gatecrasherrrrrs

Much has been written about how women of a certain age gain an indisputable confidence and general whatever-fuck-you attitude.
Much has been written about whiteness, and how one of the undeniable privileges about being white is gaining access to all kinds of places without anyone questioning your validity for being there.
There's also been a few things written about Dutch courage, and the kind of bravado which can only be found in the bottom of a wine bottle.

This is a tale in which all of these collide ...

'Twas friend Y's birthday and three of us popped out to a nearby wine farm for a little fancy dinner of a rainy Wednesday evening.

En route we passed a mammoth big glass building - finally completed after months of building and traffic disruption - and noticed a little soiree happening inside.

'Is that my surprise birthday party?' quips friend Y.

We proceeded to dinner - a delightful selection of small dishes of fancy delicious things - and two very nice bottles of a wine which was not called 'Panties' despite my dinner mates continually referring to it as such. Lots of giggles, some silly selfies in the parking lot and we were on our way home thinking we'd had the most fun the evening had to offer ... until we passed back past the big glass building, and decided to just 'pop in'.

We swung in the gates and through the doors with all the self-assuredness of 40-something white ladies two bottles of wine down. And nobody stopped us.

Not one of the black-tie, ball-gowned, silver-heeled, well-oiled guests, nor any of the beefy, bull-necked, bruiser security-types even tried to stop us. Not even that slim black-clad blonde lady in the middle pic who turned out to be the gallery director and definitely gave us some quizzical glances dared actually approach us.

We were in sneakers for gods sake, but we were wearing them with a mighty confidence.

We were pigging out at the divinely decadent dessert table - the only people pigging out there I might add (I'm pretty sure the staff were on to us then) - and nobody even thought to engage us in conversation and find out who the heck we were.

We were taking photos and giggling at artworks and clearly misbehaving at the sponsors wall - but we got away with it.

Turns out it was the art event of the year. Turns out it was the patron's evening before the soft opening before the hard opening before the VIP opening of Cape Town's latest ra-ra gallery and art collection. Turns out it was quite a big deal.

Don't ever think old gals don't know how to have fun.

the grit

A friend told me my blog has been looking a little squeaky-clean of late. Enviable family holidays away, gorgeous sunny birthday parties in the middle of winter, daughters who read all day and stay out of my hair, birthday lunches with lovely ladies ... yeah, it's been a wonderful few months ... but we all know life ain't like that all the time right?

I just don't really like to moan, don't like to come into this space with the blaah. Not that I haven't in the past, but the thing is, what do I want a record of?
The warm 'n fuzzy moments of my life - the big events, the everyday love, the heart-stopping moments of ordinary awe and immense gratitude?

Or, do I want to remember how in the last few weeks I've also ...
... had two jobs canceled (turns out they couldn't afford the full ass) and all the related financial stresses
.... been back and forth to the vet 5 times with my beloved Lego. She's had a big skin sarcoma biopsied, then removed, then re-stiched, then re-bandaged and re-medicated. Her little brother was responsible for the second round of stitches and bandages. Resulting eventually in this:

... managed The Cone: rearranged furniture, placated a seriously unhappy pup, had my shins smashed into over and over, kept the food bowl filled just so so he could use it and any number of times been called on to extricate him from some cone/bush/chair jam, once involving dog shit
... tackled our first case of head-lice in the family (not bad for 8 years of parenting huh?), which involved copious research, laundry, tumble-drying EVERYTHING, quarantining 2 black bags of soft toys, spray, comb, shampoo, check and repeat. Over and over and over and over and over.
... managed my annual seasonal asthma issues, lots of wheezing and discomfort and fretting at 1am about dying of emphysema until I get myself to the doc and hand over a lot of money in exchange for the welcome news that it's really not that bad, and the right (expensive) meds to manage it. Boring.

So ja, I could've blogged about all that for some perspective right? Life is not all hoorahs and polished apples.
But we know that, you know that, and I know that despite there being some challenges and tedious days of soul-destroying adulthood, my life is pretty damn fine.

It's more than fine, it's mine - and it's the best life I could be living right now.

4/10 things I lovetohate that you do

Many years ago I blogged the process of rehabilitating the fireplace in our house from it's gold-gilded, knick-knack besmirched existence to what I like to think is a much more stylish picture altogether.

