Archive for November, 2008

Music FAIL

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 24, 2008 by starstripe

Sometimes I take a moment to think about the fact that I am 25 years old. It’s weird, in the past year I have begun to notice that I am no longer in the ‘drunken, live out of a bag, student’ category of society. I fall into the ‘single, working, woman’ category. ‘Woman’. Ugh. I have been a ‘girl’ my whole life, but now, alas, am past that stage…even though I don’t feel it. Other times I really do.

I was at a braai last week and someone put on the album “Kid A’ by Radiohead. I started listening to that album when I had barely turned 19 and was indeed a ‘young, trendy, party animal’ type. Then someone at the braai turned the music off and put on Max Normal. When I last listened to Max Normal, I was 18. Since then the band broke up, but a new album of theirs was playing. I had no idea they had even gotten back together, let alone had a female join the group. Then I looked at the people at the braai who I was sitting with: An 18 year old and a 20 year old.

I swallowed hard.

“Why turn off Radiohead, man?” I asked the guy who was organizing the music.
“Oh God, that stuff is as suicidal as… Coldplay,” said another girl, this one 21 years old, whilst imitating hanging herself.

I swallowed harder.

“Er… jeesh, actually, Coldplay is one of my favourite bands” I retorted, standing up for my taste in music. “I would kill to see Radiohead, Muse, Coldplay and Moby live!”

I was going to say something after that, but was drowned out by their laughter due to their amusement at my social feaux pas. And then it hit me. When I was 19 and listening to these bands as a hip, alternative and psychedelic kinda girl, these people who were having such a laugh at my embarrassing taste in music were in junior school and had probably only just started wearing a bra. Not cool.

But, there is some music of recent that I have started to quite like. One of the great things about being in recovery from drugs and alcohol and working a programme is that you begin to accept yourself, including your likes and dislikes.

When I was growing up in Durban, my dad used to take me to what seemed like the dodgiest restaurants on the planet so we could eat hot Durban curries. Now curries in Durban ain’t no ordinary curries. They are like a belch from Satan’s belly.

My dad, bless him, is quite the fan of curries that are so hot, they border on illegal. I used to win kudos and praise for managing to wolf down a plate of extra hot prawn curry and walk out of those restaurants with a functioning intestine. However, one of the first moments in my recovery process where I really made a breakthrough in self discovery was realizing that I didn’t like hot food, and that that was ok. The realization came like a ton of bricks and since then I have had no problem saying ‘no thank you’ to fiery cuisine and have been a happy member of the ‘mild please’ assortment of people.

So one of the things that I have grown to enjoy is… Justin Timberlake. Fine, judge me if you like, but that is me, and if you don’t like it, you can fuck off. I don’t like all of his songs but I must say, there are a few tracks I listen to quite often and really enjoy. I think he is incredibly talented and has the caliber to pull off being such a huge star in a major way.

At the office, I tend to put music on my computer and listen to that through headphones because I don’t really like listening to 5fm; I find 5fm tends to drive me up the wall. And that is ok too. I don’t like 5fm! Another major breakthrough in my journey of self discovery!

My work computer was broken, hence I was using my home laptop. Now, this laptop is OLD. It was built for windows 2000 for god’s sake. I don’t think you can even get anything compatible with Windows 2000 nowadays, so I have Windows XP loaded on there too. The headphone jack on the laptop is quite loose; the headphones can pop out quite easily with a small tug, but the laptop does have fantastic sound. I usually play my music to the level of deafening on the headphones, but if you just listen to music straight out of the laptop’s built in speakers, it is pretty damn good.

On this particularly uneventful day, I had a large playlist of music loaded and just happened to have Justin Timberlake playing. The exact song was “What Goes Around.” I had already listened to “My Love” and was quite enjoying the song as I tapped away at my laptop.

As I was typing away, I needed to signal to my colleague sitting at the next desk adjacent to me. I turned quickly to my left, bringing my left arm up in a snap to wave at him so that he could take his earphones off. Forgetting that my headphone cord was next to my arm, the unspeakable happened when my arm shot away from my body and pulled the headphone jack clean out of the laptop.

