Why they keep planting new bushes by my garage door I will never understand

So my mother thought I had died.

Or actually the way that my father put it on the telephone when he called me yesterday because he had been told to find out my current status, was that she thought "something had happened", which is MyMother for "Is there fog in the mirror and if so, why in the hell are you not updating your blog, or even your twitter you ungrateful child who I sometimes regret releasing into the world but who mostly does okay as long as that nice husband of yours is making sure you think twice before you heckle that crazed taxi driver, or buy those shoes."

See, my mom is cool that way. She totally checks my blog all the time (and convinces herself that most of what I write is pure fiction), she has gotten on board with twitter and is using that to gauge my level of alivedness, I'm pretty sure she at least attempts to check my Facebook, but since she refuses to actually join it, there's no way she's getting anything out of it, and as a last resource she'll send an email with the heading 'How are you???' Which, again yes, you guessed it, translates directly to "Unless I hear a peep from you now, by which I mean right this minute, I will alert international media and get them to run one of those extremely embarrassing wannabe mug-shots you seem to inadvertently excel at and say something like 'last seen wearing running shoes with 90s mommy-jeans, one of those Bill Cosby-esque knits, and a side ponytail', so you better get on twitter and write whatever it is you seem to be so busy with asap."

There's no hiding from my mom. As there shouldn't be. For me. Seeing as I am her only daughter. Her eldest.

And I have no excuse. For her or for you.

Here is what I started last week. And then went out for coffee, which turned into drinks, which turned into a dinner, which turned into a lunch, which then turned into a wonderful new friendship. Way out there.

In the real world.

In other words:

Somewhere along the way, in the last couple of months, I seem to have developed a serious case of life.

Not going to say I'm sorry for not staying glued to the bustling ants' nest (Remember? Actual, live ants) also known as my MacBook Pro, and blogging all about the so very interesting thoughts that cross my mind nearly daily (such as what has happened to my doormat, and how many low things is it even possible to hit with the car just in a span of one day), or about the shit that hits the fan, and the grill, and the windshield on a daily basis (such as what has happened to my doormat, and who is that guy in my back yard), but I will say that I'm pretty sure this is not the end of my blogging, just a lovely occurrence which means that I'm out there doing actual stuff with more bodyparts than just with the tips of my fingers, with actual people who I know for sure are not weird bots (Not that any of you are either. I think. Right? Are you? Tell me now or forever hold your peace? Till death do you part? [I did a wedding photo shoot for my portfolio recently and am still battling leaving that weirdo zone]), all the way out there where there's actual wine paired with awesome salads (I'll admit, I'm a recent Cobb-o-holic), where people greet me with hugs, and where cappucinos are not virtual or imagined, but come topped with soft and creamy whipped cream.

Who could say no to that? I mean wine and coffee are involved...

And that's as far as I got before I actually slammed the door shut behind me (okay, pushed the button that closes the garage door while backing out of the garage thus hitting the curb with the fender and running over the newly planted bushes, which I felt I needed to share with everyone in the blogosphere, hence the heading) and went for an actual cappucino, instead of just writing about one. With cream on top.

So not apologizing. Or even really explaining. Just letting you know I'm alive.

So alive.

I seriously hate photographing weddings. 

Ode to Guadalupe (not the virgin)

Today I feel like a whine, and then some wine. And as luck, as well as my supremely awesome internet-skillz would have it, I have this here blog and as I am indeed the supreme ruler of this here blog and its all encompassing carrying force, I'll do exactly what I please, and w(h)ine some.

Voilá, and pop the sucker already. It must be wino-o-clock in some shelter somewheres in the universe:

*pours a glass*

But first here is picture of a lion-attack. Yup. The one standing is me.

As usual, I'm unhappy with my maid 'situation'.

In all honesty, there hasn't been a point in time I have been completely satisfied with anyone ever working for me. None of you, or really, anyone should ever try. I'm an on-off perfectionist, my-way-or-the-highway, please make sure everything is exactly where I left it, you should have gotten back to me yesterday, the handles must all point southeastwards, the couch pillows should naturally be lined up by size and use, even my own mother things I'm wacko, and can't you read my mind already kind of a person dragon-lady.

However, now I find myself missing my maid in Mexico, Guadalupe, who was practically blind (at least to dust and anything that required bending down to be cleaned), thought the tumble dryer was the bestest of any and all inventions, I'm pretty sure used the vacuum mainly in some sort of special Santa Muerte worship ceremony as an incense holder, but who was also very fun to talk to, and who pulled interesting stunts such as locking herself out on the balcony and then throwing stones (from my potted plants) at the passers by to get someone to call the fire brigade (Nope. Not me with the key, the fire brigade). But miss her I do, because of the succession (wow, we must be up to double figures by now) of maids I have been going through in the past year and a half here in South Africa.

I always have a hard time with people and not barking at them. Especially when they don't bow to my will.

I would so make a perfect dictator or a tyrant (Is there a difference? I don't know. Should I know if I think I could be one? Nah, that wouldn't be proper dominating behavior, I think). Or I could have my own talk show. Yeah. Too bad lazy comes in the way of benevolent world domination and/or being Oprah. Oh well. One can believe one is in control of the world when one drinks enough too, I guess. I'll settle.

In reality, the only one ever fit to be working for me is me, and even having that one employee is causing me sleepless nights and ground-to-unattractive-stumps teeth. Not to mention sudden bursts of rage when I am unable to remove the cap on my hairspray can (totally beat that can into submission. I am the dictator of my own bathroom at least. Unless this rebellious behavior spreads to my collection of 'hair treatments'. Then I'm fucked) or I hit one more low thing with the car.

Poor car. And stupid low things.

But why is my old stretched cotton underwear (I totally should buy some new fancy stuff already, by which I mean fancy stuff that can actually be worn underneath jeans and not that stuff I seem to buy inspired by Samantha Jones from the Sex and the City, because that stuff is not meant to be worn by the likes of me or anyone not intending to pierce their own netherparts while walking) tied in one of those uber-complicated sailor's knots this time around?

Is the number of whole wineglasses decreasing again?
Are the pillows in a disarray?
Is there a crack in that special and oh-so-cherished Iron Maiden coffee mug/ pint?
Was there a pile of unpaid bills underneath the stairs again?
Does the toothbrush smell like the sneakers that now look disconcertingly clean?

Well, not exactly. What's made the pea travel up my nostril this time, is that I'm simply missing someone to show up. On the day they are supposed to show up. To be at my door at that appointed hour, to first listen to me roll my eyes and sigh, then reassign new meanings to 'please', 'thank you' and 'we', before resorting to the barking. To be there to listlessly push the vacuum handle around in random directions and pretend to be dusting without actually touching a single surface.

I just need a presence. A body, in order to be able to keep believing that I can still eat that piece of chicken I dropped on the kitchen floor per the five second rule, and that those ants nesting in my CD drive are not there because there is also an entire cookie made of crumbs in there, but because Zeus is being unjust.

I need to keep my faith. This is how far I have compromised, and still it's not enough. Oh woe.

At least Guadalupe would always show up, even if she did spend the first half an hour telling me about her granddaughter whilst eating all of the bread and tuna she could dig out of my cupboards before crying a little bit because her water had been cut off. I would then give her a little cash for the water and she would ignore the dust with a smile, reorganize my closets, and iron a hole into my sweater. And then I would bark at her, feel bad, and ask her opinion on cleaning the living-room carpet, and bribe her with coffee and pastries.

But we laughed, she at my accent and I at her stories of which I only understood the very simple parts of, together. Every time she came. Rain or shine she was there. She cried when I left the country, and held on to my old iron and coffee maker tighter I thought possible. But most of all, her unfailing presence made it possible for me to wash off that weird black stuff from the soles of my feet and believe that it was the outside that was going down the drain instead of dust from my own couch, and that those splatters on the mirror were irremovable drops of paint not gunks of toothpaste and spit sprouting bacteria. And for that Illusion, I thank her.

And wish she was here.