It's a pretty fireplace but alas not a functioning one, when we bought the place we were told it was boarded up. I recalled something about the chimney cladding being damaged, I remember being horrified at the cost of chimney-sweeps, I even remember some ha-ha conversations about acquiring a monkey with a webcam to go in and assess the damage.

So imagine my gobsmacked surprise when last night, right in front of my eyes, eight winters later, the dude calmly removes the board blocking the flue and lights a fire.
Wha ... ?

I nearly lit a fire of my own.

Apparently every time he's suggested trying to light it in the past I've vetoed the suggestion for fear of filling the house with smoke and ash ... this I don't recall as clearly.
What I do know is that sitting in front of our own fire last night was heart-warming.

Thanks babe.

internal dilemma

And so I shunned the distractions of the digital screen for a week and turned inward upon myself. To ponder and examine, to assess and evaluate.
And lo, it was not good.

And no, it was not just withdrawal from facebook, I genuinely had a pretty low emotional week. Turns out making time for my internals made them uncomfortable, they didn't enjoy the scrutiny and certainly didn't feel like showing a stiff emotional upper lip and pretending they were fine and dandy just because I'd deigned to show them some attention.
Hmpf.

Turns out in fact that my emotional inners are not fine and dandy and are in fact deeply resentful of how they've been ignored in recent months. Turns out I have quite a bit of uncertainty, angst, concerns for the future and general low-grade worry that I've been harbouring unawares for some time.
I'd have to say I blame breast-feeding hormones, those ones that tell you everything is fiiiiine while at the same time stealing your brain. Not unlike recreational drugs, or so I'm told.

It may also having something to do with my baby reaching 6 months (six months!!!) and the realisation that she'll not be a baby forever (what? WHAT?) and that there might just be some life waiting to be lived when I pop my head out of this baby bubble.

Don't you just love the indulgence of the privileged? Six months of blissful stay-at-home breast-feeding with no real end in sight and still she moans ...

But the point is I wasn't. Moaning that is.
I thought I was happy and loving it all, but turns out that, amongst other things, I hate my house, am reallio trullio worried about my career, am able to burst into actual tears at a moment's notice, am capable of being Grumpy McGrumpness from Grumpville for a whole week and most interestingly, can suppress all of this whenever I don't feel like dealing with it.

I had some genuine extremely and most delicious fun times this week with some of my favourite friends, but in the quiet hours when the day's fun was over and the girls in bed and there were no distractions to be had, I found I wasn't happy. And that sucks.
Especially for Husband who, as always, had to pick up the pieces.

There's work to be done y'all, there are facts to be faced and plans to be laid and grown-up type grips to be gotten.
I'm meeting my tax accountant in the morning. I'm seeing the dentist later this week. And most urgently, I'm planning a holiday.
'Cos my internals deserve a getaway, and pary tell how else will they get here if I don't physically take them?

pithed off

I finally tried my hand at jam-making this weekend. Marmalade to be exact.

You know, while I've always appreciated the vastly superior taste of home-made jam, I've never gotten why jam-makers are so often well, smug about their efforts.
Fruit, sugar, water, boil - what could be easier?

Well ... here's how my experience panned out.

Me: I think I'll make lemon marmalade.
Husband: You should use those left-over oranges.
Me: Ok, I'll make lemon and orange marmalade.

I set to work, using a very basic recipe as a guide (it's my first time see). I start diligently removing the pith from the fruit and rind of 8 or so oranges and lemons.
Husband comes in.

Him: You don't have to remove all the pith, the pith is what makes the jam set.
Me: My recipe says remove pith.
Him: My recipe (this being one he once read but is nowhere in evidence right now) says not to.

I fall for the idea of slacking off a bit (I've only done 3 fruits by now and am already getting bored). I start chopping fruit roughly, pith 'n all.
I juice the same amount of fruit, add an obscene amount of sugar and set the whole lot a-boiling.

Right: jars. I gather our motley collection of jars and start packing them into the dishwasher (sterilise and clean in one go - I love it).

Husband: You can't run those with the paper labels still on you know.
Me: #!%&*!

Start soaking jars in hot water and scrubbing at the labels. Fucking hell, I've just discovered the hard part about jam-making!

Much, much later; wrist cramping, humour disappearing, jam too thick, rinds still to hard, flavour a little too tangy - I'm starting to hate home-made marmalade.