The chorus of What Goes Around was then broadcast across three offices, including my own, at top volume.

At first everyone froze. No one did anything. Then papers went flying. Pens stopped writing. The cleaning lady dropped the tray full of crockery. Printers stopped printing. Faxes stopped faxing. Obama lost the presidency. Ok all that didn’t happen but everyone was pretty mortified: a lot of blank faces looked up suddenly from their work stations and gazed at me, not quite sure what the Hollioaks Omnibus was going on.

“I am NOT listening to Justin Timberlake!!! I am… er… just… FUKKIIIIIT!!!!” I exclaimed in a pitiful attempt at covering up Justin Trouwsersnake’s voice. But because my computer is a brick, pressing stop on Window’s Media Player takes about two minutes for the command to register, so I quickly muted the speakers.

Silence followed.

Then, a female colleague sitting behind me said in a disgusted tone: “Where you listening to… Justin Timberlake?”

“Um… yeah… I think one or two of his songs are ok!” I responded, trying my best to pick up the shrapnel of my self esteem lying on the floor beneath me.

“Ooooh I am sooooo embarrassed for youuuuu!!!” another colleague sitting next to me laughed. I looked, hopeful at some kind of sympathy, at my colleague who sits opposite me. But all I got was a, “Dude…” and shaking of his head. He was unable to look at me in the eye.

I haven’t listened to JT since then. My headphones came out again after that incident, but thank God I was listening to the Killers. Imagine it was Dire Straights. Or Brian Ferry.

The one on the left... really is JT.

The one on the left... really is JT.

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MEH!!!

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 21, 2008 by starstripe

I’m in a homicidal mood.

Just thought I’d put that out there.

No really, I am having one of those days when EVERYTHING makes you want to start howling in self pity and you begin to wish that your mother had aborted you. It’s one of those days when my love for the things in my life that I do have are overshadowed by my dismay of other people having more than me.

My credit card maxed today. Now, I have been good with my credit card – the only frivolous spend that I made on it was buying a plane ticket that cost R1800. The other R8200 went on keeping myself alive from the middle of the month when I would run out of cash in my cheque account. And today the card started steaming in my wallet and went all floppy.

This brings much dismay to my life. It is reminiscent of March this year, on the day of the MyCokeFest. My house is near the Kenilworth racecourse where the concert was held, so I got to hear every little word uttered out of the mouths of the rock stars whilst I sat at home, starving and with no cigarettes. I was resentful, miserable and weepy. I ate a can of cold baked beans that day and smoked maybe two cigarettes. My clothes were falling off me which was a bonus. But my resentment really went out to every single person at that coke fest who was busy enjoying themselves whilst having the support of Mummy and Daddy. Because that is something I wanted and needed on that day.

I have learned a hell of a lot from being low on money for three years. I have learned to sew up ripped clothes (badly) that any normal person would throw away. I have learned to grow my own lettuce that tastes crap. I have learned that debt is a soul crushing hole of crap to get your self into, and even more of a soul crushing hole of crap to pull yourself out of, ususally getting you into more debt.

I have learnt that you don’t need money to make you happy, but you do need money to eat and take a hot shower. Both of which I have been denied of. I still showered, just in cold water. I have layed in my bed, so hungry I could cry, not because of dieting but because there was absolutely nothing in my cupboards to eat. I have borrowed, sold my belongings and begged for cash at one stage or another. I haven’t stolen though. Except a spoon from Pick n Pay but that is another story for another time.

What gets me is that you need money to make money. I was browsing through the whole ‘rich dad poor dad’ book and discovered that you need to get assests to make moolah. What the author fails to explain is that when you want to accumulate assets, YOU HAVE TO PAY FOR THEM. Soooooooo where do you get that money from, unless you start a mugging cartel?