Oh Guadalupe. If only you were here for me to tell you to stop using the tumble dryer and for you to respond by telling me that I'm rich and therefore am obligated to use it. Oh Guadalupe.

I really miss you. And Mexico. And Casillero del Diablo red.

Salud!

A spill

Ya'll know this, but still, the fun never ends.

I always have to pee. At the absolutely most inopportune of the absolutely most inopportune moments of all possible moments. Ever. Tinkle, tinkle I have to go.

Like when the catsuit/ weird lingerie I'm only trying on for kicks and will deny ever trying on if directly asked/ scuba gear has been zipped up to that point unreachable by my own hands. Like when the elevator with me and a bunch of other peeps has just inexplicably stalled between two floors. Like when I've just reached the start of the line and am about to get on the ride/ pay for my groceries/ try on this cool t-shirt with blue skulls on it. Like when the tent door opening has just been zipped up and tied shut. Like when I'm going a 120 km an hour on the middle lane in a crowded area. Like when the one toilet in the vicinity is out of order or clogged by vomit and something that looks like grass-and-coal-flavored marshmallows and completely void of toilet paper. Like when the fasten your seat belts light has been switched on and the stewardess has just emptied the drinks cart on the guy's tray-table who's sitting in the aisle seat next to me. Like when I'm wearing my locked chastity belt. Like when there are absolutely no toilets around or nothing even remotely connected to the idea of a place for relieving one's bladder... You know, the usual.

Show me a place with no toilet and I will show you a woman desperately wriggling to the tune of the potty dance (can only be heard by special people like me and all pregnant women).

So, what do you think happens when I tell you I need to pee, there is an actual clean toilet - decked with actual toilet paper and all - in the near vicinity, and you don't let me pee before ushering me into a situation devoid of a toilet and with plenty of spectators?

This is a no-brainer. Pee-related dramz of course, and plenty of it too.

Sometimes my man apparently forgets either who he is, or who it is he is married to (other incidents include such gems as ordering me a fish that kept staring at me from the plate with its cold dead eyes and expecting me to debone and eat the poor creature [as if!], and making the penniless me take a separate taxi to our hotel in Madrid because we had too much luggage) and regardless of our ten years together, oodles and oodles of marriage and companionship and whatnot, on top of all that shiz that comes with spending all of one's free time with one specific human being, the Viking, my man in his own beloved person, decides to not let me pee.

When I actually really have to, have to, pee.

When I've had 'drinks' (read: a bottle of the loveliest Bouchard Finlayson Chardonnay) with our friends.

When I've had to pee for some time, but didn't want to break the interesting, if a tad wine-fueled, discussion regarding candida and what it does to the intestines and nails among other gruesome details about it to better diagnose them in my body later, and kept thinking I'll only get up to go to the bathroom once I've actually seen the nails.

But we had tickets for Stomp.

And we were late.

"Honey, they are announcing that the doors are closing, and then there's no entrance!!!" says the ashen Viking to me as he hurries me away from the hall leading towards the toilets.

The man hates nothing more than being late. Gets quite anal about it.

"But I really, REALLY, have to pee," I counter, "I was gonna pee, but then yeast came up! Man!"

"It's only for an hour and a half," he looks at me pleadingly, "Argh. They're closing the doors!!!"

At this point there is no one even close to the doors, let alone holding the handle. But I see the agony this is causing my Viking and I follow him, half running, while he gently drags me along and wants to know if there is any way I could "actually run." Yup. In my new Errol Arendz heels. Higher than high.

We enter the fully lit theatre, while the doors remain wide open.

We find our seats in the middle of the fourth row from the front and I introduce the first half of the row to my derriere, my profuse apologies in several languages, as well as the pointy heels of my new heels. The people right next to me are South American so I get to apologize in Spanish. Yey! But they still give me the evil eye.

We gaze at the empty stage, and I hiss insults at the Viking involving what's in my bladder and the doors' continued open state. But there's no way I can get up to go out again. People are already looking at us funny.

But finally the theatre darkens and I glance at my wristwatch. Only an hour and a half. Three half hours in total. Only six quarters of an hour. That's nothing. I can beat this. I totally can. I can kick my full bladder into next week if I want to.

After all. I am sitting down.

30 long minutes in and I'm desperate. I've wiggled, crossed my legs, uncrossed my legs, loosened the waist of my skirt, tightened the waist of my skirt, pretended to fiddle with my shoe, rubbed my back, jittered to the beat, jittered way faster than the beat, hugged my stomach, held my sides, pinched my legs together, and jumped quite noticeably on my seat. But nothing's working.

I. Seriously. Have. To. Pee.

Oh. And there are some people on the stage doing some weird shit with brooms and trash cans and newspapers. But I'm not paying attention. Simply can't.

I get up.

I hear voices behind me as I slowly make my impeded way toward the aisle. The people who have already met my derriere once are not impressed by the re-encounter. I can tell. They make disapproving sounds. I glance back at the Viking. I can tell he's scared of my wrath.

As I finally reach the closest exit a man in a black suit appears at my side: "Ma'am. You can use the door at the back of the theatre."

I whisper a thank you to him as I redirect my aim and pull myself toward the door at the back, taking the stairs at a swift pace, some two at a time. I just know there is a toilet not too far on the other side of the door.

I can make it.

And I do. For a glorious two whole minutes I sit on the toilet thinking how underrated the pleasure of finally being able to release one's bladder really is. How underrated indeed. It feels as though I'm again ready to face the world. To go back out there and enjoy Stomp.

I've been told it's an awesome show.

I quickly wash my hands, check my teeth and the back of my skirt in the mirror (I'm notorious for sticking it in my underwear/ pantyhose/ belt), and calmly walk towards the door.

I open it. No one stops me. In my mind I scoff at the Viking who believed the announcer's spiel about no entrance during the show. At the side of the theatre I begin my descent down the stairs towards the fourth row. Some people turn to look, but I make no noise. I let go of the wall to take a better look at the lettering at the end of each row.

Nearly there. I can see the back of the Viking's head and the empty seat next to him.

That is when I fall. Down the stairs. Practically gliding. Hitting my handbag on the wall and thus making a noise. I'm pretty sure I also yelp in pain. My skirt rides up as I try to stop my glide down the stairs with my knees.

"Good thing I'm wearing black pantyhose," I think.

Some people get up from their seats to help me up. Most of the audience turns to look at the ruckus that is me and not the show. I make my mind up not to wave. The show never misses a beat, or at least I don't notice it. They just keep banging on something. I make my way back to my seat.

I have no shame left. Seriously.

[Sorry. Again no picture. Seems that Blogger doesn't feel like I should be able to upload a picture from my computer. Thanks a lot Blogger!]

On Death and dying and Barbies

[WHAT HAVE YOU DONE BLOGGER? I CAN NO LONGER UPLOAD MY OWN PICS! For all of you others - there would have been a cool picture right here, but now there's not. It would have been awesome. Hmph]

One of our friends is a bit of a player. A young, single, intelligent and handsome foreigner in a country seemingly filled with women eager to hook up with such a catch. Or I guess I mean playah if we're being completely accurate. As we always are. Always. Completely accurate. You know me, I would never make insulting generalizations or permeate stereotypes. Nothing of the sort. Nope. Not me.

A Playah he is indeed. Surrounded by an interestingly varying cavalcade of adoring women.

But let's talk about how we - I and El Grande Vikingo also known as the man of my dreams who drives me to shoe stores on a regular basis - fit into the picture. We are not adoring women. We are far from adoring (and even more so from adorable) and although I do admit to being a woman that adoring side of me never really blossomed. Sometimes I'll pretend it's there and not complain about the Viking's weird habit of emptying his pockets of all the weird shit he likes to store daily in in them, right onto the dining room table, immediately upon entering the house. Our house, that is. But it's a shoddy pretense at its best.

We are not entirely women, nor are we adoring - we are simply the Playah's friends. And friends go to places with their friends. Isn't that even on one of the Love is...? posters? Surely.

