Huh? I thought I already published this, but since I clearly didn't I'll just call it old news or some such crap

Old News or Some Such Crap:

There are certain things in this country (Finland. Because that's where I am right now. Weathering the amazingly hot [Come on people! It is barely over 30 degrees celsius. Let's not be such weirdo snow-castle dwellers for once. Everyone stop fainting because of heat-exhaustion asap. Drink some water instead. And please, whatever you do, stop drowning in it. Take it in a glass instead!] weather and watching the bears run free on the streets [I kid you not, more on that below]) that make me, surprisingly and not, proud to be a Finn (that's the correct noun, learn it now). And then there are certain things that make me (yes, even me) cringe more than any average person would, watching Paris and/or Perez Hilton put on... try on... say... wear... carry... well, do anything really.

So?

Behold, I shall now give you the highlights (complete randomness and jabbering. Go ahead and ignore the word 'highlights' and replace it with drunken and you're miles closer to the core) of such pride as well as said cringing. Because I want to. Not that anyone asked. And, you know, too much time has passed for me to acknowledge that I haven't blogged for a long time, so I'll just plunge in head first and pretend like my last post was yesterday.

I am proud to be a Finn when I can read the newspaper and see how some poor journalist has found yet another new and surprising way of making strawberries, and their 'sudden' appearance on our farms (it has only been happening for centuries, once every year) front page news. It shows we are inventive. I bet this is how we came up with Nokia too. Although that might have been an idea someone had in the shower, a place where you seldom ponder about strawberries, but might actually be thinking "man, what I wouldn't give for a chance to be telling my bff how frikken bored I am while I'm lying on my bed at home and my mom's yelling for me to get up because grandma's coming and if i want her money I should not still be in bed." Assuming, of course, that the inventor was a teenage girl. As one does.

I'm proud to be a Finn when I realize that my Finnish (the correct adjective, learn it) society is such a high-tech society that my parents, who cohabit a medium-size house, can without any sort of hassle, although I imagine they were both in the living room/ kitchen area at the time, call me separately yet almost simultaneously - my father to tell me that a bear running around close to downtown was a "complete city center away" and not to worry about stepping out, and my mother to tell me that "there is a bear around your way" who might just decide it would like some African-spiced meat in the form of a wine-marinated, blond, mohawked piece of flesh (not my mother's exact words), cross a few highways, and emerge from the forest (it's a park with a statue) next door to eat me. As to how the king of the woods would cross the highways, it would "walk of course" (my mother's exact words).

I'm proud to be a Finn when I realize that there are still live animals in the woods in Finland. Not just the zoos. And that they are fierce. And might just cross highways to get to me.

I am proud to be a Finn when my best friend tells me completely honestly that she thinks that I am just "so utterly strange" while I still feel the love. Apparently it's strange to love the Finnish schlager-tradition, have spiky hair as well as a giant belt with a metallic head of a tiger on it, and argue with a clothes-store employee about why she is not doing her job and returning clothes to their assigned racks after people have tried them on (I won and scared her witless, but will now forever boycott a certain store due to their unethical production methods or some such thing). Still, I personally think all of my quirks are simply delightful and spice up the general thing of living, and although "so utterly strange" could be construed as a negative, it's not, and my bff loves me regardless. (Yey!) The Viking husband of mine just tells me that I'm "special."

I'm proud to be a Finn when the local health food store (the one in Kauppahalli) owner notices the milk thistle having reached its sell-by date a month previous and thus gives it to me for free, because "it's still usable for six months, I just shouldn't sell it." And then I walk away, real quick like, because it's too good to be true and I suspect I'm on one of those horrid candid camera shows. Or being Punk'd by Ashton Kutcher himself. Totally. This is void-of-service Finland after all. And maybe Ashton's into bear-scares?

I'm proud to be a Finn when I can read in the newspaper about the heat wave. Every single morning, every single newspaper. Finland (and my mother right along with the nation. In a real bad way too. Like totally creepers) has a fixation on, nay, a weather fetish. And something about never being happy with the state of it, rain or shine. But at least that must mean that there really aren't that many actual news around, right? (Yes, because the other two headlines are about a puppy being saved by a helicopter and a guy biking across our glorious Funland "just for kicks.")

