we shared the same interest in dressing up (me in my grandmother’s crimpalene dressing gown, silk gloves and high heels 5 sizes too big, her in a silky blue number and kilos of lipstick, fanning herself with a feather duster). We looked like two emaciated, underage drag queens.
Our pursuits gradually became more versatile – we played with dinkie cars but we also had dolls. Baked cakes but rode BMXes. Barbies and pool-cricket.
We were conned into hours of tickling the Heroes’ backs for zero payment. It was a slow learning curve – the R2 coins we were promised per ten minutes’ graft never materialized (we were so happy it didn’t occur to us to toyi-toyi).
Goose did ballet and I did horse-riding. We created the best damn hotel in KZN at age 10, for her little sister and her friend to come and stay in: Hotel Pearson. We made the most killer promotional video for it. It was Freddy Mercury meets Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous. The service was astounding.
We waitressed together. We went to Westville Boy’s High socials together, not knowing a soul, and would end up slow dancing with the same two dorks every time (me with waistcoat-and-glasses boy, her with a little child-gecko who came up to her shoulder, transfixed by her beestings).
We painted our nails Tippex-white and read Blush magazines and talked about boys. A lot. Ad nauseum.
Then we went to Varisty and held each other’s hair while we chundered. Ever the control-freak, she insisted on having a bath once when we were 17 sheets to the wind. I demanded that she sing to me so I knew she wasn’t drowning. She picked ‘I luuuurve Paris in the Springtiiiiiiiiiime …’ Special.
After Varsity I missed driving around Grahamstown in her hunk of junk listening to tapes. The Goose went to England with her family and I moved to Jozi. That didn’t really separate us, in fact, for a while, we were closer than ever. We both found ourselves in the stinking armpit of hell regarding the men in our lives at the same time that first year, and there were large quantities of mutual snot and trane spilt down various cathartic channels (phone/email/text).
Since then it hasn’t really mattered how often we’ve spoken/emailed/texted. We still see each other’s inner grasshopper every time we meet.
And now she is getting married. I suppose this is where our parallel lives dramatically diverge for the first time. She has found a wonderful, crazy, funny, intelligent guy who adores the pants off her. And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Stop the fun bus Dubai City Tours
Peggy and I are insanely good entertainers. Besides our enormous capacity for partying, we are in touch with what the people want when they come visiting the Middle East.
We gave the Racoon and the Boxman the tour of their bleeding lives earlier in the year. They arrived from Mud Island pasty and wide-eyed (Bless them, we said). They left tanned, kitted out in designer gear and henna tattoos - generally far cooler beings. In four days we had covered it all – camel rides, boat rides up the Dubai Creek, kayaking attempts, golf, belly dancing, shisha pipes and hummus, and managed to flick the odd hoof on the odd dance floor.
This weekend we’ll be called upon to cook up an itinerary for the arrival of Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O, this time tailoring a summer package to allow for the current outdoor discomfort levels as the region becomes increasingly inferno-like. We will be accommodating both ladies’ fondness for the acquisition of goods and chattels by providing access to a cross section of UAE malls. Like Trinny and Susannah we’ll able to provide advice on What Not to Wear in certain parts of the inner city (all feminine flesh should be covered).
If we don’t say so ourselves, we are ridiculously adept at providing the fullest possible tourist experience - from the planning stages (designing itineraries) to hands-on execution (providing accommodation and personally guiding the tour groups) - all while paying special attention to the varying tastes and special needs of our visitors.
Hence. We have conceptualised a new, soon to be outrageously successful, entrepreneurial foray into the world of adventure and explorations of the UAE.
We’re calling it Bundey's Ball of Fun Tours.
We'll have our own Jeep Wrangler (lumo orange), which will be able to ramp pavements better than any Hummer’s wildest dream. There will be flame-throwers and shirtless man-bitches in the back. We'll be blaring Busta Rhymes tunes from our 6 x 9’s and our logo will be a camel with a bottle of Crackling under its armpit.
Sweet titties. It’s going to be a killer!
We gave the Racoon and the Boxman the tour of their bleeding lives earlier in the year. They arrived from Mud Island pasty and wide-eyed (Bless them, we said). They left tanned, kitted out in designer gear and henna tattoos - generally far cooler beings. In four days we had covered it all – camel rides, boat rides up the Dubai Creek, kayaking attempts, golf, belly dancing, shisha pipes and hummus, and managed to flick the odd hoof on the odd dance floor.