So we decided for once to not go home after the restaurant bill has been settled, but continue. Move beyond that 'married thing' known as getting home, slipping into something more comfortable and talking about how weird it is that regardless of me very well knowing how badly certain legumes make me fart I'll always be able to find a dish with them in it and without realizing what I've done order it, without fail, followed by brushing our teeth in sickly unison, before turning to the welcoming bed and the next chapter of Gloria Naylor/ The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy/ Bulgakov/ Austen/ some smart shit to show that that Marie Claire by my bed is some sort of an aberration. Seriously.

We decided to prove to ourselves and to the gang of playahs we had dined with (there were three of them and one of them was the original playah's brother, but still) that a couple in their comfortable thirties can totally party the night away. Like, totally.

On Saturday night I and the faithful Hubs (who, I now know, would follow me to the ends of the earth and beyond) decided to take a trip to an alternate universe. To that place where skirts are short, hair is big, men with money are sleazy and old and need help with getting out of their fancy sports cars, orange tans abound, and bling means so much more than just '...oooh shiny....'.

So... The 80s?

No. A club in Sandton, Johannesburg, called Taboo. A club whose webpage tells me that I'm "welcome to the Reivention of Forbidden." I guess I would be elated if I knew what the hell 'reivention' meant and if whatever it was about to do to the Forbidden (a thing I quite like as it is) wouldn't make me all wary. Now, why would anyone want to fok with a very comfortable Forbidden, I ask you? Why? I'm not sure about you but for me screwing with the existing forbidden just brings up ideas of downright ghastly as being passed off as forbidden, and then where are we going to be as a society?

Well. At Taboo, I guess.

Where what the awesome Fug Girls of Go Fug Yourself call crotchtacular is the norm, if not the dress code (I'm pretty sure I only got in in my faded Levi's and leather jacket because of the Playah's female contacts. Apparently, all of a sudden, I was on a 'list'), where having a 'wardrobe malfunction' a la Janet Jackson regularly happens just with the removal of an overcoat, where there are no fans because they would pose a danger of making like Dorothy in the tornado to the sizable heads-on-sticks clientele (although, I think I would perhaps even pay to see that kind of display of wind power), where everyone keeps drinking red bull and vodka out of tall glasses instead of something that was meant to be consumed by humans for enjoyment and not to turn them into drunken duracell-bunnies, where there is no proper seating unless you 'book' one of the cordoned off sofas (Really! This display of wannabe snooty made me laugh so hard that I think I peed my faded levi's a little) where I saw no one sitting while we were there, where the concept of a 'song' has been completely discarded in favor of 'noise that you feel vibrate your breastplate in a way that makes you think it must have some interesting consequences for all those mainly plastic boobies constantly nearly spilling out of flimsy tops' (perhaps the vibration keeps that hard casing around the implant from forming is what I'm talking about. Patent Pending, mind you), and where I could recognize none other than tons of Malibu Barbies, Dolly Forever Barbies, Fab Girl Barbies, Ferrari Barbies, Miss Pearl Barbies, plenty of wannabe Barbies and, I kid you not, a large congregation of My Little Ponies.  

Oh, sorry. I meant a large congregation of girls who should have been playing with their My Little Ponies. Not hobbling around a club with no seating on heels much too steep in light of their still developing growth plates, drinking caffeine high in sugar with vodka, and making drunk-eyes (meant to be flirty, I think) to guys, if not three times, then at least twice their age.

Excepting the playah, of course. Who is young and dapper. Naturally. And likes to date real women. He told me so.

Needless to say we made a hasty retreat, preceded by quite a few loudly yelled (Nevermind, no one could hear shit anyhoo because of the horrible noise music and everyone was thus getting along famously. Grandpas out with their granddaughters, it felt like.) "J fokken H Zeus, did you just see that chick? Was that combined butt and chest cleavage?"

We bolted. Almost taking with us the in-house photographer with pleading eyes and a following of gals with a very skewed leg-boob ratio and eyes too smoky for their own good, nearly tripping over the low Ferrari parked directly outside the door, amidst inane chatter from different cliques of Barbies and their friends, and past the line of wannabe Barbies waiting to be let in.

We made like prisoners on the run. We sped away in our getaway car with tires screeching and smoke rising.

"I'm so glad I don't have to be single ever again," declared the Viking to me.

I take that as a suicide pact, and realize that if it wasn't for Taboo, we wouldn't be going together when it's time.

So... Thanks Taboo for making me want to kill myself?

A whole grain toast and some rolled oats

On any given Friday there is always a slew of posts on various blogs that revolve around boozing in one way or another. There is always a flurry of tweets that speak of thanking a greater power for it being the end of the working week and how much that involves boozing, in one way or another.

Never disappoints.

I myself tweeted 'Cooling down the crispy, citrus-y chardonnay for tonight...' earlier today. Because I am. Cooling down the crispy, citrus-y chardonnay for tonight, that is. And fully intend to drink more than one glass of it too. Regardless of Julochka's admission of what her seemingly normal husband had done to a precious bottle of Patron tequila, which sort of initially made me want to treat my Patron like it should be treated instead of indulging in the the crispy, citrus-y chardonnay, just to, you know, give the Patron the kind of respect it deserves. To make up for the insult. Somehow.

Poor baby, my Patron.

Respectful tequila drinking naturally involving 1) only drinking the best of tequilas (get your shitty Jose Cuervo out of my line of sight or I might just bite you, or someone standing too close), 2) only drinking the aged, or añejo, variant, 3) enjoying it neat, with a glass of sangrita on the side, 4-100) and never ever using it in a milky concoction. Never, ever.

But where am I going with this? Other than on yet another tequila rant (it has been a while).

Well, mis queridos, I was thinking of making a toast, or several.

Tonight, I'll go with the Friday-flow, and raise my glass (which at the mo is a teacup containing a Pukka green chai blend which I know is wrong on a lot of levels, but which will eventually become a glass of crispy, citrus-y chardonnay, you know, once I get my ass into wino-gear):

to Boot Camp ultimate discomfort and many wedgies with a twist of butt-crack sweat breaking up for the weekend. But it's for my... health?

to meat. Specifically lamb. Given. Almost implicit at this stage. Kind of like raising my glass to coffee.

to coffee.

to Molly's nouveau babe, Stella. Hey STELLAAAAAAAA....... This is for you. (Was I really screaming? Really?)

to good tequila. And drinking it like it should be drunk. With no salt in sight.

to my chicken covered in suspicious pesto (not a euphemism, although it would be an awesome one), and my finally learning to cook something so that not one person barfed after eating it. I have made myself very proud. And my chicken all pestoed nice and oily.

to sort of being back in the blogosphere after taking some time off. Intentionally and unintentionally. And attempting to comment again. Even if the comment was about flesh eating bacteria.

to El Grande Vikingo who works like a maniac these days. I love him so.

to selling some photos, and using the earnings immediately to buy shoes.

to real names. Not mine, of course.

to not giving up on me and my uncommunicative ass.

And

to you. All of you lovely people.

What would you toast today? Other than drinking tequila properly and shunning people who don't.

My Patron in my garden. Just hanging out, watching the sun go down.

Sweaty kisses for the weekend and some toast(s) for all. MWAH!

Morph

They should support me I know, but currently feel like an accomplice to the enemy.

Continuing in the vein of possible brain malfunctions, I recently signed up for something called a Boot Camp.

I know. The name says it all. What I should have read between the lines, or beneath the words, or wherever you feel that the real meaning seems to hide when it comes to language, was NOT 'Join the fun!' but 'Why do people do this stuff to themselves?'

Stupid, spontaneous me.

I fear this specific experience might end up killing me. And not softly either a la Lauryn Hill, but by a very painful, sudden, and, to be perfectly frank about my questionable skills when it comes to such things as basic coordination, accidentally self-inflicted strangulation on a jumprope, or barring that, by an equally accidental bashing in of my own skull with a weighty dumbbell. So more along the lines of something evoked by Richard Simmons. You know, without the accident variable of course.

Or it might just all come to an end because I have to get up way too early and I'm not able to sit down onto the toilet without help.

So car crash due to lack of sleep and coffee, or a burst bladder then.