Wait! Am I still being proud, or have I already started with the cringeworthy stuff?

Agh. Who knows. All I'm certain about is that I will continue in list form. Before I pass out because of the 'heat'. Because everything other than that would just be disrespectfully un-Finnish. Yup.

I'm proud to be a Finn when... Golf. I'm not sure the sport has anything to do with being proud to be Finnish, but the 'heat' might just be getting to me and I wanted to declare my undying love to the playing of golf before I do that passing out thing, right here in my bedroom, possibly onto my bed. Which seems to be the thing to do. No, it's not called sleeping in! I'm frikken passing out because of the 'heat'. What drunken stupor? Screw you haters, it's the 'heat' that's making the nation wonky! Not in any way the season that we Finns refer to as the 'terrace season' - a season during which bars have tables outside so wearing one's sunglasses while drinking one's beer/ cider doesn't seem so out of place.

How did I go from golf to drinking beer on a plastic chair outside? The 'heat' must be getting to me. But apropos of getting drunk.

It makes me very much NOT proud to be a Finn when I go to a restaurant, order two glasses of dry, Chilean Sauvignon Blanc, and then, from the corner of my very own beady eye, witness the waiter fill up the glass that comes up short with an Italian Chardonnay. In Teatterikahvila, where they're supposed to have class.

It doesn't make me proud to be a Finn when I go anywhere expecting any kind of service from the lovely folks of Finland in the service industry (not euphemistic, really referring to waiters, clerks, cashiers, stewardesses, and the odd bus chauffeur). Apparently the term service does not exist in Finnish (the correct name of the language, learn it). Those of you who know Finnish (You there, yes, you!) and would like to suggest to me that the direct translation is palvelu, I would like to remind you that although it perhaps used to be as easy as that, nowadays the term rather signifies getting the client do your work for you, ignoring the client, gossiping with your friends on the telephone or over the counter while several clients are giving you the stare, and pissing the client off with inanities and/ or pure unadulterated lack of intelligence.

Yes, I'm pointing at you girls at Gina Tricot (Why was I even there? The clientele is teenagers for walking cane's sakes!), the oddly confrontational Paunu bus chauffeur, and the sorry excuse for a waiter at Teatterikahvila!

Read my revenge!

Grrrr!

Cue Punch line.

What? There isn't one? What were you going to do? Just taper off to nowhere?

Oh. Post a picture...

Because, clearly, me in a blond wig in an overexposed photo is what this post needs. What else?

 

So what you're saying is that you've accomplished absolutely nothing?

I have started a million different posts, but there are just so many things to tell you, my dear readers, that I haven't known where or how to begin...

Dude! No you haven't. You haven't even logged onto blogger for like two weeks. At least! Stop lying, woman.

Okay. So maybe life has taken over a little bit. I've had to travel here to Europe, do all this super-important stuff and shit and see all of these people who just need to be seen like right now.

Really? Stop lying. Last night you had time to watch Porky's for the umpteenth time in history, and what's all that urgent shopping you've been filling the closets with? You just couldn't run your busy life without that black, studded, leather handbag, or what?

Well... Necessities man. I also got some deodorant on that outing. Get off my back. It's not like I've chosen not to blog. Stuff has just been going on. Like crazy shit and such.

Oh yeah? Like what?

It has too! There was that one night when I went to turn on the television and wanted to change the channel for the first time, because one of those weird, Finnish, badly-produced interior 'decoration' shows was on, and all of the channels disappeared. I had to call my brother to find out that I was using the wrong remote - a remote that probably should not even work on the television but I now know will make all of the channels disappear and green text in some language I've never heard of appear and possibly will send a distress code to the Titanic and not the other way round - and that was a total pain. Took me like half an hour to even get to sit down.

The TELEVISION?!?! That's your big time-consuming important shiz? Come on!