This weekend we’ll be called upon to cook up an itinerary for the arrival of Miss Reginald Dwight and Miss O, this time tailoring a summer package to allow for the current outdoor discomfort levels as the region becomes increasingly inferno-like. We will be accommodating both ladies’ fondness for the acquisition of goods and chattels by providing access to a cross section of UAE malls. Like Trinny and Susannah we’ll able to provide advice on What Not to Wear in certain parts of the inner city (all feminine flesh should be covered).
If we don’t say so ourselves, we are ridiculously adept at providing the fullest possible tourist experience - from the planning stages (designing itineraries) to hands-on execution (providing accommodation and personally guiding the tour groups) - all while paying special attention to the varying tastes and special needs of our visitors.
Hence. We have conceptualised a new, soon to be outrageously successful, entrepreneurial foray into the world of adventure and explorations of the UAE.
We’re calling it Bundey's Ball of Fun Tours.
We'll have our own Jeep Wrangler (lumo orange), which will be able to ramp pavements better than any Hummer’s wildest dream. There will be flame-throwers and shirtless man-bitches in the back. We'll be blaring Busta Rhymes tunes from our 6 x 9’s and our logo will be a camel with a bottle of Crackling under its armpit.
Sweet titties. It’s going to be a killer!
Die Burger
I’m in love with Schalk Burger. He is THE hottest spanner. AND Man of the Match. None of my mates get it. Hell - neither do I. Love is crazy like that though.
Wearing it today like my Grade 2 school blazer. Most of us are taking serious strain after a barely legal triple header. I’ve lost my brain. I think it may have been trampled on (on the dance floor at Bar Zar) and is now stuck like a piece of gum to the bottom of my new Egyptian gay best friend’s size 12 tap-dancing shoe.
Thursday
Attended a FRAT party. For the first time in my natural life, I felt OLD. Crikey - my mates and I brought the average age up to 20. Picture a college jol in American Pie (the movie), and imagine being one of the oldest cheerleaders there. Funneling. Dancing on the lawn. 44 degrees. Sweat – LOTS of it. Pool-throwing. A near arrest. Tequila shots through hole in a gigantic slab of ice. Three of us passed out in Peggy’s bed. Two on the couch.
Peggy and I were operating below the intelligence level of sea cucumbers on Friday.
Friday
Attended Whose Line Is It Anyway, the live show. Almost ejected myself into the row in front of me I was laughing so hard at the five John Cleeses just pulling one beauty after another out of the bag. It was pure quality. Later I was plied with red wine containing a hidden shot of cane (apparently). This led to bum-dancing (and maybe some Latin American combo’s). Superb evening all round.
The fun burglar pulled in around 9am and a tactical chunder was the order of the day ahead of my compulsory spinning class. King K’s phone was mangled and therefore I had no means of cancelling. What a godsend though. We proved that gym is the new fry-up of hangover cures. Bongezis leave the building while you sweat. You like that?
Wearing it today like my Grade 2 school blazer. Most of us are taking serious strain after a barely legal triple header. I’ve lost my brain. I think it may have been trampled on (on the dance floor at Bar Zar) and is now stuck like a piece of gum to the bottom of my new Egyptian gay best friend’s size 12 tap-dancing shoe.
Thursday
Attended a FRAT party. For the first time in my natural life, I felt OLD. Crikey - my mates and I brought the average age up to 20. Picture a college jol in American Pie (the movie), and imagine being one of the oldest cheerleaders there. Funneling. Dancing on the lawn. 44 degrees. Sweat – LOTS of it. Pool-throwing. A near arrest. Tequila shots through hole in a gigantic slab of ice. Three of us passed out in Peggy’s bed. Two on the couch.
Peggy and I were operating below the intelligence level of sea cucumbers on Friday.
Friday
Attended Whose Line Is It Anyway, the live show. Almost ejected myself into the row in front of me I was laughing so hard at the five John Cleeses just pulling one beauty after another out of the bag. It was pure quality. Later I was plied with red wine containing a hidden shot of cane (apparently). This led to bum-dancing (and maybe some Latin American combo’s). Superb evening all round.
The fun burglar pulled in around 9am and a tactical chunder was the order of the day ahead of my compulsory spinning class. King K’s phone was mangled and therefore I had no means of cancelling. What a godsend though. We proved that gym is the new fry-up of hangover cures. Bongezis leave the building while you sweat. You like that?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
VIVA THURSDAY VIVA!
It’s Thursday and I am flaming thrilled.
My head would probably be hurting less now if I was banging it against a wall. My pet woodpecker is hammering away at my left temple and I would pay someone a lot of Dirhams to end its life.