But I plow on. I paid for the enjoyment of having to run around a field with a bunch of other women who also feel they probably should have never signed up, while sweat stings my eyes, and the cool morning breeze does nothing to cool my head down, but helps to freeze my toes, soaking wet in my sneakers from the dew on the field, and my leaden arms that I'm forcing to lift the dumbbells at least above shoulder hight. So I must stick with it. Or so says my misconstrued view on the Scandinavian Lutheran Mother-instilled work ethic.

Thank you, Mother.

What this boot camp boils down to is me getting up every morning, every day from Monday to Friday, rain or shine, at 5am in order to be at the fields at 5:30am, to do some variation of circuit training for a whole hour while the sun comes up (or the thunder clouds gather like yesterday) and sweat pours from sweat glands I didn't know existed (I mean, I've heard about those things in the armpits, but dismissed it as just an old wives' tale, silly me), and then getting other people to do stuff for me for the rest of the day because I'm unable to walk/ bend/ kneel/ turn/ wipe my butt, or even breathe properly.

But it's for my... health?

I seem to have forgotten that I don't like sports. Or getting sweaty. Or squats. Or lunges. I seem to have forgotten that I'm a sedentary person who drinks a lot of coffee and wine, and sometimes eats incredible amounts of licorice (preferably some of it covered in chocolate) while watching a whole season of Lost/ Weeds/Northern Exposure in one go. Burgers also strongly feature in this picture.

But no.

What in the name of coffee cups with pictures of other people's children on them has become of me? If I'm no longer the semi-alcoholic hermit content to lounge around in that famous green bathrobe for weeks at a time, then who am I?

I've also started to wear heels. Like, every day. And go places other than where the coffee maker is.

I seem to be having a crisis. Get help! And wine.

Does the dye inject stupid in right through the scalp?

This has a nice Homer Simpson vibe to it. And let's face it, who else could qualify as the original airhead better?

My mental age just hit somewhere where it can only be defined as 'very old, bordering on senility and that stage when the fridge seems like the optimal spot for any sort of keys, the husband's deodorant, and Mitzy, the little hand-bag size poodle'. Or perhaps I finally bore witness to that thing called a blond moment, made so famous by Jessica Simpson of the notorious chicken of the sea fame. Or was it Marilyn Monroe (Oh no! Am I having another one? Of those moments. Or was it that Monroe was just having more fun...? Nngh! She does look like she was having oodles of fun in her hayday, but then again she did kill herself, so I don't quite know what that does to the whole having more fun than brunettes or redheads, and...

What was I saying?

Am I still writing an aside in the parentheses?

Shit.)

What?

Shit.

Oh yes. I was writing about my interesting discussion at the gas station today. In case that wasn't completely obvious from the Marilyn Monroe references. Nothing says gas like Marilyn, right?

"Please fill it up," I say, and the man smiles at me through my open window.

There are the usual questions on the water and oil and something I think sounds like 'carlage' but which I haven't actually told them to check yet, not even to find out what carlage might mean, when I hear the gas pump click.

"Hmm, that's awfully soon," I mumble to myself and frown in what I always believe is an endearing manner, but might just be scaring the bejeezus out of the attendant, as I'm pretty sure I can see his lip quiver just a little when he approaches me again.

"52 rand," the man tells me.

"What? That's not possible! I had less than half a tank left! How much did you put in?" I open with, but decide to make things easier for myself as him telling me 5 liters or 50 is not going to mean anything to me anyway, "wait, scratch that. Did you fill it allllll the way up?"

I make a sign that to me signifies full, but probably means that I would like to hitch a ride to Baragwanath hospital on one of the local taxis. Which I probably should not do. Or that's at least what every single person I've told about my two taxi-rides in Soweto says as they look at me like I'm insane.

"Yes ma'am, allllll the way up" says the attendant and makes a sign that might mean that he too is in need of some sort of transportation.

I start the car and watch the gauge that doesn't move at all.

"See!" I yell and point at the dashboard, "There's something wrong!"

"Madam, that's the temperature gauge."

Now, where to find a new gas station I can start frequenting?

In search of my 'tude mojo

Looks sufficiently medicinal, but is in fact taken at a vineyard.

You might not know this, or may not have guessed it since I've been told more than once that it isn't exactly a thing I radiate and would possibly even sneer at, apparently because of my cynical, professional and rational-seeming exterior...

I fokken know. I mean, really? WHAT IN THE NAME OF PLATONICALLY FROLICKING UNICORNS WOULD GIVE ANYONE THIS IDEA?!?! See, right there, I just had to scream because it was sort of warranted. the whole thing's just that utterly confounding to me. Utterly.

...but I am a strong believer in the power of alternative medicine, the role of nutrition, vitamins, and such other like things, when it comes to staying healthy or being cured.

So I pop a lot of pills of the supplement variety. I drink a lot of wheatgrass juice. In the mornings I like to brew liqorice-root and cinnamon infused green tea to be sipped (and to hopefully cancel out some of the negative effects) right alongside my several cups of morning coffee. I eat a lot of broccoli and spinach. I chew on flax seeds. I drink incredible amounts of water. I buy organic.

Somehow, almost without noticing it myself, I seem to have become one of those people. Those annoying people who show up at a dinner and won't eat half of the things on their plate because they either contain sugar, white flour, starch, dairy, or something passing itself as fruit but which is closer to a lump of sugar, just not as refined. Those irritating people who can comfortably talk about the benefits of vitex agnus castus as a dietary supplement for at least a good 20 minutes, and don't even get them started on superfoods. Those boring people who swear by a green concoction of wheatgrass, spinach, cucumber, avocado, and some alfalfa as the best snack ever. Those frightening people whose pee is always neon yellow from excess vitamin C and completely discussible with anyone, odor included.

One of them.

Which I thought was a mainstream movement and I was just a little slow at catching on. Yes? Aren't we all pretty much those people by now? At least mostly. Surely we're all on the 2010-version wagon of 'you are what you eat'? We all understand and respect the awesome power of traditional medicine, but don't sneer at new, or sometimes 'ancient', developments in the form of uses of medicinal plants, acupuncture, patient-specific treatments, yada yada and all that jazz, right?

Turns out, nope.

For quite some time I have been managing my condition that involves a severe hormonal imbalance among other wondrous medical phenomena, without taking one pill of the drug variety. (Okay, so in the last year truly managing, prior to that just refusing to take the drugs and sometimes suffering quite a load of consequences. I admit. I like wine, burgers and coffee. So sue me, oh body of mine.)

When I was diagnosed in Denmark more than five years ago, it was the doctor who pointed me to a site on the internet with more information about a necessary diet, the necessary supplements, the correct kind of exercise, and other such hoopla. The website was pink in color, but it was doctor recommended, so I read it and have now finally followed.

Without a need for any kind of drugs. Well, coffee and wine of course, but they are more in the 'necessity for ultimate survival of the human race' category anyway.

However, here in South Africa, it seems that those people don't quite exist yet, and that medical 'developments' are running a vastly different course, if not a whole different race.

"Either you manage your condition with medicine or you suffer and live with the consequences," the doctor, a prominent gynecologist and an elderly man, says, looks at me and sneers.

"But I haven't actually had any 'consequences' in the year I've been managing it with natural products and diet," I respond. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I do the air quotes. Yup. I do.

"Well, that's all pure nonsense," the doc blurts out, "show me one [fancy word I don't know what means] placebo [other fancy word I don't know what means, the flippen a-hole] study out there."

The doctor laughs and I stare at him.

"Just because there aren't studies out there doesn't mean the products and diet do not work. There aren't any studies out there showing they don't work either," is what I should have said, but instead I just stare. Also, the ultrasound device inside me is throwing off my 'tude mojo some serious.

And the doctor just laughs.

And then he laughs again when I tell him I refuse to go back on the medicine because of the side effects, since according to him there aren't any.

THE ASSHOLE.

There I go, screaming again. Maybe it's the 'consequences'.

Some serious love

Growing up Finnish, mainly in Finland, guaranteed a few things.