Well. There was also that Irish construction worker who followed me and the ever-fabulous K (wanna date a gorgeous, intelligent 30-something chick? E-mail me) home from the bar to be unceremoniously dumped at the downstairs door (But now he knows where I live. Frikkin scary. Should maybe have considered that beforehand...). And then there was that whole night, the overly expensive, but not that nice wine, and the scandinavian markup on the food in that new restaurant, the drunken men hitting on us in a way they had dredged up from the eighties, the incredibly awkward attempt by that older woman to hit on me (she started by, literally, hitting me on the shoulder), and attempting to resolve why it is that people leave their houses without ever looking into a mirror (because mirrors, as everything else in Finland, are too damn expensive) especially if they are attempting to attract the opposite sex (or the same, but so very different anyway), was just totally something I can't even really blog about.

But that's just one night. Or Am I mistaken?

No.... But I went to the movies too and suffered through the mostly plotless Alice in Wonderland. All while the 3D glasses were really uncomfortably pressing on the bridge of my apparently not average shaped nose. And that was like supremely time consuming. Felt like years. Unlike with the A-team, which I also went to see, which totally rocked and made me believe in the power of cinema to once again numb one's brain completely.

And then your fingers broke?

What? No! But that just took up some time. What's your problem anyway. If I don't want to blog about my parents' new puppy who is just the cutest thing ever, and who I keep carrying around like a tiny helpless baby and giving kisses to, that's my business. It's hard to blog when you're being all Paris Hilton-y and toting around 8 pounds of the sweetest, cutest puppy ever.

Carrying a dog? As an explanation? I mean... I don't even really know how to respond to that. So maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should just let it go. 

Just breathe in and out and let it go.... let it go... let it go...

Wait! I haven't even told you about the whole debacle with me not liking Finnish coffee anymore and how much dust that has stirred up. Or me losing my voice to Finland. Or me going way over budget (damn expensive European countries, can't even buy decent shoes and stay within a very generous budget) on a budget I've imposed on myself to learn the value of money (obviously so far it has taught me to loathe budgets and be weirded out by people who impose such things on themselves and to always give myself way more wiggle room than I initially think is necessary whilst imposing anything on my own person. Damn budget! And that money is worth more here in Europe than in South Africa which makes life very difficult on everyone, and that everyone should rebel against this European value of money. Yah. Very deep and all.). Or how it is totally possible and even quite likely to forget how to clean a house, pack one's own groceries, or put gas in a car (Although this one is purely theoretical as no one is letting me drive. Bastards.). Or how tiring it feels to haul too many bottles of wine across town manually (i.e. without the helpful aid of a car or a husband). Or... how long it takes me every morning to fashion the new mohawk into something that both looks cool (but not in that teenager-way) and that will hold up in this surprisingly windy city I'm currently calling home-for-now-because-my-computer-is-here. We are inland for Zeus's sakes! What is the deal with this wind? Or how much I miss the Viking and think that he should totally be here to carry my stuff for me, and drive me to places (see, they let him drive to places).

Uhm... Yeah.... See, I've just remembered that I have this thing that started like 10 minutes ago and I should be going at this second. No time to waste. Chat to you later!

Wait, wait! What thing? There's no thing today! Why haven't I been invited? I want to go to a thing too!

Dammit.

Oh well, there's always golf. Aren't you just excited to bits to be reading about that?

The coolness itself. In case you were wondering. Not saying that you were, but just in case. Just to stop you wondering. Just to you know, stop you. Uh huh. Yep. Indeed. 

It's a country alright

Since I fainted in the shower the other day, nary avoiding the sharp edges and blunt walls (upon a third-degree regarding the painful bump on the side of my head this morning, the Viking admitted to witnessing me "possibly having bounced my head off the wall a teensy bit" as I went down, before he could completely catch the limp me), I thought that I would have plenty of time to write this superbly long (and needless to say, eloquent as shit) post about driving through Namibia and Botswana and packing for Europe and all that excitement I'm about, on account of the Viking taking all of the car keys with him, so that I wouldn't pass out on the road and kill myself. Or possibly one of the poor guards at our gate (who jump out of nowhere straight in front of my car due to no fault of mine, as you all know).

What?

Yes, we shower together. We're that kind of a childless and sickeningly sweet deal. With hefty doses of caffeine and alcohol thrown in, and I guess now, complete with some earnest Victorian drama, just without the stifling corset.