Last night the Expats found the most smashing Italian restaurant in the heart of Deira (central Dubai). We knocked back one or two breadsticks, followed by 6 bottles of wine. Then we got into an exhilarating Mars/Venus-type debate. I think it was mostly about the best way to meet decent men in this place. Maybe I started it. Kotters confirmed that no man worth his weight in beef would be likely to approach one of us birds in our usual intertwined koeksuster formation on the dance floor, cackling like sari saleswomen at the souk, gooi-ing suitcases down each other’s throats. The lady-clique is impenetrable, fair enough. But we have fun that way.
Everyone is hanging like bats today. Most have had their A game on in the email banter thus far. Kotters reckons he has Cosatu toyi-toyi-ing in his head. Peggy Bundey nearly coughed up a lung on the treadmill this morning. King K had to do an emergency Starbucks run, Jeanpant is sending filthy jokes, and no-one has heard from the Paki.
Besides my mini hangover I can hardly walk - delayed reaction from that BodyPOMP class day before yesterday. I’m currently stalking around like I have a pool-cue down the leg of my pants.
If it wasn’t for my restricted motor abilities I would break into a toyi-toyi. Since Agent mentioned it, I’ve been craving one.
I know tonight’s going to be a biggie cos Peggy has deleted some key men’s numbers from her phone. That is of course, and aggressive Dop ‘n Dial precaution. Out of respect for ourselves, we don’t want to be sending SMSes to people we shouldn’t be thinking of.
TGIT everybody.
My head would probably be hurting less now if I was banging it against a wall. My pet woodpecker is hammering away at my left temple and I would pay someone a lot of Dirhams to end its life.
Last night the Expats found the most smashing Italian restaurant in the heart of Deira (central Dubai). We knocked back one or two breadsticks, followed by 6 bottles of wine. Then we got into an exhilarating Mars/Venus-type debate. I think it was mostly about the best way to meet decent men in this place. Maybe I started it. Kotters confirmed that no man worth his weight in beef would be likely to approach one of us birds in our usual intertwined koeksuster formation on the dance floor, cackling like sari saleswomen at the souk, gooi-ing suitcases down each other’s throats. The lady-clique is impenetrable, fair enough. But we have fun that way.
Everyone is hanging like bats today. Most have had their A game on in the email banter thus far. Kotters reckons he has Cosatu toyi-toyi-ing in his head. Peggy Bundey nearly coughed up a lung on the treadmill this morning. King K had to do an emergency Starbucks run, Jeanpant is sending filthy jokes, and no-one has heard from the Paki.
Besides my mini hangover I can hardly walk - delayed reaction from that BodyPOMP class day before yesterday. I’m currently stalking around like I have a pool-cue down the leg of my pants.
If it wasn’t for my restricted motor abilities I would break into a toyi-toyi. Since Agent mentioned it, I’ve been craving one.
I know tonight’s going to be a biggie cos Peggy has deleted some key men’s numbers from her phone. That is of course, and aggressive Dop ‘n Dial precaution. Out of respect for ourselves, we don’t want to be sending SMSes to people we shouldn’t be thinking of.
TGIT everybody.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Pour some sugar on me
Yesterday I bumped into my A-rab Sugardaddy while leaving work. Special K was standing there in his finest army general’s kit, smoking with his dish-dash wearing friend.
SK: Come here [grabs my hand]. Tell me, what do you have a mobile phone for?
Me: [Blushing. Last time he called me was at 10pm on a Thursday night. I didn’t answer.]
SK: I theenk you have a phone to receive the phonecall. And to make the phonecall. But your phone it does not work. It must be broken because you are never answering me when I call.
Me: Rubbish. I do answer my phone, but the last time you called, I was out with my friends. [Lie: I was watching a DVD with Peggy Bundey. And did not feel like a chat with the A-rab].
SK: I don’t theenk so. I theenk your boyfriends is not happy I am calling you and he is trying to control you. And that is why you are not answering me.
Me: No, no. It’s not like that. [Instantly regretting saying it].
[SK eyeballing me]
Me: I’m really sorry, I am on my way to gym and I’ll be late for my class [Truth].
SK: Wait. Let me look at you. [Grabs my hand, spins me around. God]. You are not needing the gym my darling. You are not fat.
Me: Ha. Ha. [What the faark to say to that. Knowing that I will be needing to call on the guy for a mate’s Visit Visa sometime next week].
SK: Listen, I am off to Hong Kong next week. I will give you my other mobile number. Call me and tell me what I can bring back for you.
Me: Ha … Ha. [Oh, holy smoking sheesha pipes].