1) Someone, at some point of my fragile youth (I'm thinking the big mean high school sports coach, and yes, I too was fragile at one point in my life. Was too!) made sure I learned how to ski. Cross country. Fast. Even if I was wailing like a lunatic while frog-legging it up a steep hill with my increasingly slippery skis on.

But Finns must all know how to ski. Yes they do. And I still hate skiing like the plague. Only worse.

2) I didn't have to learn how to hug, compliment, or express any kind of affection through any other means than slightly raising my left eyebrow and grunting softly. Or by emptying the dishwasher. Or vacuuming my own room without being yelled at. Or making a full pot of coffee instead of just two cups for myself. Or not telling my best friend she looked like crap even if she totally did (Pigtails never look good. No they don't).

I learned to love the Finnish way. Except for skiing. That I learned to hate. Like hundreds of thousands of other Finns before and after me.

Why am I talking about skiing and affection? Together? WHY? Why would I combine possibly the worst memories I have of Finland and being Finnish with love?

Ah well. I'm not completely there. Or here. Yet. The lights are on, but the lady's still under the covers.

This past week saw me return to Finland at a time I normally avoid. I was supposed to be landing in the warmth of Cairo, but instead, at the airport, which incidentally instead of Cairo was in the freezing north also known as Helsinki, around midnight, I was met with -17 degrees celsius and my tired brother. My grandma suddenly passed away and my family needed me. Which was a first, because we Finns don't tend to need other people, or at least we won't say so.

As it turns out, they really did need me. They needed the one person in the family who has learned to hold hands with anyone else than their significant other (mine taught me that!), to hug, to console with words that are in no way masqueraded as grunts, to go beyond household chores as far as displays of affection go, and to laugh through tears and not be terribly embarrassed by it.

But that was only to get the ball rolling.

For the first time in my life I hugged my Grandpa. And he hugged me back. I held his hand. I consoled him. I talked with him about Grandma, about Africa, about traveling, about getting a good fire going, about my childhood, and about the life from now on.

And then I talked with my mother. I held her hand. I hugged her. I consoled her. And she hugged me back.

And we talked.

Last week, I learned the true depth of the love, I had sometimes doubted even really existed, between my Grandpa and my Grandma. I learned about the way my Grandpa would, whenever my Grandma wasn't there, literally count the hours to her return. I learned about his desperation at her open casket. I learned about the completely missing 'I' in everything he's ever done. I learned about how Finns, and by that I mean FINNS because that's what my war-veteran Grandpa is to the core, can love too, really love to a point where it takes your breath away.

I learned that perhaps I'm not so special after all, with my fancy hand-holding, foreign hugging, and the continuous 'I love you's. I learned that underneath that uncomfortable and repressed seeming eyebrow wiggling and vacuuming instead of talking, there are some serious and deep emotions coming out of Finland too.

Some serious love.

With all that enforced skiing, who would have guessed?    

Bye

How to handle this?

How to talk about this?

My Grandmother on my mother's side passed away on Monday afternoon. She wasn't very old and she wasn't very sick. She had a heart attack putting away groceries while my Grandfather was getting firewood from the shed. She wasn't breathing when my Grandfather found her and there was nothing the paramedics could do to bring her back. She was gone.

She is gone.

Her last word was 'coffee'. She was going to make some for herself and my Grandpa, which is only fitting, since that's what she spent most of her life doing. There was always hot coffee. Or at least the thought of making some and then drinking some.

Always coffee. For everyone.

Imagine her horror when she found out that my Viking didn't drink coffee. The first few times she simply ignored the exotic ways of this weirdo foreigner and poured some in his cup anyway, but once she found out that instead of the Viking it was I who was secretly downing the manna in his cup in addition to my own, she solemnly ordered him to "At least drink milk, boy". Loudly. And in Finnish.

I think that's when the Viking (after a sugarcoated translation from me) finally understood what it meant for me to say that I loved him "even more than coffee."

In not so many days I'll be in Finland, sitting in my mother's kitchen, drinking copious amounts of Finnish coffee, and talking about my Grandmother. While my mother makes sure there's hot coffee in the pot.

Always coffee. For everyone.

My Grandmother will be missed.

That Kevin Smith

May I offer you something rotten to go with your morning coffee?

Warning: This here particular diatribe will include stuff about weight, losing it (weight and temper), flying, How much I love Kevin Smith, and other assorted controversial things (Maybe. Depends on what the maid decides to do with the wineglasses she's supposedly washing). So, if you're tired of the whole SWA humiliating innocent Kevin Smith debacle (something along the lines of this moron's view) go away and come back when I return to inadvertently trying to kill the guards at my gate (I would never, but they insist on hopping in front of the car at the weirdest places) or just to my general doing nothing and then some more nothing, and shoes.

Because, today, I have been thinking. Pondrin somthin serious.

In the last couple of days I have been following Kevin Smith's (who really, truly is some kind of a god-like force within comedy, if you disregard certain extremely carnal and perhaps even unnecessary tweets about him boning his wife, and I will disregard them and love him nonetheless) experience with flying on, or at least trying to, Southwest Airlines. How he got booted off of the flight that he had already been seated on (with the armrests down and not 'spilling' onto his fellow passengers) because he had gotten on that flight as a standby and had actually, for reasons relating to his own comfort on the flight and because he's probably fairly wealthy seeing as he's a really successful funnyman (How do I love Clerks and Mallrats? Let me count the ways.), bought two seats for the later flight he had originally selected. Thus apparently officially 'admitting' that he was fat, in fact too fat to fly in one seat.

Now, if you have been following this blog for a while you all know how I feel about flying, how much my derriere detests even the mention of it, how my thighs protest violently every time even the thought of travel pops into my head, and how badly my brain wants to grow to the level where I can invent an easier way of moving from one place to another - a teleportation device if you will, or even a Harry Potter-ish fireplace of travel, just without house elves, thank you very much - without having to subject any part of me to the experience that is check-in, airport security, boarding, other people's 'hand luggage', flight, in-flight 'entertainment', stewardesses (especially the ones I seem to encounter. Hello Air France!), airplane seats, airplane bathrooms, other frikken passengers, customs, and having my luggage mangled and/or efficiently spirited away (always to London, it seems).

I consider having to fly anywhere a punishment of epic proportions. Mainly due to the extreme discomfort of airplanes for anyone who isn't 5'4 and weigh at the most 100 lbs. Because, naturally, airlines want to make as much money as they can, and thus squeeze as many of us as possible into the smallest space possible. Regardless of whether or not we really fit.

Comfort and friendly skies my ass. Torture and bitchiness is much closer to the truth.

I hate the journey. I do.

Also, if you indeed have been following this blog for a while, you would know that I've never been a small specimen of a woman. Expressions such as East-German shot-putter, Amazon, and perhaps even Grand Dame (No, sorry, that was to do with champagne I think, but what the hell, I like it) have come up. But what you don't know, unless you know how to decipher my cryptic hints, is that today I'm perhaps 50 lbs lighter than I was when I last had to make a plane trip longer than 2 hrs.

Still, I'm a fat woman. I'll always, always be a fat woman. Regardless of how I look on the outside. And will never think there is anything wrong with being a fat woman. Or a fat man even (still, I think I'm going to stay a woman. I like my boobies too much to exchange them for just one overly dangly piece of anything). Weight loss has never been a goal for me, nor will it ever be. I strongly disagree with what normally passes as equal to healthy, and what kind of appearance almost automatically gets labeled as unhealthy, slovenly, lazy, undesirable, ugly, or second rate. My recent change has come about as a side effect to some changes (such as saying no to most fruit, traditionally considered an unhealthy decision) that have been quite necessary, and due to a genetic condition I have, in order for me to not need medicine that shouldn't be mixed with alcohol (and I seriously do want to keep drinking the wine, if in smaller amounts than before), for the sake of my poor liver, and to save poor VEG from her siamese-sister contractual obligation to give me a piece of hers when mine finally conks out.