But I just kind of sat there all of Monday and instead of uploading the photos from my camera onto this here laptop, I kept googling 'brain cancer', 'hypoglycemia', and ' exercise and sudden loss of consciousness', like the raging hypochondriac that I am, as well as 'how to hot-wire a car' in case the hypochondriac would start to feel her brain swelling, cooking, leaking out through any kind of orifice, and/or filling with blood. As one so often does.

(Naturally the smart and most definitely the sane thing would be to hit the road if one's brain was leaking out of one's orifice(s). Yes.)

But she didn't. Which is good, because I don't think I even know where the lever to open the hood of the car is located, having never googled that (I clearly still have no idea how to do any kind of wiring, hot or cold, or even gently spiced, Google), which would have left me with no other choice than to furiously kick the car and yell at it, and that would have surely worsened whatever brain-condition the hypochondriac had arrived at, and we all know what a mess that would have made in the garage. And the maid hates cleaning the garage. Spiders, bottles, guts, and what have you.

So yeah. Namibia. On Wednesday Thursday (I went out to lunch on Wednesday and managed to raise my trophy wife status to new heights by spending a good 7 hours at it) instead. While I'm supposedly going to the dentist and packing for Europe. In list form:

1. Namibia is pretty awesome. Not in that intense, in your face with experiences way, but more like in that "didn't we drive past here a 1000 kilometers ago? Oh no, it's just that the desert goes on for like... forever" way. Not to mention the "are we still in the third desert, or is this the fourth consecutive desert now?" kind of way. Or the "dude, shit, I think I see an actual person, and I'm pretty sure it's totally not a tiny dune this time" way.

2. There are very few people in Namibia. But there is a lot of sand. And somehow these people, who are even fewer in the places where the sand is mostly (the locals call it the desert as you might have gathered), have made an industry out of charging Germans lots and lots of money to drive them from one place with a fair amount of sand to a place with much more sand. And sometimes some dead trees.

We didn't let them drive us, seeing as they thought we were German too and made me royally pissed off at them, leading to our car now being half-filled with sand and making a sad noise when the wheels are turned sharply to the left at a high speed (which is incidentally how I like to make my left turns).

And the car was not a happy car to begin with.

3. It is very likely that on any given day in Namibia the amount of German tourists, all of whom seem to like to travel in herds in big air-conditioned busses, order beer loudly in German, and own creepy, circa mid-nineties styled fanny packs, exceeds the amount of actual Namibians. Statistically speaking. Or maybe it just seems that way, because they are so very... German*... like all the time.

4. Oysters. Who knew you could even prepare them breaded?

5. There are some pretty big holes on this continent. Most of them don't make for good photos but you are urged to go see them all. As are all of the German tourists, who, by the fifth big hole in the ground, you begin to suspect might be following you. And not in that good way, but with their fanny packs rudely pointing at you every time you glance in their direction. Not a good feeling, let me tell you, being eyed by a gathering of nineties fanny packs.

The holes do NOT come equipped with functioning toilets. And now many Germans are telling their neighbors of this hippie-woman with a mohawk and a camera around her neck who felt so moved by the beauty of [insert name of hole here] that she felt compelled to dance and jump up and down upon seeing it.

And then she might have even leaked a little.

6. Any Namibian as well as a Botswanan town can be comprised of a gas station and a bakery/liquor store in its entirety.

The town of Solitaire

7. The cows in Botswana very likely outnumber people. Or at least while people are nowhere to be seen,  the cows like to hang out on the roads, especially the Trans-Kalahari highway, and it makes little impact on them to see you hurtling down that very same road at a breakneck speed smack towards them.

8. Forcing the Viking to learn how to change a tire was a good thing indeed.

Yes, I own a mint-green car.

9. Seeing the sun rise over anything is the best feeling ever, a sunrise will always kick a sunset's ass, and sunrise has the best ever light for photos. Ever. The only downside is the lack of sundowners at sunrise, but I'm working on that as I write, and contemplating a possible inclusion of a coffee-based cocktail as a morning picker-upper or some such thing.

10. Now that I'm actually studying to become a real photographer, turns out I don't really take that many photos anymore.

