the people who run the world

Have a secret society. 

A secret society where they dress up in drag, because of course very few women are allowed, or it wouldn’t be a legit secret society now would it? It's called Kappa Beta Phi, for no other reason I can see than that if it's debaucherous the ancient Greeks must be somehow involved. Only real Wall Street kings are invited, people like former Bear Sterns CEO and Chairman Alan Greenberg and ex-NYC mayor Michael Bloomberg. Can I just say that I called it? Banking is fraught with this kind of nonsense…James. Get out immediately! Before you get sucked in and find yourself at age 40 at the Four Seasons dressed in a purple tutu with another man’s red soled heels on your feet. We all know that the man with all the gold (oil) runs the world, and these men have a LOT of gold. Shiny, shiny dollar-denominated gold. And they wonder why we ridicule and dislike them. To be frank, I don’t care what they get up to, they are consenting adults and (hopefully) no-one is getting hurt - if you discount the pride and dignity of the tutu-d newbies. I just find it funny that these powerful people can be so clearly bored. I suppose having the power to rule the world loses its sheen after you’ve staged your third coup in Venezuela or provided your thousandth kilo of arms to the Sudanese. So inevitably you resort to lording your power over your lesser minions, and MAKE THEM WEAR FEMALE CLOTHING. Turns out my mother was right, being Joe Soap has its advantages. I may not be able to change the political landscape of a small South American country, but no-one can make me wear a tutu if I don’t wana. And I don’t wana.

// photo of Basil Rathbone from here, he was a South African born actor famous for playing the villian and the morally dubious.

you know you’re South African when

You drive like a taxi. Not a yellow taxi placidly down Park Avenue or one of those black London taxis you see around Cape Town these days but a SOUTH AFRICAN TAXI. Overloaded, driven with a spanner because the entire steering column broke right off around 1998. Like most of Africa it’s drive like a lunatic or die. 

You say ja a lot.

Someone must just DARE to say something bad about South Africa…this includes expats, Americans, Australians, Kiwis, Europeans and mostly the Brits. You will take them DOWN. 

You complain about South Africa constantly. The government, the weather (how DARE it not be sunny and windless every day of the year? This is South Africa!), the roads, the potholes, the taxis (see above), the way FIFA took us for billions in 2010, the crime, car guards, SARS, the uselessness of the government…or did I mention that already?

But someone living outside South Africa must just DARE to say the same thing. You will take them DOWN.

You know the difference between now now, just now and now.

You remember the time that politician broke a chair during an interview on national TV and the news anchor pretended nothing had happened (watch the video here, funniest thing EVER, funnier than that Youtube sensation cat who smashes the printer)

You remember the time Julius told an international news correspondent that he was a “bloody agent”, a “thingie”.

You now use the term “bloody agent” in everyday conversation. For example: “I can’t believe you ate that last piece of lemon meringue pie you bloody agent”.

You laugh more than you cry.

You have debates with your friends regularly about whether Pick n Pay, Spar or Checkers is cheaper. And everyone will debate to the DEATH that their local store is the cheapest.

You have never said the word barbeque unless in a joke about Australians around the braai. Yes that is the proper word for grilling meat over an open fire. BRAAI.

You like nothing better than to pack up the entire contents of your home into a 4x4 bakkie and mission off into the wilderness.

You know what a bakkie is.

You eat roughly 200 cows, 4000 chickens and 95 pigs a year. And maybe a buffalo, a donkey and a few goats.

You are spirited, warm, friendly and feisty as all hell.

No matter how much you complain, you love your country and in the case of some kind of cataclysmic event would have to be physically removed with a winch.

//photo from our honeymoon on the Garden Route using my Nikon D5000

congratulations. you use your brain equally.

I took this 30 Second Brain Test today, assuming “Well done, you are an over-analytical, bean counter left brain” was a foregone conclusion. Think again. Take the test, just for fun. I’d be fascinated to know if it’s what you expected. I got, as the title of this post suggests, bang in the middle. Actually, 56% was RIGHT brain can you believe it? And I did the test at work (shhhhh) in the middle of analysing some sales data for a presentation next week. So I was in full-on accountant/left brain mode at the time and the results surprised me.

A wise CEO once said in a speech at my previous employer that we have four parts to our lives. Four compartments if you like. And if these are not in balance, that’s when restlessness and anxiety and unhappiness take root. He said we have a physical, mental, spiritual and emotional part in each of us and these all need to be given their time in the sun. If not, and one dominates, we start to lead dysfunctional lives. That message has stuck with me for years, mainly because said CEO had also done Cape Epic and was on his way to a new career in Europe. He was a hugely successful human being and someone to pay attention to. He also tended to neglect his family, which I think showed that not even he had it all figured out. Regardless, the message was a good one. In the last few months I have been focusing on getting my balance right. For too long, I think my mental and emotional parts were dominating and causing me to stress and spin out. So lately I’ve been doing more dawn runs on the promenade with my pups, and weights at the gym (if you want results those jolly kettle bells are the way forward by the way) and in the last two years I have become involved in my local church. I’ve found this balances out my emotional and mental state. Praying and having God to rely on soothes my worries and a solid workout charges up those endorphins and eases stress. I would like to suggest that if you are having a hard time in your life, and things feel out of kilter, think about those four parts and which of yours needs some work. It definitely helped me, and apparently even my brain is in balance these days.