So I feel for Kevin Smith. And I whole-heartedly support him. Awesome of him to use his fame, regardless of how humiliating the situation must have been for him, and bring some much needed attention to this kind of treatment received by all of us overweight peeps often enough world over. In all kinds of situations. More often than one would think.

Because, discrimination based on one's weight is unwarranted for. This kind of discrimination, like is in the case of smokers, could only be tolerated IF overweight actually directly also spelled harm to others, and/or costs to others. Which it doesn't. It's often said that it does, but the truth is that it doesn't. It just doesn't. Sure, there are many extremely unhealthy people who are sure to end up having [insert a costly medical procedure right here] before they are 40 years old who are also overweight, but it just isn't that overweight which makes it so. That overweight is just a symptom. Then there are many extremely healthy people who will live to be a nice 104 (and might in doing so end up costing quite a few bucks to society as well, I might add) who are overweight. There are many extremely unhealthy people who are sure to end up having [insert a costly medical procedure right here] before they are 40 years old who are 'normal' (who tell hell decided what was normal anyway?) weight. And so on.

Case by case.

All people are individuals, and the beauty (and the curse) of statistics is that you can have them display for you exactly what you want. That's why the media loves statistics. They sound official enough to back up a report about a 'fat epidemic' and can easily be made to play into that end. And a fat epidemic just hits so much closer to home than an actual epidemic STILL sweeping the world: the AIDS epidemic.

I don't need to remind anyone how many people die of AIDS in sub-saharan Africa EVERY SINGLE DAY do I? There's no way this number isn't plastered on every single front page all the time.

What?

It isn't?

Well, shit! I guess the 4100 people a day who die of AIDS in sub-saharan Africa are a drop in the ocean compared to the thousands and thousands of people who succumb to the evil, evil epidemic of having a BMI over 25 every single day.  I guess it's the 6 in the 26 that wraps around their hearts and slowly suffocates them. Must be.

Fat does not automatically equal unhealthy. Nor does thin equal healthy.

In my part of Africa fat can also equal wealthy, beautiful, handsome, healthy, and happy. It's all cultural. It really is. And while we have, hopefully (although evidence to the contrary seems to be surfacing around me constantly) stopped categorizing and judging people based on the color of their skin or their gender, weight remains the last frontier of 'accepted discrimination'.

And who is it that is making it so? Well, us. You guys, we suck. Why are we so fokken dumb?

One last thing in the way of warning: Should you feel you disagree with me on this one and feel the need to tell me so in a comment or in an email, I WILL immediately think less of you. I will consider such a response equal to you telling me you loved the Twilight saga and didn't see anything wrong with how it portrays women and girls, or how you identify with the characters in Marian Keyes novels. I WILL think much less of you, your intellect, and your ability for compassion. Much, much less.  

Teleportation device needed asap (pref. w/ radio).

Lately, since I've been leaving the house almost every single day - albeit mainly to buy shoes (Thank you Zeus for Stave Madden), but also to work on all sorts of exciting projects with just a pinch of introducing some honest American English to unsuspecting souls in a (Whoa!) classroom situation (it gets better...) with moi actually in charge (when you say it all together like that the result is quite scary and unpalatable, I know) - I've again been subjected to one of the things I don't particularly miss from my life in Mexico City (Yes I do! I miss it all!), but that very likely accounted for quite a few months out of the couple year span.

Yup. Traffic. Trafico.

I have such fond memories of inching down Reforma, one of the main arteries of Mexico City, for hours on end in my burgundy shoebox of a Chevy with zero air conditioning. Wearing exhaust fumes like a fine perfume. Buying all of my cleaning products at intersections. Chatting to beggars in broken español. Singing along to the songs on that weird Mariachi radio station without actually knowing the words (cept for Cielito Lindo. Everyone knows Cielito Lindo. Besides it's just a whole lot of ay ay ay ay and then some more ay ay ay). Watching my suction cup Jesus gently sway in the furiously circulating lukewarm air. And believe it or not, sometimes playing sudoku. Honest.

And here I am again, stuck in traffic.

Granted, regardless of still conforming to the universally accepted definition of traffic (as opposed to the Finnish definition which can be loosely understood as: "Shit. There's someone else on the road at the same time as me! Holy Cow! I must watch out now."), the traffic here in Jozi is nowhere near the kind of sea of ebbing and flowing waves of chaos associated with Mexico City. Still, it's something you sit in for longer than you had initially intended or hoped. Until you run out of boogers to fish out of your nose, and that weird, red something between your teeth that looks like tomato peel although you can't remember when you last had anything with tomato in it just does not enthrall you like it did a minute ago.

But traffic's different here. Simply not slow enough to play sudoku, put on makeup, tweeze my eyebrows (I don't really, just putting it out there as a potential), work out what the hell that black stuff underneath my nail is and why can't I wash it off, come up with seven different ways of wearing my faux-hawk with the help of multiple mirrors available in my car, or make up stories of people who have those stupid 'baby on board' suction-cup thingies on the rear window in which (the stories that is) they always have dark family secrets or possibly an extra toe/finger/other magnificent appendage (never claimed to have a normal imagination).

Too fast for anything but radio.

Thus, I'm actually finally coming to my point.

Yes, there fokken was one all along. There really was! (Well, okay. Maybe not a point, but more of a theme. A unifying factor. Yes.)  

And my point is a series of questions to you people:

How loud is it acceptable to sing along to 50 Cent's Baby By Me? Does 'doing that weird vogue movement' with your head make any difference? Is Baby By Me the new Baby Got Back? How frikken awesome is P!nk? Why don't more people sing loudly in their cars? What is it called when you kind of dance along behind the steering wheel? What do you do to kill time in traffic?

I know. I do. I blame the mother-in-law. Maybe you should too.

Postmarked somewhere entirely different that has nothing to do with any circle of hell or even purgatory

Whilst I was wildly careening around Southern Africa, expertly dodging (Ahem! Yes. You have to own your strengths and avoidance of things is what I do best.) my mother-in-law's sneaky attempts at... what? I'm not sure, but she was definitely up to something sneaky and evil-ish, who knows with her? To wean me off her precious eldest so that he can find a nice Danish girl? To magically make me forget about contraception (and actually suddenly gain the ability to reproduce) and populate the earth with tiny ginger-haired half-vikings for her to clothe and give hard candy to? To make me eat a sugary dessert? To feed me to the lions? To ...

What was I saying?

Oh yes. Whilst I was romping around my part of this continent with my spirit safely stowed away in the upstairs shower, and taking crap from a certain someone without once raising a finger and only sometimes an eyebrow and only rolling my eyes and sighing when she couldn't see or hear, something wonderful happened.

Somehow, at some office of the infamous South African postal service someone decided to deliver two (I know. TWO! I can't get over the number, which usually is more like 0, the remains of 1, "Ma'am, there is no delivery for you", 1/3, "Are you accusing us of theft ma'am?" or less than 0) packages to me.

TWO!!! (I know I already said it, but two is almost unheard of. A mythical number postal delivery-wise. Possibly a sign that somewhere up there, an angel finally has his wings. Or a pig flies. Or a baby unicorn frolics. Or Hitler's learning to snowboard, way way below up there and everyone else in the bad man's case, of course.)

It is as if the universe knew who was visiting me. And wanted to stop me just shy of a violent act.

By making me remember how wonderful a place this world of the interwebz can actually be. And how well my bloggy pals really do know me.

I present to you in order of arrival:

A thing of pure beauty and ingenuity that really truly encompasses a good deal of my personality. Something to do with golf and then again, something to do with my blatant inability to golf. A way to become better without actually doing anything really taxing about it. I've always thought voodoo might very well be the answer to most of my problems. Or at least a more exciting way of ignoring them and not dealing with them than your most garden-variety means of procrastination.

A Golf Voodoo Kit

From my beloved siamese sister (who lets me ignore her just as I do my biological family) VEG of the (Mis)Adventures of VEG. Go read her! She is very much like a Canadian me. Except that instead of drinking wine, she recycles.