*Normally I have very little problems with Germans, although I must admit I'm quite put off by that whole Nazism thing, and this television show about a bunch of German highschool kids they used to show in Finland. Also, I don't like their idea of grammar. Or the schlager tradition (it's too sing-along-y, which is always my downfall). Or beer. 

Ten points. Whew. There you go. I'm onto bigger and more important things. Such as figuring out whether I should a) pack my stripper-heels instead of my skull and bones hoodie, or b) just wear my golf clubs as an accessory on board the plane. Tough decisions. But I must go, those stripper-heels are not going to windex themselves.

I have to go tell the maid to do it.

NAMIBIAAAAAA!

That's me going on a long and winding vacation in the neighboring nation with my Viking, not some sort of unintelligently constructed war cry or anything (for a war cry one kind of should go with a classic like Geronimo, right?).

This is an illustration of how involved I have been in the planning, where my packing activities are currently, and exactly how much I know about where I'm going. Oh well. Diving in. 

Love ya'll and see you in June for the Extranjera goes to Europe to hang out with her mom, to golf and obsess about golf with her dad and brothers, and to drink plenty of coffee and wine with everyone else who will admit to knowing her.

So it'll be a while.

Miss me.

Please.

Can you move up from accidentally buying maternity wear?

Some might say I should just pay more attention. Concentrate more. Steer away from the departments I have no business in. Focus. Look at the bigger picture. Weigh the situation.

To avoid these things.

But I say "What the hell. Go ahead and call this progress":

I was looking for a neon sign. The 2010 edition.

Lately, I have been 'forced' to do quite a bit of shopping for some new clothes. There's that inadvertent weight loss and no one likes a scary lady in a tent, neh? So I've been shopping my little heart out.  I know, mine is a hard and tiring life, but it's all mine and well, yes, someone has to do it. Otherwise, what will happen to the global economy? How will the finances of nations fare? Without my contribution? Especially, if I don't walk out of a shop with at least one pair of highly weather-inappropriate and uncomfortable shoes, at least a couple of belts (say it loud, say it proud: "I think if I belt this shirt it will be even cooler"), and the odd, yet very cool and edgy t-shirt. And jeans. Shouldn't forget the jeans. Who will then keep the globe going, I ask you?

People who work all day long and pay taxes? Pshaw. You may say that, but you don't really think that. Do you, Husband?

(I can hear him roll his eyes and scream ever so slightly when he reads this. He sometimes does that in the vicinity of this here blog, but pay him no mind. He'll soon be on vacation.)

All I said was "how safe, just black and white," and then he totally decided to ignore me. 

But shopping here is getting harder and harder. The winter ("Ha haa" I say in best Nelson-from-the-Simpsons-style as I weather the 'cold' weather...) is approaching. The things to own right now, at least according to all of the shopkeepers, seem to be big and woolly dark-colored sweaters, black and grey turtlenecks, navy scarves, black leather boots, dark wash denims, black pants, and really any dark things made out of flannel and wool. To be worn on top of other items made out of flannel and wool. Black and grey and navy and dark purple everything. Layered. one layer on top of another, onto infinity, it seems.

And I always was a gal for bright colors and big prints. Light, billowy fabrics. Just wearing that one shirt, instead of an undershirt, a shirt, a vest and a sweater. And I may have also mentioned my obsession fascination with bold horizontal stripes? Yes? I believe I have have.

So what do I do afloat on the sea of dark flannel and woolly things, also known as Woolworths?

I home in on a beacon. A splash of bright turquoise shining, nay, glowing in a wintery world made up of black and grey. I set my course. There is no stopping me. I rush over. I extend my hand and lunge.
I grab the lightness of the fabric. I hold the fabric to my cheek (as one does in broad daylight in a department store). I drink in its simple design and cut. I rush to the fitting room and gaze at my turquoise reflection in the mirror.

I think of summer and feel my heart growing lighter.

I wear the shirt three days in a row, before I see this:

AGE 11-12
HEIGHT 152-155cm
BUST 72cm

The tag on the shirt tells me that I am wearing children's clothing. Which I presumably bought at the children's department. Without noticing.

I hate you winter fashion.