Husband: Maybe grate in some ginger to lift the flavour.
Me (spewing pith & vinegar): Ja ok, but what about the fact that there's virtually no jam, just a bunch of rinds all clumped together??
Husband: Hmmm, maybe you shouldn't have added the pith.

Me: Seriously?? Are you taking the pith?

Luckily, it looks very good. And I'll grudgingly admit the ginger saved it. And once it cooled it was much less ... dense. Actually, it's not half bad - think I'll go make some toast.

the fearless baker

If I had a food blog that's what I'd call myself. The Fearless Baker.

It perfectly describes the gung-ho approach I have to baking, and food preparation in general. I'm not bragging here, this um ... style ... of cooking and baking regularly backfires. I have a history of some godawful kitchen disasters.
No, my fearlessness is based on two things.
1. I'm lazy.
2. I'm inadequately kitted out.
For people who like to cook and eat as much as we do in this house we're woefully under-applianced.

Case in point: we have nothing with which to measure grams. Can you cope? How do you bake without being able to measure things in grams?
By guessing - not good for baking. And by using the ml/gram convertor on the last page of the Huisgenoot Wen Resepte circa 1977. Not ideal.
Also, we don't have a food processor. Nope. A stick blender and a hand-held mixer are our some-what primitive tools.

This, coupled with the laziness makes for some interesting recipe adjustments and leaps of faith. The laziness is how I come to make 'intricate' custards (read: from scratch, no instant powder involved) in the microwave. The lack of a food processor is why I made crumble with the stick-blender this evening. Surprisingly (check how I spelt that correctly), it worked.
Necessity being the mother of all fuck-ups invention and all that.

Fearless I tell you.

But also a little bit skanky ...
My grandfather (the girl's great grandfather) and his somewhat exacting second wife came to tea yesterday. Firstly I cheated and whipped up a cake from a [gasp] packet for them, iced with [gasp] the last of the icing left-over from my birthday tea which I had stashed in the freezer
But where it all got a little murky was when, as my guests walked in the front door, I went into the kitchen to turn on the kettle and discovered to my horror that the cat had licked half the icing off the cake!
Options: cut half the cake away, confess, look like a skanky housewife and cast doubt as to the integrity of the rest of the cake OR,
be a skanky housewife, grab a knife, redistribute the remaining icing to cover up the disaster and serve it anyway ...

The Fearless Baker. That's me.

f'king pregnant, f'king hot

It's like Groundhog Day. Every day I wake up: I'm still pregnant, it's still hot.
Like, real hot, and seriously pregnant.

I go to the movies to escape the heat. Last week I spent the morning with Alec Baldwin (there's just something about that man ...), today it was George Clooney (no explanation required).
I sit in the dark theatres, relishing the cool, the distraction, the eye-candy, wondering if I'm in labour.

I feel like a whiner. I've got it easy on so many levels but sometimes one just needs to whine. Must it be so f'king hot??

High 30's for the 5th day in a row - my feet, my feet ...
Watched The Incredible Hulk last night (yes, my brain is also currently affected) and could totally relate. I sit on the couch with multiple pillows behind my back, in front of the fan, my feet in a bucket of iced water. Husband replenishes the ice. Dog drinks from the footbath. Cat sulks across the room 'cos I just can't bear her additional warmth on me.

I really thought it was game on this weekend. Contractions started on Friday evening and continued through the night. Up to 5 in an hour, 25 seconds each. By Saturday morning they'd abated. We went for an early walk through the forest - I strided ahead in the hopes of getting things moving. A few more rumblings round lunchtime, then nothing. What was that?

It's hot. Did I mention that?
I've seen so many squashed squirrels in recent days. Are they also moving slower than usual?

I'm all about driving. Any excuse to grab some air-con.
I've been known to start whimpering as I reach my destination and know I have to get out and into the heat.

I got semi-stuck in a toilet cubicle today. Some f'king space-saver mall architect tried to squeeze too many cubicles into too small a space. Between the door opening in, the toilet bowl, the TP dispenser and my bump I couldn't find the best angle to exit. Handbag held high above my head I eventually made it, with much giggling. The giggling was only 'cos they had air-con. Otherwise it would not. have. been. funny.