The afternoon’s BodyPOMP class was like being hooked up to some kind of medieval instrument of torture. The instructor is hardcore - on all levels. It has a spikey, grey crop of hair, army-style. It wears rugby shorts and barks at the class with a demonic smile plastered to its face. Frightening.
At any given moment it may drop its’ weight bar like a red-hot poker, come crashing down off the stage (lunging 1000 horsepower hulking quads), and loudly identify what you are doing wrong. “Fuuurzer aparrt, keep your hendz fuuurzer apaarrrt!”
Apparently it once it had a twin sister. Which it ate. Walking up the stairs this morning to the 5th floor – I was slower than a three-legged llama with Parkinson’s making its way up the Andes. Good pain though.
SK: Come here [grabs my hand]. Tell me, what do you have a mobile phone for?
Me: [Blushing. Last time he called me was at 10pm on a Thursday night. I didn’t answer.]
SK: I theenk you have a phone to receive the phonecall. And to make the phonecall. But your phone it does not work. It must be broken because you are never answering me when I call.
Me: Rubbish. I do answer my phone, but the last time you called, I was out with my friends. [Lie: I was watching a DVD with Peggy Bundey. And did not feel like a chat with the A-rab].
SK: I don’t theenk so. I theenk your boyfriends is not happy I am calling you and he is trying to control you. And that is why you are not answering me.
Me: No, no. It’s not like that. [Instantly regretting saying it].
[SK eyeballing me]
Me: I’m really sorry, I am on my way to gym and I’ll be late for my class [Truth].
SK: Wait. Let me look at you. [Grabs my hand, spins me around. God]. You are not needing the gym my darling. You are not fat.
Me: Ha. Ha. [What the faark to say to that. Knowing that I will be needing to call on the guy for a mate’s Visit Visa sometime next week].
SK: Listen, I am off to Hong Kong next week. I will give you my other mobile number. Call me and tell me what I can bring back for you.
Me: Ha … Ha. [Oh, holy smoking sheesha pipes].
The afternoon’s BodyPOMP class was like being hooked up to some kind of medieval instrument of torture. The instructor is hardcore - on all levels. It has a spikey, grey crop of hair, army-style. It wears rugby shorts and barks at the class with a demonic smile plastered to its face. Frightening.
At any given moment it may drop its’ weight bar like a red-hot poker, come crashing down off the stage (lunging 1000 horsepower hulking quads), and loudly identify what you are doing wrong. “Fuuurzer aparrt, keep your hendz fuuurzer apaarrrt!”
Apparently it once it had a twin sister. Which it ate. Walking up the stairs this morning to the 5th floor – I was slower than a three-legged llama with Parkinson’s making its way up the Andes. Good pain though.
Whacked
Today I’ve been talking like one of the Wayans brothers. Man I love that shit. That shit’s whack. W.H.A.C.K. brother.
It was brought to my attention that I dig this shit so much, that few would be surprised to learn that my ancestors were chilling on the beach waving at the ships when Jan van Riebeck arrived. Personally, I would not be shocked to discover I was part hottentot. Not in the least.
The degree of my shit-talking today is directly proportionate to the number of Nescafe (yes, you get it in Dubai) double-scoop instant coffees I have thrown at my face this morning.
My love affair with caffeine is comparable to Elvis’s relationship with peanut butter and bacon sandwiches during the latter part of his life. Much like being in love, abusing the beverage both raises my heart rate and keeps me awake at night.
I was dangerously close to rock bottom back at Varisty when someone slipped me an ice-cold bottle of Bioplus during exams. During my Philosophy 1.0 paper I felt like a band of circus mice were holding a kung fu demonstration at the back of my throat and my eyeballs were being inflated with a bicycle pump. NEVER again.
Caffeine and I patched up our differences when I became part of the working world however. Nothing beats the black filter coffee I used to abuse at Sunday Times. Those moon-bag wearing, grubby-fingernailed emaciated jounos inhaled the stuff like it was oxygen, along with their 60 Camel filters a day. I swear it was hallucinogenic.
God I miss it.
It was brought to my attention that I dig this shit so much, that few would be surprised to learn that my ancestors were chilling on the beach waving at the ships when Jan van Riebeck arrived. Personally, I would not be shocked to discover I was part hottentot. Not in the least.
The degree of my shit-talking today is directly proportionate to the number of Nescafe (yes, you get it in Dubai) double-scoop instant coffees I have thrown at my face this morning.
My love affair with caffeine is comparable to Elvis’s relationship with peanut butter and bacon sandwiches during the latter part of his life. Much like being in love, abusing the beverage both raises my heart rate and keeps me awake at night.