// poster from GoodnightOwlDesigns on etsy

the happy list

One of my absolute favourite, favourite bloggers is called dooce. Actually she’s called Heather, but her blog is called dooce. She is hilarious. She lives in Utah among all the Mormons (she was brought up as one) and has two beautiful young daughters, one of whom is thoughtful and reads a lot and the other who can only be called bat shit crazy. There are no other words for her. Dooce also has a dog called Coco so I mean we are practically sisters right?

Recently Heather, very circumspectly, blogged about her battles with anxiety and her foray into the self-help realm to get her anxiety under control. What came out of this was this a post, an earnest post about what makes her happy:

“But that’s just it. This isn’t about dreaming. This isn’t a bucket list. It’s a collection of small things that I can do frequently to add some much needed levity to my everyday life.” 

I found reading the comments below this wonderfully earnest post so therapeutic as women from around the world put up their lists of the small happiness to be found in life. Here is dooce’s happy list:

 1. Laughing with my kids
 2. Listening to and sharing new music
 3. Visiting new places
 4. Photographing new places
 5. Catching up with friends in person
 6. A great meal with friends
 7. Warm weather, loud music with the windows rolled down in my car
 8. Long phone calls with my mother

And here is mine:

1. Cuddles with Howie and Coco on the bed
2. Scrunching up the leaves of my lavender plants and releasing that calming fragrance
3. Home group
4. Reading my latest library book
5. Sushi and series on the couch on a Friday evening with the Hub
6. Holding hands
7. Dreaming of exotic places and future holidays
8. Boiling water using my precious Le Creuset stovetop kettle and then making the perfect mug of Earl Grey tea
9. Trying a new recipe, even if it's a hopeless failure

It's nice to have this list to hand when I'm tired and grumpy and need a pick me up, because most of the things on this list are so simple and ORDINARY. That's what struck me most about the happy lists of others on Dooce's blog, it's the small things make us happy and keep us going...not the huge exam results and big parties and milestones. What would your list look like?

// photo of dooce's Coco in the snow - just because it's so ridiculously hot and humid at the moment, and the sight of snow is a balm to my sweaty life

in defense of valentines day

Happy Valentines day. Enjoy the day bred more from capitalism than love. -{this was said by a guy whose job may as well be called love. He runs Dlala Nje a culture centre for disadvantaged kids in Hillbrow, and the recipient of FNB’s love in their Neknomination video}

Happy Valentine's: A magical day when single people are jealous of couples and couples are jealous of single people. {from here}

Bring on the cheesy red stuff Valentines day…I’m mentally prepared for you #notafan

Some V day love from that centre of mindless banter called Twitter. That last one was me. And I’d like to give Past Me a kick up the butt. Because when my husband turned up at the office at lunchtime on Valentines Day with 5 giant proteas and 8 heart shaped cupcakes (so that I could share with my work friends), I was smiling like it was 2012 and I was wearing a white dress again. So really, I had no business getting on the snarky band wagon and being…snarky. I succumbed to negative peer pressure. How boring. Note for next year: stop trying to be cool and instead admit that you long to be romanced and secretly compete with the other office ladies as to whose husband loves them just that teensy (read 6 vs 12 roses plays teddy bears and balloons) bit more. We are all living the capitalist dream with our white weddings and tropical holidays and should the nursery be grey and pink or pink and cream. We have no right to diss the holiday that we all secretly love. Here are my top 5 (rubbish) reasons we all love to hate V Day:

1. We are single.

2. We remember what it was like to be the only person ON THE PLANET who was single. All those insecurities and neuroses come rushing back. After 5 years of marriage.

3. We are afraid to be disappointed by the ones we love. See insecurities/neuroses above.

4. We want to be hipster cool, because admitting to the Great World Wide Web that we like silly trinkets and overpriced red roses is like admitting we support the mass destruction of Amazon rainforests to produce Big Macs. Because we all need more of those.

5. We are male. No further explanation needed.

// beautiful dog photograph from Jessica Claire

// proteas from the Hub

hiding from the singhs

Due to the odd shape of our garden, we have 3 neighbours. Our house is on the corner of a crescent and a cul-de-sac so it’s less of a block and more of a hexagon. The neighbours to our right are the wonderful couple I spoke about here, who sent us lilies when our Grannies died last year. They are moving, to be replaced by a family with FOUR KIDS. Watch this space and your local newspaper; I cannot tolerate noisy neighbours and WILL RETALIATE. Violently. The neighbours at the bottom of our garden to the left are ghosts.  We have not seen hair nor hide of a human being in the 18 months we’ve lived in our house. They do have two extremely vocal Great Danes, so perhaps the house is run by them. 