Darling husband's done something to his back. This is not helping matters. We've promised that when this baby is born we'll make a concerted effort to be nicer to each other than we were in the colic hell of Frieda's first 3 months. We need to bring that arrangement forward a bit. Every evening when it cools down enough, round 9pm, we hug and apologise for being crabby bitches. Then we eat ice-cream in the pool.
That part's kind of nice.

F'king pregnant, f'king hot. That's me.

Check up today, baby's still dead happy where she is. After all of that. C-section booked for 17 March. All we can do is hope she makes an appearance before then.
And try to stay cool. And nice.
Nice.

people are starting to look at me funny

Like, omg a baby (or two) could fall out of that woman any moment now, look away, look away.

I went to a couple of shops this afternoon and it's possibly the first time since I've been clearly and visibly pregnant (not just possibly 'big boned') that no one's engaged with me about it. No questions about when I'm due or what I'm expecting or 'Baby sure likes these sausage rolls hey' when I go back to buy another batch less than 15 minutes after the first (and btw, to that lady: watch it).

It's not that I mind the lack of engagement. Truthfully it's somewhat of a relief after months of being inanely polite, but I think the size of my belly is starting to make people nervous.
My hairdresser last week as I was paying my bill and leaving said, 'Shew, glad you made it through your appointment without anything happening', the doorman at the bank says goodbye with undisguised relief that I've not sullied their vile green carpets on his shift. People in check-out queues avoid my eye, but can't help glancing a second or third time at my belly.

Maybe this is why we used to go into confinement. To save the rest of the world from being exposed to our blatant fecund over-ripeness. Maybe this far along a pregnant woman becomes a little obscene. A little too 'Ja I had sex, yup someone planted their seed inside me, hell yeah I might actually push another human being out of my vajayjay in the near future'.

Am I making you uncomfortable? Trust me darlin' not nearly as uncomfortable as I am.

pale & wan

Not normally words I'd associate with myself, but two words which have rung very true the last few days. I had a 24h stomach bug on Monday (oh the irony of a vomit-free 1st trimester and then that), all time record low blood pressure on Tuesday and just haven't seemed to right myself since then.

The Docs aren't concerned, low blood pressure doesn't pose nearly the same kind of risks to pregnancy as high, they're all just telling me to lie down, feet up, take it easy and ride it out.

Humph.

Nevermind that it's Christmas in one week and I've not:

• posted a bunch of handmade Christmas cards (which'll never make it to Europe in time now)
• completed my Christmas shopping
• made any headway on decorations and I think Frieda will divorce us if we don't have a tree this year
• done any seasonal appropriate grocery shopping or
• baked or made one yummy Christmas themed edible yet.

Nevermind that this was supposed to be the last week of work and I've hardly managed to do a thing.
Nevermind that our builders packed up and left for holidays on Tuesday with the job not 100% completed but leaving us with a gorgeous new kitchen, bathroom, patio dying to be scrubbed and moved into and played in and I'm unable to do any of that.
Nevermind that I'm in possession of a 2.5 yr old. Say. No. More.
Nevermind that 'tis the season to be merry and all that and I've had to turn down innumerable social invitations to have fun and see old friends and go to the beach and generally be frikkin merry 'n all.

No, nevermind all that, for this isn't just about me see. This is one of those moments where one becomes acutely aware of being the conduit, the vehicle, the womb.
There's a little girlie inside of me, thumping away like she has all the energy in the world I might add, and she's calling the shots. And I must take heed and lie down.

If only it was as easy as it evidently is for that ginger kitty. Clearly her Christmas shopping's all done.

PS Yes I know that window's in a terrible state of disrepair, that's clearly not the recently renovated side of the house!
PPS Can you see the wee madam in question clad in turquoise stripes reflected in the window? I only noticed her after I posted the pic.

the one about gym

Yes, I cracked. Well I had to do something after making promises here and here. And while Yoga Fit is a-m-a-z-i-n-g and I'm feeling and seeing the benefits thereof, it's still only once a week, and once a week ain't gonna shift no significant bulk ok?

So I cracked. And joined a gym. Loathe and despise the word, the concept, the industry, oh and sweat in general but hey, as the mother of a childhood friend of mine used to say as she plucked out her leg hairs one by one with a pair of tweezers: 'you have to suffer to be beautiful'. Do you? Do you really?

Turns out you do. But it seems in this case, the suffering did not take the form I thought it would.

Let me explain.

