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.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
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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