Followed by a mere day by another thing of pure beauty and ingenuity that really truly encompasses a good deal of my personality. Something to do with coffee. Well, actually the precious infant born to Arabica and Light roast: Starbucks. Which I love only slightly less than the Viking.

A Starbucks Christmas ornament and a card made by the sender herself

From my dear, dear friend and part-Finn Erin of My Camera and The Gentle Giant. Go check out her wonderful photos, learn about her life, or at least go check out something very close to her heart: autismspeaks.org

Thank you universe for people who love me and remember me. Even when my spirit's in storage.

Love you right back people!

Not you, mother-in-law.

Postmarked 7th circle of hell

So.

Mother-in-laws.

They, and you (by which I actually mean ME ME ME ME ME!!!), are better off in their own little corners of the world. Or at least that's my immediate experience. A hypothesis now firmly grounded in the severity of reality and made into an iron-clad fact. This here = my corner, that one over there far, far away = the mil's niche. And we all can live happily ever after, like tradition, and Disney and each and every 80s teen movie, promise. And that Molly Ringwald, she wouldn't lie, would she?

So, please bugger off dear mama and let me have my prince already! The Viking's mine and no matter what you do, there is no way you will ever be able to shove him back up there. You know, up to Denmark, in case some of you were thinking I meant the uterus, which I did initially, but then I just decided to discard that image altogether lest it screw me up for good, so we'll just say Denmark. The sentiment still applies.

Between me and her (feel free to add your own disrespectful tone here) I prefer a distance of a few continents, and at least one whole ocean if at all possible, but I have heard - although this is something I would never personally accept or recommend - that a mere 'few countries to the East' is sometimes sufficient.

Well. Not for me. Still, like they say, bad things happen to good people.

And sometimes she (please amp up the disrespectful tone from before) is to be found right under one's nose. In one's spare bed. Loudly criticizing one's choice of linen, innards of the fridge (so the packet of crazy glue says to keep it in the fridge!), lack of tan, and the water pressure or the magical lack of it during her (you know the drill now) showers. And all that before the discussions about the ' unpalatable food of Africa' were ever even entered into.

But it's time to move on, she's (I know you know what to do...) gone. It's time to be generally glad that no one threw a punch or drew actual blood, intentionally or unintentionally, that doors have locks, that a car can drive you far, far away, that there was a fair amount of laughter, be it fake, distraught, to mask the tears or actual, that lions were being cooperative and not hiding in the bushes, giving everyone a welcome break from the evil eyes being shot left and right (I'm sure the lions never even knew what hit them), that regardless of not-so-veiled threats absolutely no one threw the poor daughter-in-law to them in best Roman style, that Spar sells wine early in the morning on a Tuesday, that a spot of archery and a wild imagination can relieve a pent up need to scream without any actual screaming, that world has coffee and alcohol and coffee-flavored alcohol in it, and that the Viking knows to take my (and only my) side.

And that my father-in law (who doesn't detest me nearly as much as I thought he did) and her (yada yada blah blah) managed to create someone I can call my bestest friend in the whole wide world, whom I love more than life itself, and to whom I'm the center of the universe without still quite figuring out how I manage to pull that off on a daily basis. And that he is the wonderful person that he is.

Thankful, yet homicidal.

Hmm.

Just give me a couple of days to retrieve my spirit from the top secret storage location (okay, the upstairs, master bedroom shower, that has excellent water pressure, I might add) I've had it shoved up into, to keep it safe from harm and any potential vampiristic, i.e. Hey-Zeus-help-me-this-woman's-sucking-every-single-drop-of-life-force-and-other-assorted-positive-things-right-out-of-me activities.

But I WILL be whole again.

And I'm still breathing.

HA!

Punch, Smack, Kick

Sometimes, when you are troubled and have that petrified nervous feeling in the pit of your stomach - a feeling not unlike menstrual cramps - and keep adjusting, by a thin hair, the seemingly random, but actually meticulously thought out and arranged (you might have had a dream about how to execute said arrangement) assortment of candles on the dining-room table, the reality of South Africa slaps you in the face.

When you are consumed by the sheer impossibility (you never fokken ever thought it would happen) of the actuality of the fact that in not so many hours you will be at the airport, waving a Danish flag (Don't ask. Let's just call it an ancient viking tradition), and holding up a sign saying Mom and Dad your Viking thought would be a hilarious thing to be waving, waiting for your father- as well as your mother-in-law to clear immigration (Any favors in the form of an anonymous phone call to customs or immigration? Your choice. Anyone?), it kicks you in the stomach.

When you are fearing the discussion over the non-existent television in the living room because what kind of people don't own a proper television and put it exactly where it belongs and what the hell is up with all these clay skeletons you have everywhere, it smacks you upside the head.

When you realize that you have actually, against all possible odds really, truly forgotten to fokken buy more coffee regardless of a certain someone asking you on Facebook whether you would be willing to serve it and now you'll have to find a way to make the purchase on the sly and, boy, how sneaky will you have to be, it knees you in the back.

When you kill the umpteenth ant crawling out of your laptop and again, in a fair panic, try to make sure there are none in the foodstuffs anywhere, it sneaks in a right hook straight into your ribs.

"The panties in the dustbin, you don't want them anymore?" She asks me in a quiet voice over the hissing iron.

"The panties?" I reply, completely bewildered. Because, really, there is no way the maid could be talking about my hole-y old underwear I threw out this morning? Surely? That would be absurd. I must have misunderstood. She couldn't be talking about my nasty, washed-to-oblivion, cheap-to-begin-with, cotton underwear.

What kind of a world would this be if she was?

But she is.

And she would like to know whether she could have them, since I don't want them anymore.

I think they went in between the letters R and T.

Here, have a penguin! Or what the hell, have two. (No, you may not take possession of the third. That one is already spoken for by some obscure wildlife organization.)

See (or hear, if that rocks your boat in a less sea-sickening way and unlike the waves that make it almost impossible to get back from Robben Island to the safe haven of the Cape Town Waterfront [that's where they keep the coffee and wine], but are still not enough to scare away the secret tears that almost came at the sight of Nelson Mandela's cell, if you know what I mean, which, naturally, you do.) that silence right there. Right below this here post. A silence of days, if not weeks.

A good, calm silence. Not a thought (okay, maybe a few hundred in my weakest of moments) spared for the abyss of the internets.

I missed you all, and even more than that loved being missed by you. But it was good.

Seriously good.

That silence was me falling off the end of the earth, which, purely statistically and the South African politicians alone providing proof aplenty of this, on the tip of this here continent I inhabit is a much more common occurrence than one might think. Unlike the politicians though, I fell gloriously, and right into the mix of family and great friends, lions (who again refused to eat me - Are they not into pickled things or what is this aversion all about? Am I not good enough?), windy and not so much beaches with white, warm sand, French champagne at its nose-tickling best, farting rhinos (both actual as well as a few more commonly referred to as my brothers), golf, great wine at great restaurants, dolphins, much too much wine at much too many vineyards, talk, discussions, penguins, chatter, smells of the sea and one unfortunate giraffe carcass, one severely flat mountain at sunset, and real, fleshy people, places, things, coffee, and some more of that wine, in random locations this time though.

A decisive sip of Calvados at the golf course.

And I'm just now coming up for (net)air. Only to find that small ants have made a busy apartment complex (or an Asian Shopping Mall, if those kinds of things are more familiar to you) of my MacBook Pro, and that I'm in serious need of an external hard drive (and the various skills involved in using it. Please tell me to create folders before moving a thousand pictures onto there. Thanks.) should I want to empty my camera of the 2000 large JPEGs firmly lodged on there and depicting mainly penguins in various (okay, pretty much just the one) positions.

They are cute, those penguins. But still!

Zeus, what in the name of hockey sticks, soured molasses, and one six-year-old are you playing at? What kind of a signs are these? It almost feels as if me on the internets is no longer working for you? Or is this just payback for the disappearance? What?

*kills an ant making its way across the space bar*

Hey Zeus my man, you are leaving me with very little direction, ants or no ants, when you very well know the in-laws are making their way towards South Africa practically as I write. You know they have packed their fridge down in case I refuse to feed them, or Africa is completely void of anything eatable, which of course is an understandable, rational belief. Yup. You know.