You see, still deeply un-enamoured with the concept of 'gym' (odd that this didn't make it onto my list of 100 things I dislike intensely, though I think sweating did...), I was lured into the promise of 30 minute workout, a 'total body workout' and the fact that my 'curves would (apparently) amaze me', I signed up for a month at Curves - the women's only gym. (see emoticon of spitting in disgust).

Omg, this place is deeply flawed.

Firstly, the whole work-out is questionable. 30 seconds a time on 12 or so machines with 'rest stations' in between. Hmmm.

Secondly (and please believe me when I say I'm no sizest), but the instructors are fat. Not just 'big-boned' but fat. Is this supposed to make me feel comfortable there? More comfortable than having a size 0 gym instructor in lycra? Maybe so, but the reality is it just ain't right. You wouldn't buy Jimmy Choo's from someone wearing Crocs. You wouldn't buy a Beemer from someone driving a Beetle (or arguably, vice versa). You wouldn't be happy with a doctor with a hacking cough. You wouldn't go to a dentist with no front teeth. You get my point.

Thirdly, it's so twee. It's like a mix between church camp and girl scouts with a little bit of high-school 1st hockey team thrown into the mix. The franchise is international and each branch must look the same the world over, the same purple decor, the same horrific music, the same twee motivational posters on the wall ('A fit mum is a happy mum!') and the same (and I kid you not here) diaphanous purple curtain which gets whipped across the entrance to the work-out space should (gasp of shock and horror) a MAN enter the office. Urgh!

But yet, I signed up for a month, totally suckered by the 30 minute lure, and in total acceptance of the fact that if I didn't sign up, and pay for the torture, I'd never get round to cardio at all.

So now I go twice a week around midday, and hit the circuit, and try and get into the music, and try to avoid reading the posters over and over again, and try not to follow the waddle of monster purple-clad thighs across the room, and try to get into a zone and work that flab.

And I've discovered that all the above are the true monstrosities of gym. The workout itself is not too bad, the endorphins kick in quite soon to give one a lift, and I've discovered a little trick to get through it quickly and enjoyably: I imagine myself in the montaged training sequence from a movie, the Rocky 'Eye of the Tiger' scene; the slow cut, sweaty sequence which works our hero into his (or her) pinnacle of raw cut muscle and fitness. The fighter. The lover. The challenge. 

And I've lost 2 kg. Go gym!

in which I moan. a lot.

To be completely truthful, one of the major reasons for my lack of blogging recently is that every post I think about, and sometimes start writing, ends up being a big fat moan. Which then makes me feel self-indulgent, which then stymies me, which then annoys and frustrates me even more blah blah blah...

But heck, if I can't have an all out, rip roaring, bells tolling, vale of tears inducing, pathetic pity party on my own blog then where can I right? So here goes: ye have been warned.

Fuck life is just hectic right now.

Oooo, and just like that:   light bulb moment!!!!

(see, this is why I blog....)

SUDDEN REALISATION: it's not because I'm so busy and feeling sorry for myself that I've not been blogging. It's 'cos I don't really feel I've reason enough to complain about being so busy and feeling sorry for myself.

I say life is so hectic right now, but if you ask me to list what's going I immediately feel inadequate when I think of all the people I know who seem to do so much more (like working for instance). On paper my life doesn't seem that crazy, but can I just say that living it is not very easy at the moment.

The child ~ is veeeery busy. Growing, talking, teething and, just in the last 24h, crapping. A lot. Her paed is lobbing terms like 'bacterial diaherrea' and 'stool samples' around but I'm sticking my fingers in my ears and la-la-la-la-ing for now. Stool samples? Surely not.

The puppy ~ is veeeery busy. Growing, playing, also teething apparently and, all the time, crapping. A lot. Any stool samples required there could be procured in a matter of minutes. No problemo.

The weather ~ is veeeerry hot. And while I understand that this is not an excuse for anything really, it does contribute an over-bearing, ummm, heat to everything. Making things like growing, playing, teething and cleaning up crap that much more strenuous. 

The career ~ is veeeery stagnant. There are still possibilities on the horizon, some more exciting than others, and for possibilities I must, at this stage, be truly grateful. But nothing concrete, nothing to get my teeth into, nothing bringing in any significant cash, and this all a bit heavy at the mo.