I was dangerously close to rock bottom back at Varisty when someone slipped me an ice-cold bottle of Bioplus during exams. During my Philosophy 1.0 paper I felt like a band of circus mice were holding a kung fu demonstration at the back of my throat and my eyeballs were being inflated with a bicycle pump. NEVER again.
Caffeine and I patched up our differences when I became part of the working world however. Nothing beats the black filter coffee I used to abuse at Sunday Times. Those moon-bag wearing, grubby-fingernailed emaciated jounos inhaled the stuff like it was oxygen, along with their 60 Camel filters a day. I swear it was hallucinogenic.
God I miss it.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Young guns
My friend Queen Latifah likes 'em young. Sexy, strapping, and obedient. But what self-respecting woman doesn't? There is something to be said for the respect and yes, adoration, a lightie will bestow upon a more mature woman.
To schnack on a boy-child, four years your junior, barely out of University, wide-eyed, untamed: there is something so wrong, (yet so right) about it all.
The pluses are multiple. There are those toit abs. Surplus carbs from years of beer drinking have not yet taken hold on these chiseled packs of muscle. The boyish charm. Put that down to relatively less life experience in which to accumulate baggage. The reckless abandon - read: excitement factor. The freshness of it all. The general absence of cynicism; the as yet un-jaded world view as a result of not having egos broken by the steely corporate system. Essentially, and in a non-condescending way: his idealistic bubble is still intact. As is his spontaneity. These boys are keen to tackle the world (and you) by the ankles. ARRRRR!
Susan Sarandon did it and has not looked back.
I’m a quarter of the way through Scar Tissue, Head Boy of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Anthony Kiedis’s biography. There is a poignant moment between his eighth grade self and Cher. She’s babysitting him. After a semi-innocent, voyeuristic moment where she whips her kit off, leaving the bathroom door wide open, she climbs into bed with him. Nothing happens, but the boy is in awe. AWE. Fair enough, the age gap is extreme, and yes, Cher remains a transcendent, archetypal feminine form, ageless, and hot. Still, it illustrates the point.
Real life example. Varsity, for most of us, was one gargantuan display of childish behaviour, but Rhodes Formal Dinners took lack of restraint to a whole new level. Absurd outfits. Blind dates, bottles of cane. Ridiculous games. Name-throwing. There was an Understanding that regardless of mutual levels of attraction between you and your designated partner, that by the end of the night, you would be smooching like sucker fish. Tongue-slapping guaranteed.
My all-girl digs in third year hatched an ingenious plan involving a group of hand-picked first year seals for our own clubbing purposes. Our blind dates were cowboys. Hot ones. Damn. We pulled it off. We had water pistol fights. Spin the bottle wasn’t even necessary. Most importantly, we got great pictures.
The romance of it all began to wane when at least three feisty young bucks were still lurking around the next day at 3pm. Night of wild abandon – yes. Daycare – not so much.
To schnack on a boy-child, four years your junior, barely out of University, wide-eyed, untamed: there is something so wrong, (yet so right) about it all.
The pluses are multiple. There are those toit abs. Surplus carbs from years of beer drinking have not yet taken hold on these chiseled packs of muscle. The boyish charm. Put that down to relatively less life experience in which to accumulate baggage. The reckless abandon - read: excitement factor. The freshness of it all. The general absence of cynicism; the as yet un-jaded world view as a result of not having egos broken by the steely corporate system. Essentially, and in a non-condescending way: his idealistic bubble is still intact. As is his spontaneity. These boys are keen to tackle the world (and you) by the ankles. ARRRRR!
Susan Sarandon did it and has not looked back.
I’m a quarter of the way through Scar Tissue, Head Boy of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Anthony Kiedis’s biography. There is a poignant moment between his eighth grade self and Cher. She’s babysitting him. After a semi-innocent, voyeuristic moment where she whips her kit off, leaving the bathroom door wide open, she climbs into bed with him. Nothing happens, but the boy is in awe. AWE. Fair enough, the age gap is extreme, and yes, Cher remains a transcendent, archetypal feminine form, ageless, and hot. Still, it illustrates the point.
Real life example. Varsity, for most of us, was one gargantuan display of childish behaviour, but Rhodes Formal Dinners took lack of restraint to a whole new level. Absurd outfits. Blind dates, bottles of cane. Ridiculous games. Name-throwing. There was an Understanding that regardless of mutual levels of attraction between you and your designated partner, that by the end of the night, you would be smooching like sucker fish. Tongue-slapping guaranteed.