I have to admit, I had a privileged upbringing. I was not allowed a TV in my room, but apart from that, I never went hungry. Emotional enrichment wasn’t exactly a top priority in my family, but time and money were. So to swap to a lifestyle where time is little and money even less has been an experience, some of which I have loved: a bit like Kate Winslet in Titanic when she goes Irish dancing with Leonardo di Caprio and gets to shag him in the back of a Rolls Royce (nice irony). But in my case, I didn’t get to shag Leonardo di Caprio in a Rolls Royce. A funny thing to note – my two most serious retaionships were with… you guessed it – boys from poor backgrounds with a broken home. Funny that. I kind of wish they had frozen solid and sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic just like Leo.

Whilst living the life of a poor young person, I have learned a hell of a lot (including how to freeze phone cards to make them last longer and jump train rides for free, as well as hitchike, sweet talk taxi drivers into giving me free rides and how to wash clothes with shampoo). But I am reaching the ungrateful stage – I just want to live every month without having to worry about having my electricity cut off. I want to be comfortable. I want to be happy and the sick part of my brain is telling me that I will be, as long as I have more money. That is a false ideal, obviously, but my days of “as long as I have *insert appropriate boyfriend’s name here*, I’ll be happy,” are over.

I never thought I would say it but Brad Pitt gets my sympathy vote

Posted in Celebrity Meltdown with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on November 17, 2008 by starstripe
Please stop hitting me as hard as you can, Ange

Please stop hitting me as hard as you can, Ange

I’m sitting watching Pulp Fiction , a film that is dear to me – I had a cat called Mia Wallace; an ex who was obsessed with the film bought me the cat and named her after Uma Thurman’s character. Apart from marveling at how damn funny you can make the sickest storylines, I’m laughing at clever ad placements. After one of the first scenes, when Jules and Vincent Vega have just pumped a business ‘associate’ with about ten bullets after stealing his breakfast consisting of take away burgers, SABC cuts to an ad break. The first ad? Wimpy. Lots and lots of burgers on the screen. Hahahahahaha, I have never NOT wanted a burger so badly. Bad move on Wimpy’s part.

Actors and actresses really stump me, but utterly fascinate me at the same time. My guilty pleasure is buying People magazine every week. Now, for a university English major, it’s pretty frowned upon that I read this magazine on such a regular basis. But fuck it, it’s approximately thirty minutes of other people’s problems and intimate lives that I can read about, but don’t have to deal with or give a shit about their feelings. They have Oprah to do that. Whether it is Britney shaving her hair off, Lindsay flashing her unmentionables or Amy Winehouse lashing out at the paparazzi in a crack fuelled rage, I find the magazine such a pleasure to read. I’ll most likely go to hell for it. But I tell dead baby jokes with the passion of a born again Christian so I reckon I’m going to hell anyway. Life is short.

So this weeks headline reads “Brad cheats?!!! Parties till late, cosies up to co-star, won’t marry, never sees kids.”

What amuses me is that the headline gives away some sort of ‘confused’ feeling on behalf of the reporter. Let’s get real here. Are we really all that surprised? Let’s put Brangelina into perspective, shall we? Let’s say, Brad Pitt and his morbid wife were living in say… Belville. It actually suits rather, doesn’t it? Six kids, a moaning wife, moving to a new house every six months and hostile relationships with parents, mixed with a tad of image consciousness. And there you have it – a disaster waiting to happen.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am pretty sure that they are nice people. At least he is. Angelina Jolie however, is someone who I have come to have no sympathy for, whatsoever. I may be a woman scorned, but Jesus, this chick is one nasty force to come across.

As my mother always said to me, “if a man leaves his wife for you, be afraid – it’s just creating a vacancy”. And as painful as it is to realize, if a man cheats, he will do it again. Unless Mike Tyson has threatened to remove a man’s Adam’s apple with a spoon for straying from said man’s wife, it is so easy to follow old habits. Once it’s been done once, it’s more than easy to do it again.