Lastly, at the bottom of the garden to the right we have The Singhs. That’s not actually their surname, they are just an extended Indian family and so we pronounced that that must be their surname. Totally politically correct of course. They are quiet and lovely neighbours to have, except for the odd occasion when the Dad loses it and screams at the 2…3…maybe 4? kids that live there to get their stuff together and MOOOOOVE IT. Hilarious. Have you watched that Russell Peters comedy show where he imitates his Indian dad shouting at him: Somebody gonna get a hurt real bad? Well Mr Singh is just like that - you can watch it here but excuse the swearing. Due our present lack of funds we cannot afford to put up a proper wall between our property and the Singhs. Currently there is only a rickety fence. And of course the Hub is of the opinion that The Singhs spend every waking hour just waiting, WAITING, for us to run around starkers after we have showered. Because they can totally see 100m up our garden, past 5 large palms and an unidentified purple flowering tree (also large) and straight into our bedroom window. So I put on my make-up most mornings in the pitch dark SO THE SINGHS WON’T SEE MY BUM. Donations for the Great Barrier Wall of Singh are welcome.

// cartoon with cat that looks remarkably like Panda from here

a culture shock: vietnam, russia and the usa

Those two words have been buzzing around my head a lot lately. Firstly, because we’ve been watching this show by Luke Nguyen, an Aussie/ Vietnamese chef. There are dogs and black baby chickens and cobra hearts still beating in shot glasses. My WORD. The Hub and I just sit on the couch with eyes like bush babies thinking, what the hell have we done. Why didn’t we just go to England where the most exciting food is haggis and you have to travel 800 km North to find it in some obscure Scottish pub? Why Vietnam? We start to question our very fibre, why must we always operate so far out of our comfort zone? Why do we need to adventure all the time? Why can’t we just be normal? They eat PUPPIES. Deep breaths...it is breathtakingly beautiful and we have booked through a reputable tour company with a Vietnamese English-speaking guide included. So if we are in any doubt as to whether that is pork or COBRA, he can translate or at least recognise the form of protein. My shattered sensibilities. I don’t even eat COWS for goodness sake. Vietnamese culture shock…coming April 2014.

Then to add insult to injury, two of my cousins are doing a year in Russia and I’ve been catching up on the blog their friend has started. Brave, brave girls. It’s called Adventurous Matryoshka (I know. I’ve linked it here for you, don’t even try and spell that in your Google search box. I got some beauties – all blocked by my browser security). Matryoshka are Russian nesting dolls but that doesn’t sound half as cool. These 20 somethings are tutoring the rich and famous of Moscow and surrounds by the sounds of it. Alison writes so well you must take a look. Anyway, this all brought back the times when I felt most culture shocked. The freaky old gypsy ladies in Italy, the public toilets in Germany and Austria, the nerve jangling ride up the gondola in Lucerne, the cold in England over Christmas…and mostly the US. I did a ski season there a few years ago, and I would rather have to beat off 1000 Italian gypsies with a stick than deal with that culture shock ever again. The food, the noise, the accents, the cold, the EXPENSE. And I was a mere 21 years old. And this was AFTER I’d travelled the UK and Europe and Contiki’d myself into oblivion at age 19. It was such a different world to me, I spent the first 2 months in a state of constant homesickness. What made it worse I think, was that we worked with lots of South Americans, most of whom were divine and sweet and kind. But the Brazilians. Mi palabra! They were just plain scary. My Argentinian friend, Nati, told me that because Brazilians are the only ones in South America to speak Portuguese they consider themselves superior. And because we hung out with the Chileans and Argentinians that made us inferior by association. Never mind we couldn’t speak or understand a word of Spanish OR Portuguese. We sucked. A whole lot.

I got the but you’re not black thing I think most of us get in the US (and Russia from Alison’s blog descriptions). They looked at me as if I had fallen out of the sky when I pronounced tomato correctly and not as tomayto. Or basil correctly and not as baysil. I have a degree in finance you idiots, I wanted to scream. My grandmother was born in England you idiots, I wanted to scream. You realise you speak the English language created in ENGLAND you idiots, I wanted to scream. But I needed their green and shiny American dollars to fund my Vegas/DC/NYC trip after my work contract ended so I kept that to myself. The people I loved most in America where the South Americans. How is that for ironic. Once I had travelled a bit more, out of the back end of Colorado; and we shall not mention the obese, tracksuit wearing, cocktail-funnel toting hillbillies in Vegas; I saw that the US is full of intelligent, worldly folk. Who lecture you about apartheid and why you should feel guilty because have you not heard about the slave trade? That one got my blood pressure up. Travelling the US was an experience I would love to repeat. With the Hub, with an extra 50 grand. Fortunately at the time it was worth it for the ski pass. I got home and dug up some photos of my time in the US of A. How I have aged.