My all-girl digs in third year hatched an ingenious plan involving a group of hand-picked first year seals for our own clubbing purposes. Our blind dates were cowboys. Hot ones. Damn. We pulled it off. We had water pistol fights. Spin the bottle wasn’t even necessary. Most importantly, we got great pictures.
The romance of it all began to wane when at least three feisty young bucks were still lurking around the next day at 3pm. Night of wild abandon – yes. Daycare – not so much.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Stars in my eyes
I have this daily compulsion to read my horoscope.
Fair enough, it’s as tacky as reading You magazine. Fortunately I’m rather discerning. I screen the ones I don’t like. If Yahoo! or iVillage (God I’m ashamed to admit I’m an iVillage user) tell me anything less than ‘today, the sun is going to shine on your Leonine ass’, I feel obliged to hit Google until I find a half decent one. My loyalty to a single horoscope provider swings like James Bond in the 70’s. I risk the possibility of the negative forecasts leaking into my subconscious, influencing my mental state and thereby affecting my actions, resulting in a self-fulfilling prophecy of some kind. Yet the rush I get when I eventually stumble across a goodie outweighs what’s at stake. I am crazy like that.
Today’s overall outlook is less than satisfying.
Yahoo!
Emotional matters could hit the fan today at a social event or group meeting of some kind. Those around you are apt to be feeling especially stressed out and volatile, dear Leo, so be prepared for anything. Try to stay out of passionate confrontations yourself, and don't try to spread oil on troubled waters. At times like this, such attempts only cause unwanted attention to be focused on you! Stay centered.
[i.e. hide in a cave for the day, don’t speak to anyone. Today you are a shit-stirrer by default. Your presence among friends and family will be as well received as that of Idi Amin jumping out of the Queen’s birthday cake armed with a machete].
Today’s iVillage one was more helpful:
Feelings are just that - feelings. They're a type of information and should neither be condemned nor elevated. Learn to sit with what comes up and you'll find a whole new arena of possibilities.
Clearly, I will go with the latter. In fact, it’s pretty timely advice. I realize I have been in need of some rational, left-brained, male perspective right now after the last few days’ veritable smorgasbord of emotions.
I find the Onion.com always offers practical advice for daily living.
While there's no doubt that plastic collar stays have their place in the fast-paced modern world, Jupiter ascendant in Leo means it's time to invest in a set crafted from old-fashioned brass.
In keeping with my selectivity, although I am partial to my daily bullshitting from Yahoo!/iVillage, I wouldn’t go so far as to visit fortune teller for a one on one. That would be taking it a bit far. I don’t think I could stomach having some money-grabbing ho telling me my future self is a barren spinster earning a living from crocheting doilies. Digestible daily chunks I can handle. But a life forecast – never.
I did once have my “colours read” by an absolute ripper at a cricket day in Cambridge. I felt like I was surrounded by the cast of Dead Poet’s Society, with English accents. A bunch of toffs organised the most tremendous cricket match with entertainment for the WAGs - jumping castles, coleslaw and Andy Pandy the Colour Reader. Andy and I connected immediately. He told me I was wasted as a telesales person and it was time to get the rock out of England.
Which I did.
Fair enough, it’s as tacky as reading You magazine. Fortunately I’m rather discerning. I screen the ones I don’t like. If Yahoo! or iVillage (God I’m ashamed to admit I’m an iVillage user) tell me anything less than ‘today, the sun is going to shine on your Leonine ass’, I feel obliged to hit Google until I find a half decent one. My loyalty to a single horoscope provider swings like James Bond in the 70’s. I risk the possibility of the negative forecasts leaking into my subconscious, influencing my mental state and thereby affecting my actions, resulting in a self-fulfilling prophecy of some kind. Yet the rush I get when I eventually stumble across a goodie outweighs what’s at stake. I am crazy like that.
Today’s overall outlook is less than satisfying.
Yahoo!
Emotional matters could hit the fan today at a social event or group meeting of some kind. Those around you are apt to be feeling especially stressed out and volatile, dear Leo, so be prepared for anything. Try to stay out of passionate confrontations yourself, and don't try to spread oil on troubled waters. At times like this, such attempts only cause unwanted attention to be focused on you! Stay centered.
[i.e. hide in a cave for the day, don’t speak to anyone. Today you are a shit-stirrer by default. Your presence among friends and family will be as well received as that of Idi Amin jumping out of the Queen’s birthday cake armed with a machete].
Today’s iVillage one was more helpful:
Feelings are just that - feelings. They're a type of information and should neither be condemned nor elevated. Learn to sit with what comes up and you'll find a whole new arena of possibilities.