When things fall apart (not by Chinua Achebe, although that was a very good book indeed)

Once again, I seem to be here to spew some venom into the world. Yes, you read that right - VENOM. By which I mean someone out there was unable to read my mind and decipher the exact meaning of this piece of professional communication from my side:

 ".... Uhm. Stuff. You know. Pretty and shit. Vintage. Yah. Get it?.."

and has now therefore deserved my uninterrupted (at least until the coffee's done) spewing ability.

What the hell is she talking about? Snakes on a Plane again? What's with this reading snakes' minds all about? 

Oh, I know! She must be making an obscure reference to that one Harry Potter with the hissing serpent in it, whose thoughts Harry Potter, or was it that red-haired boy, could read, thus making an insightful commentary on the sliminess of it all, whilst drawing a parallel to the UK election? Right? That must be it!

Yeah. Right. That totally must be it. Sheesh...

What would you, as an English speaker or not, take with you intellectually if I told you that someone out there has been kind enough to donate a marketing space for our charitable organization and that we are looking for 'vintage-y' items, cool/cute decorative items, expensive items that would be better off sold to raise money for the community than donated directly to the community, to sell at this marketing space?

Would you package up your old underwear and your paint-stained, torn t-shirts and cart them over to my house? Would you give me a 'decorative item' with (very!) explicit sexual imagery on it to be sold at this family friendly space? Would you drop off tons of things with huge company logos plastered all over them? Would you toss some dirty glassware in a bag and expect it to stay whole in a cardboard box underneath a ton of toys covered in a mixture of what very well might be feces, snot and some red-ish sand?

Would you?

Would you do that to me? Personally to me? And then on top of it all, would you give me un-constructive criticism helpful advice on how to run this specific sale?

Would you dare?

You wouldn't. Because you are an intelligent human being. And you wouldn't even be thinking of me, you would be thinking of the people you would be doing this for. You would be light years from the school of thought that can only be summed up with "they should just be grateful with whatever I can give them, even if it means not cleaning any of it, with a twist of one man's trash is another man's treasure especially if the other man is filthy poor and should just be happy with my already gnawed to oblivion leftovers, since they can still be used for soup or sucked on."

You would still assume everyone is worthy of respect and has dignity, right? You wouldn't be one of the  expat wives/ ladies who lunch who are very vocal about "doing charity" because watching television and going to the gym just don't get the same wow-effect from the friends back home.

You wouldn't be cheap. And you wouldn't get venom spewed at you in digital form.

So no. No parallels to the UK election. I have bigger fish to fry this weekend. By which I mean broken glasses to be tossed, that costume 'jewelry' to be untangled, parallel-universe vintage-y clothes to be washed and ironed, and those trash bags to be carted somewhere far, far away where the smell of the used and moldy 'vintage-y' clothing can never, ever reach my nostrils again.

Also, I have a migraine. So there's that to be nursed too. With coffee, wine and venom. The trio of the gods.

Fancy meeting you here my old friend migraine! How did you find me again? Oh I know, you probably heard of me from our mutual acquaintance, Stress, right?

Think of me this weekend, and put some good karma into the universe to cancel out my bitchy. Please!

Now that my hormones are under control some minor rage issues seem to have appeared

Today for me was to be completely internetless. Not a huge feat I'll grant you, seeing as I have barely spent any time at all here in the last few months (not counting Lamebook and Go Fug Yourself, which I seem to be able to check even if I'm in the bush without any kind of coverage just with the pure power of thought and the intense desire to view bad fashion), but still a trying day of only checking Twitter every now and then with my iPhone and getting through the day without laptop-heated thighs (oh the horror!).

Why?

Well, since we are on the continent of most likely (too lazy to Google, but can't be far from the truth) the slowest, yet most expensive internet in the world, the reason would be the oh so ubiquitous South African "I've reached my cap". I normally suffer through this a few times every month and have to top up (i.e. make the Viking make some phone calls and top up my account of limited and pricey access-joy), but I figured last night, I really truly did, that since May is just around the corner I can make do for one measly day without the glory of the interwebz. I really did.

But then things started happening and I started getting pissed off. And then I realized I wanted to blog. I wanted to share the stupidity of other people in the real world (and some of my own). I wanted to bark at other drivers in writing. I wanted to sweep that smug smile off of that face with the insults that I could only think of when I was already in the car. I wanted to stop screaming at the Viking (on the phone, and he couldn't really hear me, so I don't think he's too fazed). I wanted to vent.