This might just be the end of Extranjera altogether. Or at least the remotely sober-ish, non-biting one.

Look for me in the bottle. The one by the penguins.

You could have just said "I'm not pregnant."

Souvenir from Africa

"But I'm NOT pregnant," says Extranjera to the Hubby after reading some of the comments left in response to her previous post.

"Nope. No sirree. Not at all," she continues, while the Hubby glances at her and pretends to listen, while he is actually playing some inane game on Facebook, and is probably thinking more about whether to recruit his new-to-social-media-and-thus-all-excited-and-baffled-by-it mother to his virtual vampire army, than anything even remotely close to producing offspring. Unless that offspring were undead. And on Facebook.  

"Uh huh... Hmm, vampire spawn?" he responds, and clicks with his mouse.

Extranjera is bewildered: "Not even a little bit pregnant, or in that movie-star way that Jennifer Lopez wasn't when she ended up having twins with that skinny guy, and that we all think Jessica Simpson might [not?] be, but then we remember that she isn't actually getting any bigger," she iterates, "And so, yes, I'm not pregnant like Jessica Simpson, which is to say that I like my burgers. With lots of mayo too. The ones made of beef of course, not of babies. Other than that, no link whatsoever."

"Eating babies. Uh huh. The Chinese? No, sorry, dogs," the Hubby compassionately pitches in.

"Yah. The Chinese. Google's fighting them too," Extranjera assures the inattentive Hubby, "But so no babies. No. Not in the uterus, or the stomach, or really even on the mind. And the bottom line is that the only way I'll even acquire a baby is if someone, somewhere in the world (crazier things have happened, and it turns out that regardless of my genes, I can hug after all and it doesn't even make me gag [I know, I'm just as surprised as everyone else]), gives me a baby to take care of," she goes on.

"Personally, I won't be popping them out. Ever," she adds with conviction.

"I know, hun. The Chinese should just give you a baby and stop eating them. That would be the humane thing to do," the Hubby says, "Do you think my mom will understand the word decapitate?" 

The loudspeaker above this dialogue crackles and the nasal voice of an oldish woman comes on.

"We break this interesting exchange to bring you a very important notice regarding the main character in this blog: She is most certainly not pregnant, just really busy, and currently on her way to the airport to pick up yet more guests, the second bunch, and won't be back online until the 25th, and then with fears of similar exchanges since the last, and third, installment of guests consists of her in-laws. Although she is too busy working and entertaining at the moment to be online, she should be back by then and be most certainly driven to drink. Again."

"We here at the crossroads of the Super Id, Guilt and Perfection thank you for your attention, wish you a lovely week, and hope to see you back on the 25th. Or thereabouts."

Jaahas

There has been Soweto:

And Cape Town:

And Safari:

And all sorts of general havoc, mayhem and chaos that only four Finns and one Viking can possibly wreak, but finally, albeit very sadly, the first set of guests is on their way back to Europe.

Although no thanks to Iberia, who bring new meaning to the words 'customer disservice'. And 'blow'. And 'suck'. And 'incompetent'. And 'rude'. And 'clueless'. And apparently also 'endless list'. They make me wish I mattered. Thanks a lot Iberia!

And as for me, you ask?

Well.

I'm having a pile up. Of people, to-dos, assignments, laundry, places, things, trash, mails, calls, jobs, and everything and anything imaginable. But mostly good stuff.

The real world is stealing me away. And not only from you and your blogs, but also from sleep which is resulting in some seriously suspect encounters, to-dos, arrivals and departures, answers, calls, performances, photos, some inadvertent public nose-excavations, and a lot of yelling at Iberia. And possibly at someone who had absolutely nothing to do with Iberia, but may have just been passing by.

And for once I have to just stick to coffee.

Seriously, the unimaginable has happened: I have no time even for wine.

I might as well just quit right now. But I can't. I'm too EXCITED!

A bite-size crisis

"Are you going to try to eat me?" asks the younger of the visiting brothers when I open yet another packet of cookies, or candy, or chips, or biltong, or lunch bars, and stick it under his nose and prompt him to "EAT SOMETHING for goodness sakes!"

He is suspecting me of attempting to fatten him up, like what's-that-boy-in-Grimm-Hansel-someone, so that I can trick him into the oven in my gingerbread house and feast on him.

I'm not. I don't even like chicken that much (which is what people taste like according to Hannibal Lecter, I think? Or possibly that Argentine team that crashed their plane? I forget. Someone said chicken, right?). But just in case you were wondering where this blog was headed and whether prison or into hiding were some of those places, they're not. Sorry, I'm your garden-variety nut, not the murderous, wacko kind of loon, and although I would seriously want one, I'm fresh out of gingerbread houses, even the cheap, small kind. And I've never been a big fan of brown as an exterior wall coloring.

See! Not crazy after all.

But something is definitely going on, and while not a cookie-related, cannibalistic something, it's still creeping me out.

The only thing I can think of is: When did I become someone's grandmother? And whether this new development in my personality will also mean that wearing men's long underwear outside and accessorizing that awesomeness with a pair of rubber boots and an apron is something I'll find myself doing next (this might be in the genes)? And will I perhaps soon notice myself keeping crumpled euro-bills in my apron folds and slipping them to unsuspecting children whenever I get the chance? Alongside with cookies I've baked myself, but that accidentally have human hairs poking out of them, which I won't be able to see because of my failing eyesight (Ja. Also in the genes)?      

Is this where I'm headed?

Because there's no way I'll ever become one of those grandmothers who coif their hair every morning, wear Dior to the expensive, posh grocery store, accessorize that very same Dior with a little bark-y pooch, and have dinner with their still-alive friends before heading off to the theatre.

Oh no. I'll be the one whose breath alone will scare kids far and wide. And whose hard candy will have that weird pocket-fluff and other assorted goodness stuck on it.

I'm rattled. The visitors are driving me towards an existential crisis.

But on the upside, I saw a wild lion up close and it didn't eat me. And In my world that's some serious balance right there.

Excuse me? Are you the one who starred in the Lion King? No? Didn't think so. Although I must say the resemblance is uncanny. 

Good chance of heavy showers, and maybe a stink-related argument or two

The visiting Finnish contingent - consisting of two brothers and one girlfriend - is currently happily asleep, still all exhausted from a busy trip to Cape Town to welcome the 2010 to the south of Africa, while also involving avoiding being bitten by aggressive penguins, scaring locals with whiter than white abdominal winter-flesh, more meat and wine anyone ever thought possible, windblown and sandy hair, and following a failed attempt at some serious golfing this morning.

"They ask me to tell you... sir... that there is no golf today because of the rain," the guard tells me at the entrance to the golf club at the ungodly hour of 6:30am.

(I was wearing my baseball cap on my head, and half of an egg yolk on my cheek, which I'm thinking explains the 'sir'. Or at least I'm hoping it does. Historically, egg yolks have been implicated in many a gender confusion, correct?)

I look at the sky. There is not a drop of water coming down.

"Because of the heavy rain?" I chuckle, expecting the guard to let me through, but he just looks at me somberly.

"Yes. Because of the heavy rain," he nods.

He refuses to lift the boom, and I'm forced to make a less than graceful retreat (instead of putting the car in reverse I manage to put it into 5th gear, but no actual harm is done), and the Finns retire upstairs to their respective bedrooms.

For me, there are always dirty underwear to be laundered and plates and coffee cups to be washed. And nothing says enjoying your visitors like sorting through piles of laundry and being surprised by a dirty pair of underwear that someone was clearly wearing while sitting 19 hours on different planes and then into the next day because their luggage failed to leave Europe when they did.

Except maybe the joy of such statements from the hobo-ish brother as: "Are you sure I shouldn't drive? I'm really afraid now, and you hit all of the traffic cones back where there was road construction. I saw them roll away in the mirror."

I barely touched the cones. Or the underwear.

Indian Ocean, meet the Atlantic. Atlantic, meet the Indian Ocean.