On a timeline, Angie seems to be a bit of a home wrecker. She has run off with another woman’s man on more than one occasion. Laura Dern (the lady who got intimate with a long plastic glove and Triceratops droppings in jurassic Park) was engaged to Billy Bob Thornton. Not for long: once Ange got hold of him, a very sexed up relationship coupled with genital tattoos soon followed. Not happy with having ruined one good woman’s life, she soon set her eyes on Brad, whilst he was married to Jennifer Anniston. Despite everyone saying she was now “more grown up” because of her humanitarian work and three adopted children from poor third world countries, she still wrecked another home and ruined a seemingly nice person’s life. Sure, if Brad was willing to stray, his existing marriage was probably on the frizz anyway, but for God’s sake, could they have not waited till the divorce papers were signed before mass-producing tinsel town offspring?

So back to the point of my bitching session. Why in the world would Miss Jolie (yes… she isn’t married to him yet) think that Brad would not stray from her? Ok, if she had stayed in Mrs Smith mode, run around in nothing but a shirt whilst playing with knives, I’m sure he may have been a little more faithful. Instead, she turned into a baby making machine. Now, any woman who gets pregnant is habit to mood swings. Any woman looking after new-borns is habit to worse mood swings. But after putting herself in the position of having to look after six kids under ten, I’m surprised she hasn’t hung herself with her fifth child’s walking harness.

Poor Brad gets to come home to six screaming kids and a wife who doesn’t eat. Oh and she screams just as much as her three month old twins apparently. Wow. What a life.

With that as a husband’s every day life, then when the very pretty, vibrant and happy leading lady of the moment, Diane Kruger (of Troy and National Treasure fame) hits the scene, what husband would not find their eyes wandering? And I would be getting trashed every night of the week with George Clooney if I was in Brad pit’s position. My last blog was about people having babies and thinking it’s going ot be all chocolate boxes and roses. Well take one look at the Brangelina household and the cold hard truth is like a trout slap to the face.

And is anyone really all that surprised that Brad is behaving like a first year BA student? I’m not. Call me evil, but I’m slightly relieved, for Brad’s sake. Plus Angelina the home wrecker gets to find out just what it feels like to get her home wrecked. Karma is a bitch, but we’ve all got to live with it. Including the rich and famous.

A baby is about as fashionable as tie dye

Posted in Mind Ramblings with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 10, 2008 by starstripe

I’m at a friend’s house, the friend who we sit with four people on his bed watching rugby on a Saturday. Now, I am not a rugby fan, in fact I am sitting writing this blog from the bed to avoid having to watch over exercised and grisly men fondling each others’ bottoms. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

I don’t know if my eardrums will survive this match though, seeing as one of my fellow bed sitters is screaming so loudly, my ears are hurting. I mean really, if it was say… Jacob Zuma being a judge on Miss South Africa Teen or Hershelle Gibbs participating in a marriage counselling course, sure, I would get fairly vocal. But to me, rugby is such a homo-erotic display of testosterone fuelled bum fisting. But I love company of my friends and their repressed need for masculine displays of dominance; I am willing to sit with sore ears.

Speaking of masculine dominance, it has become quite frightening to me how many of my friends are joining the fashionable habit of pro-creating. Some (actually many) are younger than me and I cannot grasp how punching out a kid is going to make their lives any better.

I am 25. That is not old. Definitely not old enough to be capable of raising sprogs. I haven’t reached levels of maturity to be ok with paying tax but who has to be honest. It feels like yesterday that I was seated in my school hall, singing the Lord’s prayer and letting religious ideals flow over my head whilst I thought about Ouija boards and how exactly one would go about selling their soul to the devil. Ok I wasn’t that apathetic, I was animated but strange in school.

I was in the group of girls who didn’t really fit into any of the regular cliques. I wasn’t a beauty queen, I wasn’t a super hockey player or athlete, I definitely wasn’t an academic, a comedian or a slut. Neither was I a party animal/drug user or a church going happy clapper. I was just a weirdo who listened to Beck and wished she was a ghost. I did change after going to Varsity though, but that’s a whole other story.

The first person who I was in school with who chose to go the route of motherhood was a girl in my school in the UK. She had her first at barely 16, but to be frank she was a Slough resident (pronounced “Slaaaah” by locals) which is in Berkshire and is mentioned in the Ali G movie where they build the Airport over Slough instead of Staines and is also the location where “The Office” is set. No more explanation needed.