Also, I think I'm PMSing.

So here I am. Internet topped up. Ready to let it rip:

Unhelpful, arrogant, and very unprofessional Apple iStore technician at Melrose Arch in Johannesburg

You will have to do better than "Well, ma'am, I'm sorry about that," if you make me drive 30 kilometers to your iStore to get my MacBook Pro fixed only for you to tell me once I get there that you don't actually do hardware repairs, which you could have told me anytime during the lengthy phone conversation we had (okay, the Viking had, but that's beside the point. Like I'm meant to make my own phone calls. Tsk.) during which you were repeatedly told that it is the CD drive that is ill and noisy and possibly ant-infested. I mean, are there ever people who are willing, without any kinds of back ups and separation anxiety, to just leave their Macs in your 'capable' hands without any warning for the duration of at least 2 weeks? I didn't think so.

You make me want to own a PC.

Big man in Big truck in front of me for miles and miles

Why does your truck say Fast & Fresh if you and the innards of the truck are neither? Why are you going 60 kilometers an hour when the speed limit is at least a 100? Why are the eggs (let's just say it's eggs, because it fits my beef today) you are carrying never ever fresh? Why is it so hard to find fresh eggs in this city? Could it have something to do with your snail pace? I think so. And why are you always there, at the ready to turn right smack in front of me, when I have to pee?

Yes, that gesture I made out the window when I finally passed you was Finnish for 'hello'.

That huge bruise on my calf and my very own hands while holding a jumprope

You will have to fade like right at this minute. You can start any time now... You are huge and purply black in a slightly yellowish and green way and you could light up a sizable room. You are the one thing  (those weird fatty deposits on the insides of my knees excluded as usual) standing (lying?) between me and that flamencoesque, shortish skirt I intend on wearing out tonight. My one decent pair of black pantyhose smells like it should have been washed two years ago and would just scare innocent bystanders. So fade you piece of conceptual art on my calf! And while I'm at it... nah, The jumprope held in the tired hands at 5:30am at boot camp led to the bruise and that's all there is to that. Bad hands. I wish there was someone else than myself to blame.

Yes, today I will rock a bruise like a Louis Vuitton handbag: with weird pride, because it's not like I want it, but now that it's there I might as well make the most of it. It's obviously cost me a lot.  

This very northern suburb of Johannesburg we inhabit and my school in Pretoria

Why can't you be more like Cape Town, where apparently no racists, such as described in my previous post, exist? Why should you choose to house, nay attract, proliferate, and breed, the most base kind of human beings and then put them on my path, one after the other? Because I am not talking about just one or two, but of a multitude, coming at me from all directions, from varying positions, and again and again.   Just when I least expect it.

Perhaps I should just never go out again. Rather than face the reality of South Africa.

The ideas person who likes to suggest things but never actually does anything and always ends her mails with "I hope it's not too much to ask."

It is. Do it yourself.

Icy.

Have an exciting weekend everyone and thank you for reading (and even if you didn't I feel better already)!

Blogging the battle

There are always people in your life that you just cannot avoid, but who you didn't choose to be in your life, and who you just really, really, REALLY, really wish weren't even on the globe. Let alone waiting just down the road, expecting to be picked up. Right?

You have to associate with them. There's no way out. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You see them coming, brace yourself, and leave the rest up to some higher power if you are thus inclined, or to that miniscule part of the brain that also tells you to lock your car doors, to not eat that funky-smelling shrimp, or to wear a sports-bra while doing sprints. Whatever you think keeps you safe from a steep spiral into insanity, a serious black eye, the vortex of general doom, and/or a dangerous demise.

There is nothing at all for you to do when those people open their mouths, but to attempt to bite your tongue and think of sandy beaches, calming waves, and cold margaritas made with the proper kind of tequila, and en las rocas, naturally. A nice, 'largish', cold tamarindo margarita is what does it for me, anyway (although I am allergic to tamarind, which should help to really drive home the point...).

Unless you wish to unleash the beast of course. Which you sometimes have to do. Just to, you know, keep yourself on the side of the seemingly sane. There are things one doesn't have to or shouldn't stomach, after all.