Add to this; a house guest, a full and vibrant household, a f*kass taxi strike which left us with no cleaner and no nanny for some of last week, a bunch of social occasions, an over-active brain, sleepless nights, legless tights (oh wait, not sure how that crept in) yada yada yada... 

And here endth the moan. Truly my life is mundane. Thank god no one reads this crap.

neighbours

We have these neighbours we like to call The Cunts.

Yes, I know, it's not very nice. But it's a very apt description of them, or at least how we feel about them, so The Cunts they are. Mr and Mrs.

We've lived across from them for over 5 years now. They're only a bit older than us, childless, workaholics from what we can make out. Not that we care or anything. The point is that in 5 long years the only contact we've had with them besides a scant handful of mumbled 'hello's' when they absolutely couldn't ignore the fact that one of us was standing right in front of them, was the time Mrs Cunt reversed into my car. An incident she responded to by leaving me a (typed!) note with the details of her insurers for me to contact to sort out the damage. Er... no. You call your insurers and you sort it out, where-after I will get my car repaired at, get this: the least possible inconvenience to myself. See?

They're blatantly far too busy and important to notice anyone else in the world, let alone give a shit, and they're actually just not very nice people. We've tried to get over it (ok, I say 'we' but truthfully Husband shrugged it off years ago - as I think men are often better at doing - I have tried to get over it).

But today, today I was once more enraged.

I had the misfortune of pulling out of my driveway at the same time as they left theirs. It was raining (ja, we're having a bit of un-summer which is quite a nice relief), and their domestic worker - cleaner - was leaving at the same time.

Firstly, they didn't greet me - but there's no surprise there. The real shocker was that they didn't acknowledge the other woman's presence either, didn't notice her walking off down the road sans umbrella in the rain and then, then, drove straight past her - in the same direction in which she was walking - as she tried to tie a plastic bag over her hair to keep it dry.

I understand that it's probably bad karma to judge other people's karma, but The Cunts - their karma is murky man.

And then, the final outrage; they drove behind me all the way out of Obs and on to the highway, where Mr C proceeded to cut me off by jumping the solid white line to enter the lane heading to town. This I took wildly personally for about 5 seconds until I realised that their real problem is actually just that their heads are so far up their own arses that they didn't even realise it was me, their neighbour, they were offending. And that they didn't care.

I stewed on this a little today (as you can probably tell), but it was only as I was putting Frieda to bed that I realised the irony that I should have this little neighbourly complaint at a time when it seems that Israel and Palestine might very seriously be taking their ongoing neighbourly feud to the max.

That gave me pause for thought, made me realise that I regard myself as irreconcilable with The Cunts. I think they're people who tackle the world in a manner which is so far removed from mine that they may as well be living on another planet. Their habits offend me, I regard their world view as skewed and wrong, and I do, to be completely honest, regard myself as morally superior to them. And if this little scenario is but a smackrel of complexity that is the Near East - then I fear for where that situation will lead. 

[And on a much lighter note  -Husband single-handedly replaced out pool pump and filter in only a few hours this evening, thereby kicking any remnants of unmanliness over the jam-making incident firmly in the ass, and making it possible for us to go away for a few days from tomorrow. See you in 2009 lovely blogosphere!]

what the fug??

One of my ultimate favourite online reads ever, has to be the wonderful Go Fug Yourself girls. Jessica & Heather will guarandamntee you an out-loud, nose-snorting, nasty little gnh gnh gnh every time. I mean, what's the only thing more fun than laughing at people? Laughing at badly-dressed celebrity people of course!

Now these two may not be celebrities (although they may disagree), but I think you can see why I had to take these pics. Warning: nasty bitchiness up-ahead!

First I saw the, er... larger of the two. I sat in my car waiting for the light to change and wondered what an earth the poor woman was thinking? Bad choice of hair colour, bad see-through white skirt, bad, bad too tight kitten heels, bad spare tyre between high waist of skirt and bad belt....

I decided I had to take a pic, and then through the view-finder I thought I was seeing double. But no, there were two of them. Two over-dyed, over-tanned, over-done er, ladies. And they were dressed exactly the same.

Twins? Promo 'girls'? Or simply two disillusioned aged cheerleaders?

Or, should I pack away le bitch, and celebrate these two high-spirited gals for having the chutzpah to wear what they want, the way they want and the rest of the world be damned!

You're only as old as you feel they say. Sexiness is a state of mind they say.