After this, my friends’ level of procreation was extremely low.

And suddenly, a year ago, everyone started getting pregnant. These couples seemed to have forgotten how to use a bloody condom.

And I am not talking about settled, married couples. I am not talking about people with a relatively ok paying job, that have somewhere stable to live and more importantly, a stable partner. I am talking about waiters and waitresses with drug problems, office assistants and students who have partners that are being arrested for shop lifting. I know this might offend some people but tough shit, really.

It is utterly beyond me, how people find themselves in a relationship for a few years and get careless with contraception. More alarmingly, that when they find they have a bun in the oven, they think it is the answer to all their problems.

What is more frightening is that I have been there, I have felt that yearning to be a mum. And thank GOD it went away. I would have been tied to the person I hate the most in the world. For the rest of my life. And I was careless when I was younger… But after seeing friends’ lives and dreams disintegrate into nothing when the two strip result appears, I am perfectly happy to wait to have a kid when I am say… well, never actually.

I know this post is not the most humorous of posts, but what has brought this to my attention mostly is an ex housemate of mine, who recently published photos of himself holding his new baby boy. From my experience of living with him, he was about as far from being responsible parent material as Sarah Palin is from becoming a member of PETA.

It seems people today fall in love and whoops! Lets have a baby! Nicole Ritchie has done it! Ashlee Simson has done it! Jamie Lynn Spears has done it! So lets do it!!!

A baby is not a Nine West handbag unless you are Edward Gein. A baby is not a funky cell phone. A baby is not fashionable and a baby is definitely not the answer to people’s problems. A baby is a responsibility for 18 years at least. People seem to think that a baby is great and cute and they will be able to walk around din hippy clothes on Hollywood boulevard and get snapped by paparazzi.

Unfortunately, they don’t see toddler tantrums, sleepless nights and baby vomit as a deterrent, and they don’t see school fees, custody battles and maintenance bills as a deterrent. They seem to think that their kids will stay cute babies forever. I have bad news for them – unless they start their kids smoking cigarettes at a young age to stunt their growth, they have a hell of a wake up coming their way when that kid pops out.

I see these stars in magazines with their fashionable sprogs on their arms, who then get admitted to mental hospitals and custody of their children taken away. I have had three boyfriends who had no father figure in their lives and believe me, the toll on them (and everyone they take their abandonment issues out on) is unbelievable. But the celebs are different- they do have the ability to support a child, usually not emotionally and possibly contributing to the rising number of serial killers in the US, but the kid will never go without what it needs, just love and attention.

Another difference between famous people and ‘normal’ people pro-creating is that the celebs have personal assistants, nannies and massive bank accounts to help them along. Britney got strapped to a gurney and held in a padded cell for a bit? No problem – family, personal assistants and nannies had her covered. Britney was still able to go out and get plastered all the time with dodgy boyfriends whilst little Jayden and Sean were perfectly safe with child minders. Nicole Ritchie can still go to movie premieres looking skinny whilst little Harlow is at home sleeping under the watchful eye of an expensive babysitter. Jessica Alba is back to her svelte figure in about two days after giving birth and making movies again whilst little Honor Marie is guarded by an au pair. Real life? Nuh HUH!!!

Unless you are extremely well paid, your social life is going to take a dive for non existence. And the stars look fantastic and are yummy mummies? They have personal trainers who they gym with twice a day for four hours at a time because they have the money and the time to do so. Normal people have to do it like normal people – exercise when time and energy allows.

And let’s not kid ourselves – when you have a baby who needs feeding every two hours, screams when it feels happy, sad, angry, confused, jealous, depressed, ecstatic, pensive and any other emotion, pees and poos without restraint, sometimes even into your face and is just a general 24 hour a day job… You are not going to have much energy for anything other than sleeping, which is pretty much a treat when you are sitting with a three week old.

But those people who are under twenty five, unmarried, hardly able to support themselves and really want life to change; if you think that having offspring is going to make your life different you would be right. But perhaps not for the better.