Clearly, I will go with the latter. In fact, it’s pretty timely advice. I realize I have been in need of some rational, left-brained, male perspective right now after the last few days’ veritable smorgasbord of emotions.
I find the Onion.com always offers practical advice for daily living.
While there's no doubt that plastic collar stays have their place in the fast-paced modern world, Jupiter ascendant in Leo means it's time to invest in a set crafted from old-fashioned brass.
In keeping with my selectivity, although I am partial to my daily bullshitting from Yahoo!/iVillage, I wouldn’t go so far as to visit fortune teller for a one on one. That would be taking it a bit far. I don’t think I could stomach having some money-grabbing ho telling me my future self is a barren spinster earning a living from crocheting doilies. Digestible daily chunks I can handle. But a life forecast – never.
I did once have my “colours read” by an absolute ripper at a cricket day in Cambridge. I felt like I was surrounded by the cast of Dead Poet’s Society, with English accents. A bunch of toffs organised the most tremendous cricket match with entertainment for the WAGs - jumping castles, coleslaw and Andy Pandy the Colour Reader. Andy and I connected immediately. He told me I was wasted as a telesales person and it was time to get the rock out of England.
Which I did.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Gmail
My dear mother and I have this inside joke. She calls me Cabin Crew (drawing on my platonic liasons with my A-rab Sugardaddy), and I affectionately call her the Q-Tip (referring to the pale guy in Me, Myself and Irene. My mother is not pale, nor does she have milky-white hair or pinkish skin. The name just cracks me up).
From time to time I am required to provide technical support to the Q-Tip as she is faced with the daily intimidations of Gmail. The diverse range of her queries never fails to surprise me.
From: Mum
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:00
To: Heddles
Subject: Email
Hello Cabin Crew
As my technological adviser, can I send an email with 9 attachments, or would it be better to send him 2 or 3 separate ones?
(My personal opinion is that as Gmail is so whizzy, it should be no problem! but I know some people have a problem receiving so many attachments at once...)
Yours in eager anticipation
Q Tip
From: Heddles
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:10
To: Mum
Subject: Email
QT
Oh, bless you!
What we have learned is that Gmail is almost as boundless as the good Lord's love for us. One can send numerous attachments at once. The beauty is that Gmail will inform you should there be any sort of problem.
Kind regards,
Cabin
From: Mum
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:12
To: Heddles
Subject: Email
You little beauty!!! Damika [our Sri Lankan domestic helper] is wondering why I am shrieking hysterically downstairs...
xx
She’s a keeper for her raw entertainment value.
From time to time I am required to provide technical support to the Q-Tip as she is faced with the daily intimidations of Gmail. The diverse range of her queries never fails to surprise me.
From: Mum
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:00
To: Heddles
Subject: Email
Hello Cabin Crew
As my technological adviser, can I send an email with 9 attachments, or would it be better to send him 2 or 3 separate ones?
(My personal opinion is that as Gmail is so whizzy, it should be no problem! but I know some people have a problem receiving so many attachments at once...)
Yours in eager anticipation
Q Tip
From: Heddles
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:10
To: Mum
Subject: Email
QT
Oh, bless you!
What we have learned is that Gmail is almost as boundless as the good Lord's love for us. One can send numerous attachments at once. The beauty is that Gmail will inform you should there be any sort of problem.
Kind regards,
Cabin
From: Mum
Sent: 05 June 2007 11:12
To: Heddles
Subject: Email
You little beauty!!! Damika [our Sri Lankan domestic helper] is wondering why I am shrieking hysterically downstairs...
xx
She’s a keeper for her raw entertainment value.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Like sands through the hourglass …
The word ‘Dubai’ should come with the tagline: Sand, sand everywhere.
As Dubai residents we live in an urban development, a burgeoning concrete jungle. Yet like most desert locations, it is not without its sand.
Every day I park in it. I must jostle with another 2,999 irritable, teeth-gnashing staff members for a spot in a litter-strewn, street cat-infested powder-pit. I normally pull in around 06:42 am. Most days I get to squeeze in right up close to the rubbish skip overlooking the mosque. If I arrive at 06:44 I’m screwed. 20 minutes of wild zigzagging, some creative maneuvering and a 12 minute walk (minimum) will ensue.
Walking through sand can be image-damaging. My pointy black shoes are permanently white-tipped. It irks me. Footwear must be removed and pockets of residual particles tipped out.
Look, no place is perfect. In Tooting, London, the pavements were a minefield of chav vomit, Staffordshire terrier coils and crisp packets.