But matching? Matching I can't forgive I'm afraid.

lists of 5: 5 things I saw on our beach walk today

I still feel like crap. The snot has disappeared but only to be replaced by body-ache, lack of energy, lack of willpower, lack of sense of humour.

Frieda's snot is still flowing freely, and I kinda envy her 'cos despite that, she's in fine fettle, full of energy, full of willpower and by 11am today full of cabin fever. So I sucked it up, as us mothers are wont to do, and we took her for a run on the beach.

And I'm so glad we did.

And so pissed off I left my camera behind.

On our walk on the beach today (different beach to Friday's excursion - yes, 2 beaches in 3 days), I saw:

1. A man tripping. On acid. When's the last time I saw that? Walking in circles, mesmerised and kinda terrified of the tiny lapping waves at his feet. Lots of giggling. And can I just say that I live in Obs, I know a crazy person when I see one, this guy wasn't crazy, he was just having a most awesomely whack mindfuck of a time, and loving it.

2. Two carthorses being taken for a swim. Their owners jogged on down to the beachfront with their scrap-metal collecting traps, unshackled their horses and rode them into the lagoon. Frieda was in ecstasies of delight.

3. A woman filming a child doing weird things. Proper filming, with a proper camera on a tripod and alles, but just the two of them, her giving him odd direction to scream, and run towards the camera and wring his hands. Wtf?

4. At least 6 or 7 massive tankers at anchor in Table Bay. Made me wonder if they knew something we don't, usually when this happens they're coming in to ride out a big storm in the shelter of the bay... maybe I should check the long range forecast?

5. Lots and lots and lots of plastic bottle-tops. You know how one usually collects shells on a beach? Well I came home with a bag of bottle-tops, for those bottle-top strings I keep threatening to make. And it was almost as exciting as shells, finding different colours and sizes. The currents which wash onto this beach come straight in from the shipping routes so there's lots of flotsam & jetsam. Litter is never a good thing, but this time I was kind of pleased for it...

Please internet, let me feel better tomorrow. Ag please man.

and on a lighter note: what the fuck?

And, in homage to Amanda's What the Fuck Wednesday's - which I love, I present to you this....

Taken, and I kid you not, by myself, this afternoon, in my town.

Pushing up daisies...?

democracy - must it apply to everyone?

This evening I went to a public participation hearing for a new City by-law. In theory I love the democratic concept of being allowed a forum in which to express one's opinion and comment on City policy and legislation.
I just wish we could curtail who exactly gets to exercise this democratic right. Some animals may not be more equal than others, but some people definitely are more full of shit!

The hearing was in the Civic Centre, a monstrous monolith of mighty eyesore-ness and impracticality in the city. During office hours it's inhospitable enough with no parking, no signage and absolutely no visual appeal, but on an unseasonably cold and stormy evening it's gloomy, deserted and filled with eerie noises from the howling wind. Like the complaints of all the frustrated tax-payers and the exhausted humdrum of the underpaid city workers take voice after everyone has left, and moan and sigh around the deserted halls.

That said, the hearing was well run, and the by-law we were examining very relevant to the city, and progressive and necessary for Cape Town as an internationally acclaimed destination for events and tourism, especially in the lead-up to 2010.

However, a contingent of the participants were from the dreaded Ratepayer's Associations and Civic Organisations and other community bodies which I'm afraid, in my experience, do very little but moan and complain. And as another Concerned Citizen used the opportunity to spout forth his incredibly boring personal campaign against Anyone, Anywhere, Ever Having a Good Time Ever, the only way I could stop myself from ramming my pen into my eyeball was to doodle this list:
whinge
sanctimonious
self-righteous
prejudice
boring
mother grundy
self-aggrandising
self-entitlement
asshole
whinge
whinge
whinge
urgghhhhhhh

His barely-veiled prejudice against the Other was just frightening, his fear of his suburb being over-run by "these people" (who? soccer hooligans? cheerleaders? candy-floss toting Nigerians?), his whiny self-righteous sanctimonious nasal tone, his pursed lips sense of entitlement - urgghhhhhh! I mean who, who, thinks it's still okay (or even relevant) to say, in public, things like "15 years ago this would never have happened..."??
Dude, 15 years ago we wouldn't have been sitting in this room with black people! WAKE UP YOU WANKER!

Or please, please, immigrate to somewhere small and cold and very, very dull.