Bag by Fendi, stomach by sad emo rocker who wears eyeliner

Bag by Fendi, stomach by sad emo rocker who wears eyeliner

He’s called an ‘ex’ for a reason

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , on November 6, 2008 by starstripe
John really regretted buying too much of the teracotta paint for the lounge

John really regretted buying too much of the teracotta paint for the lounge

of course not, but spray painting the car definately was.

of course not, but spray painting the car definately was.

I really loathe some of my exes.

They are all fantastic guys (or I wouldn’t have dated them right?). But really, most of them need some therapy. Especially after dating me.

It’s strange; I have always been advised that after a break up, you should try and remain in good terms with an ex. Obviously one needs to allow a bit of healing time, but once the tendency to call them at 4am and cry down the phone asking them if they have slept with someone else yet has passed, it is best to let bygones be bygones.

My first real heart ache came at the age of 21 when my knight in shining armour dumped me and then proceeded to date my best friend a few weeks later.
They are now married.
And she is not my best friend anymore.

It took a week in a clinic, two months of illegal drug use, some varied promiscuous behaviour and a LOT of therapy to get the pain to go away. To tell you the truth, the moment when the pain left my stomach was when I went through the process of forgiving him and I realized that he was not a bad person at all and that I had also made some big mistakes in our relationship. Since then we have been on great terms. I was genuinely happy for him when he got hitched. That is, until a week ago when I discovered to my dismay, that the ultimate social rejection and public humiliation had been issued to me. He had deleted me as a friend on FaceBook.

Now a month ago, we were chatting happily, sending messages and keeping in contact. Ok,  he was on his honeymoon but still, there was nothing dodgy behind our communication so I was very perplexed as to why, with no reason or explanation, I had been dumped again, this time as a friend. I have my suspicions that a certain third party was involved in ‘persuading’ his finger to hit the ‘remove friend’ button, but as was explained to me by my very wise sister – I am not more important than his wife, so I decided to leave it there.

But some more perplexing behaviour on behalf of my exes recently has left me stumped.

Firstly, there is one ex whom I have not spoken to in five months. He is going on 26 and quite the charmer. A decent guy with many issues. But I made a decision five months ago that he was not really meant to be a part of my future (i.e. he got a new girlfriend, who to be honest is actually a very lovely girl) and moved on with my life, carrying a fat bag of resentments with me.

Anyone who knows me is very aware that mentioning the ‘S’ word will result in my rattling off about his behaviour until I look like I have just run 100 meters. In fact, when I heard that the day after he bought his new motorbike he had been run over and it had been written off, I was mildly pleased. Well, elated, but still, I have moved on.

Yet I accidentally forwarded him a chain email which prompted a nasty reply from him, then rounded off with the comment “I meant to tell you, you look really good”. Now if he had been nasty and just refrained from the latter comment, I would have been fine with pretending he did not exist, or at least simply mailing back some witty comments about how I hope his life as a waiter is fulfilling him as much as every other sixteen year old. But somehow the comment enraged me so much that what was one mistake email turned into a slinging match of gargantuan proportions. To me, the last word is worth DYING FOR.

Then to top it all off, today I was on a friend’s profile on FaceBook who is friends with him and up popped his photo. With him and his new girlfriend in a classic embrace that you see in many other teenage photo albums. Another good friend of mine was very cool about it, saying men with pictures of themselves and their other half as profile pictures are very lame, because men should be photographed doing something manly, like holding a fish. Thanks T  

Then my ex fiancé… yes, the one who I got engaged to after a rave and called my mother at 4am to tell her I was now someone’s fiancé, whilst not in any frame of mind to be making phone calls, let alone accepting marriage proposals.

I got into a slinging match with this one too. Granted, I cheated on him and then broke up with him to run off with the other guy, who dumped me three months later, only for me to run back to the ex, and repeat, plus running off with yet another guy. So for the past four years I have been trying to make this up to him. I call him once a month and he tells me what a sad life I have in a very manipulatively sweet way. But yesterday, I deleted him as friend on FaceBook. I figure that after four years of putting up with his nastiness (and two years of it when we were dating), I have paid my dues and can go back to hating him.