But most times unfortunately, to stay on that very same side just mentioned, involving outerwear not confining any motor actions (do they still do straitjackets? I'm not sure. Seems awfully One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, particularly Nurse Ratched, to me), and in order to avoid spending precious time and strength and vitality (it is always away from you to fight the windmill, isn't it?) on pure stupidity and ignorance, one has to....

Yes, I am going to just come out and say it.

...pick one's battles.

Now, I know that all you adult people out there in the world probably know this, were brought up to behave in this 'keeping the peace' manner (as I probably was too, but some things just didn't take, I guess), and think that I am excruciatingly and perhaps even slightly embarrassingly slow to catch on.

I mean, the whole 'turn the other cheek' whatnot is like totally ancient. Biblical, man.

But I am picking my battles. Finally. Or at least today.

However, there's nothing in the rules about me blogging about it. Is there now?

Because, even if one is not out to get one's teeth or any other part of the body kicked in (or in some cases kick anyone else's teeth in. I am, quite large and powerful, after all) sometimes it just happens that South Africa, or usually, more correctly, one of its inhabitants, metaphorically nunchuks you in the groin with such force that you are left wondering how uncomfortable it must be to be a man and why men don't habitually wear protection over their nethers just to be safe and pain free. But then you start musing about whether you would just laugh at them if they did, and decide that that is exactly what you would do and loud too, and then, well, you think of Lady Gaga. Because she is fun in that nethers sort of way. And you really enjoy singing to Bad Romance in your car.

But the pain always returns. Gaga or no Gaga.

Still, whether you are picking the battle or not, the following statements should never, ever be allowed to be uttered by anyone, anywhere (So I guess, I'm blogging the battle instead?). And any such attempts should lead to such bad karma (now that I think of it, they might already have. Hooray, karma shoots with verbally abusive husband, and scores with a divorce and extremely low self-esteem. Karma walks all over the racist.) and utter misery falling on the utterer's path, that no one would ever want to utter them, or even think them. Ever. And everyone should just smarten up, get a proper education, and stop spouting the worst ignorant shit I have ever heard:

"At least during Apartheid the hospitals worked."

"I don't think the races should mix."

"Apartheid has been over for 16 years and nothing has become better for the poor blacks. The only difference now is that the whites are suffering too."

"It has already been 16 years! How long do we have to keep thinking about and blaming the past?"

"They are just so different from us."

The tip of the iceberg. Only the very tip.

The day before yesterday, this magnificent country celebrated Freedom Day, a day on which, 16 years ago, South Africans were, for the first time in history, able to vote in a legitimately democratic election. On that day, 16 years ago, South Africans chose the great Madiba - Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela - to be their president. They voted to end the suffering many of them had endured under the gruesome and truly horrific regime of Apartheid. They voted for freedom for all. They voted for a better life, and a new beginning.

But now, as the nation's awkward teenage years roll on, the government and the ruling party, Mandela's party, the ANC, haven't quite accomplished what they set out to do for South Africa, and instead they seem to be okay with potentially very dangerous individuals (read: raging lunatics) holding important positions within the party, and so there seems to be some backlash, to which I'm personally privy.

Backlash, in the form of more and more people feeling as if they can and perhaps even should voice their misguided racist tendencies opinions, and educate the poor foreigner (POOR ME!) who obviously doesn't understand that "the blacks are fucking up this country," and who'll "soon realise how things really are in South Africa."

"Just you wait and see for yourself."

Well, after almost two years in this awesome and beautiful country, I'm still waiting, and the biggest problem I see is your ignorant, racist ass, complete with nasty cellulite.

Unfortunately, often there is no talking reason. There isn't even a battle to pick. Just horrifying comments to block out, to be let into the consciousness only long enough to be blogged and thus hopefully diminished of any power, a tongue to be bitten into small chunks amidst a completely red view, and complete and utter faith in the ways of Karma.

Of reaping what one has sown.

What's in a day? Just leisurely picking thorns off my butt, thighs and sides.

What are you, dear reader, sowing today? And what will you reap? Tell me. Help me take my mind off of this shit.

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?