David Banda, my black car, needs a wash twice a week to avoid looking like he’s wearing a cashmere jersey. He’s a lucky bastard if gets one. I know people that have let their cars gather layer upon layer of dust until it is too late to do anything about it. The Paki once had a team of Philippino car washers refuse to even have a go at hosing down his vehicle, it was that dirty.
Sand does have its uses.
• Sand-blasting.
• Manufacturing glass.
• Burying people.
• Building obscenely expensive islands.
It does hold some aesthetic appeal; making the place appear exotic (I’m trying). Airborne sand makes for bizarre sunsets of muted tones – the Jarhead Effect, which I quite enjoy.
As Dubai residents we live in an urban development, a burgeoning concrete jungle. Yet like most desert locations, it is not without its sand.
Every day I park in it. I must jostle with another 2,999 irritable, teeth-gnashing staff members for a spot in a litter-strewn, street cat-infested powder-pit. I normally pull in around 06:42 am. Most days I get to squeeze in right up close to the rubbish skip overlooking the mosque. If I arrive at 06:44 I’m screwed. 20 minutes of wild zigzagging, some creative maneuvering and a 12 minute walk (minimum) will ensue.
Walking through sand can be image-damaging. My pointy black shoes are permanently white-tipped. It irks me. Footwear must be removed and pockets of residual particles tipped out.
Look, no place is perfect. In Tooting, London, the pavements were a minefield of chav vomit, Staffordshire terrier coils and crisp packets.
David Banda, my black car, needs a wash twice a week to avoid looking like he’s wearing a cashmere jersey. He’s a lucky bastard if gets one. I know people that have let their cars gather layer upon layer of dust until it is too late to do anything about it. The Paki once had a team of Philippino car washers refuse to even have a go at hosing down his vehicle, it was that dirty.
Sand does have its uses.
• Sand-blasting.
• Manufacturing glass.
• Burying people.
• Building obscenely expensive islands.
It does hold some aesthetic appeal; making the place appear exotic (I’m trying). Airborne sand makes for bizarre sunsets of muted tones – the Jarhead Effect, which I quite enjoy.
Write-hoff
There are days when I long to be locked in a darkened cell wearing a pair of orange overalls, Hilton-style. Devoid of human contact. Minus a driver’s license. I am living through one of them today in fact.
I think my occasional antisocial leanings stem from my days as a telesales person in London. 1) I was conned into it. 2) I hated it. It made me more uncomfortable than Dubya Bush attending a Greenpeace bring 'n braai. My employers must have thought I had a bladder the size of a sesame seed what with the number of trips I made to the ladies to avoid striking up yet another arduous conversation with a self-important marketing prick I imagined wearing a salmon shirt . I just could not stand selling advertising over the phone. At least I drew the line at the headset.
Even though I have long since kissed those torturous, telephone-chord strangulating days goodbye, I am sometimes transported by some nightmarish time machine from a Stephen King novel back to that emotional state of flatness. I feel the familiar signs of impending reclusiveness coming on like a game ranger senses a fresh rhino dump over the next koppie.
• 90% of all verbal emissions and written communications are junk
• Speaking of junk (in trunks) the only conceivable remedy is to throw a Mars bar at the problem, though this is in most cases, on a once a month basis
• Spoken and written junk induces withdrawal
Wallowing never helps. Tantrums sometimes do (Hilton again). Ill-equipped with the Queen’s illustrious ability to get stiffen her upper lizard lip, I usually just wait for a day or so to pass and the Fun Police to return my personality.
I think my occasional antisocial leanings stem from my days as a telesales person in London. 1) I was conned into it. 2) I hated it. It made me more uncomfortable than Dubya Bush attending a Greenpeace bring 'n braai. My employers must have thought I had a bladder the size of a sesame seed what with the number of trips I made to the ladies to avoid striking up yet another arduous conversation with a self-important marketing prick I imagined wearing a salmon shirt . I just could not stand selling advertising over the phone. At least I drew the line at the headset.
Even though I have long since kissed those torturous, telephone-chord strangulating days goodbye, I am sometimes transported by some nightmarish time machine from a Stephen King novel back to that emotional state of flatness. I feel the familiar signs of impending reclusiveness coming on like a game ranger senses a fresh rhino dump over the next koppie.
• 90% of all verbal emissions and written communications are junk
• Speaking of junk (in trunks) the only conceivable remedy is to throw a Mars bar at the problem, though this is in most cases, on a once a month basis
• Spoken and written junk induces withdrawal
Wallowing never helps. Tantrums sometimes do (Hilton again). Ill-equipped with the Queen’s illustrious ability to get stiffen her upper lizard lip, I usually just wait for a day or so to pass and the Fun Police to return my personality.
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