I was upset with him for teasing me about Mob Wars – a game I feel very seriously about. He  wrote, on my wall (in caps lock too, so it looks like the moron is shouting), for everyone to gawk at: “Touchy touchy. Go eat a doughnut. You know how much pastries love you”.

Now for a man who knows that the one thing to reduce me to a rock bottom state of emo is my weight, makes him a real tosser. He has had the plug pulled.

As dear Bubbles of Little Britain would say, “I am so ovaaa you, it’s unbelieeeeeeevable!!!”

I think my lesson is learned thought. My tastes in the male department seem to be for troubled, alternative grungers, with no father and a substance abuse problem. And three of them seem to have been left handed. And it is highly likely that they will be either Libra, Scorpio or Sagittarius. Really, these themes truly present when I look at all the features of my exes. So from now on, I am going for right handed Cancerians who have never even smoked pot, who have a fantastic relationship with their father, no tattoos or fondness of grunge and are fully self supporting of their own contributions.

Sad thing is, that is rarely possible – most men fitting that description are either

a.    Gay
b.    Taken

Or

c.    Just not appealing.

For those of you that know me, if I ever settle for anything less than these points again though, slap me. And do it harder this time, the last four times have not worked.

Chatting with same friend who mentioned the manly fish holding photo, I came to a conclusion I have been aware of for a while – when men treat me like shit, I become utterly besotted. When they are nice, I could not care less because there is zero challenge. Oh man, am I one sick puppy.

So this realisation seems to present a major problem: I am not attracted to men that are healthy and kind individuals who will never hurt me. That throws marriage out in the gutter.

I think I am just going to stay single forever.

And slap me if I don’t stick to that above statement. Actually, whack me with a tyre iron, because the last ten times haven’t worked.

Cockroaches and Gym

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 4, 2008 by starstripe

I really am a danger to myself.

After getting home from chairing an NA meeting, I was pretty much buggered, but with a healthy eating plan being a part of my life and trying to shift my post rehab weight (not like Nicole Richie thanks), I endeavored to make some veggies and tuna to munch on whilst I got down to doing some writing. Having put some butternut and other veg on the stove, I retreated to my room to write. After spending an hour playing Mob Wars on Facebook, I realized a smell of burnt butternut was seeping into my room from my kitchen. I dashed to the stove and found the veggies in a state of charcoaling at the bottom of the pot. Scraping out what wasn’t burnt to eat for dinner, I remembered my mother’s clever advice for burnt pot cleaning – add some Handy Andy in hot water in the pot and boil it on a low setting for a little while. So I made my cleaning fluid concoction and put the burnt pot on the stove to boil slowly and went back to my room to do attempt some writing again.

After playing another hour of Mob Wars, once again, I was alerted by a burning smell as before. But this burning smell was worse than vegetables. It was burnt Handy Andy. The pot was even more black, but this time, it stank. If you have ever burnt soap, you will know what this smells like but unless you are either a soap maker or as stupid as I am, you will not have experienced this pungent aroma. Like bad soap. Evil soap. Disgusting soap. The fumes were so strong I had to open all the doors in my house leading outside to try and get rid of the smell, hoping the toxic vapour would not kill me or make me high. It took a while, and a lot of toilet spray before I could breathe again without wanting to bring up my burnt dinner.

The pot is still sitting on my stove, I am hoping that if I ignore it, it will clean itself and put itself away in the cupboard without bothering anyone like a good pot.

So this evening, my new housemate came to visit. After many cups of coffee, cigarettes and talk about our messed up parents, I went to my computer to show him my prized and illegal copy of the Muse live at Wembley DVD. Now I love Muse. I love Matthew Bellamy and want to marry him. But then I found out he married some Italian wench called Gaia POLLONY, and it made me quite upset. Pollony?!!! Bitch. She ruined the song Starlight for me. She told English Cosmo it belongs to her and Matt. Seriously, she can have it. I had dreams of him dedicating it to me from a packed stage in London. Not any more, thanks to that ungrateful skank.

So I was busy gushing over how talented he is and monitoring his incredible piano playing talent (Matthew Bellamy, not house mate, I don’t know if he can play piano) with my back to my bedroom wall.

“Oh look a cockroach” my new housemate alerted me.

Turning around I observed what is the one thing in the world that terrifies me though most – a roach. Ever since a bad experience in Durban with a nonexistent pendant on a necklace and a three inch cockroach, I have not been a fan. At all.

And this particular roach was about the length of my index finger and FAT. And whirring its feelers. On my wall.

In a panic, I lurched backwards, away from the wall but could not get far as my desk was in the way. Treading on my poor new housemate’s foot, I fled the room, taking a few speakers with me who’s cables were caught around my other foot.

Anyway, I doomed the roach, stood on it and doomed it again. And then stood on it again. Apologising profusely to my new roomie, I felt about as big as that roach. Well, maybe smaller. He said it was fine, but I don’t think his foot agreed.

I have to go to bed now, gym in the morning.

Ah I love the gym. And detest it at the same time. It amazes me how some ladies can pull off full make up and a workout without breaking a sweat. Thing is, the men at the gym are hardly “modest”. The ones that are modest are modest for a reason. If I was to think of anywhere worse to pick a man up than a gym, it would have to be Cmax prison. But the gym is pretty bad.

A while ago, what must have been an ex rugby star who got thrown out of the sport for steroids was next to me on a treadmill. Literally this guy put the damn machine on so fast he couldn’t keep up with it. Seeing a man with a 100kg frame running at 15km/hr is quite something. And not something that lasts. After about ten seconds and almost coming off the back, he stopped the machine, did a kind of “yeah”-self affirmation-type-effort and hopped off.

Later I was on a rowing machine and he got onto the one next to me. I was beginning to get a complex – was he going on the same machines as me to make himself look better? Maybe it was in my head, but when he started pulling the rowing cord so hard that he could have powered New York with for a month from the machine (but only for about ten seconds), I began to wonder. And then… the girlfriend turned up.

Not particularly pretty, but one of the ‘in girls’ slaving to status came up. I wondered if it was his sister but no, definately his girlfriend. Now if this guy had been a gentle and nice person, I could have seen reason behind the couple. But this guy was far from it and a complete egotist. Who had been thrown out of rugby for steroids, remember?

Then I realized the mutual benefit of the Christina Storm/James small relationship –  the rugby man, model woman relationship strategy. She wants money and fame status, he wants prettier-lady-than-his-neighbour-status. Well they definitely had that. And not much else, maybe two brain cells between them. I see them at the gym often, him pushing weights far too heavy for him which he drops on occasion and she doing alluring stretches in front of the mirror. I wish them the best; it seems a mutually beneficial relationship. Maybe with their two brain cells added together they have a fighting chance of finding the car in the parking lot after their workout. I have names for them – steroid banned rugby man and pretty but brainless cling on.

There are other names for the regulars I see there: anorexic alcoholic woman, extremely hairy KGB man, ultra muscly coloured lady, fitness junkie grandma, insane Indian groaning man and crazy naked stretching woman (don’t ask – if you have been inside a gym changing room, you know what I am talking about)¸amongst others.

The changing rooms in the gym scare me. My first month at the gym I would leave the ladies room feeling rather violated and like crying. I don’t know if it is just me, but I pretty much shower in a towel. I don’t have a great figure but I think if I did, I would not take part in the naked acrobatics that those women seem to love.  When I was in high school, I had the art of getting my gym kit on under my school uniform before removing uniform technique down to a tee. But these ladies must have gone to a French school or something.

The things I have seen in that locker room… cannot be unseen. Really, I have come close to vomiting. Not from bad hygiene, just from attention seeking displays of ladies private parts that I really, really, really, really could do without seeing. Actually one incident was bad hygiene. A rather large lady in the steam room was not using a towel and had her, erm, nether regions spread across the tiles. When she got up, she made the most massive squelching sound from her private parts suctioning on the tiles that I nearly vomited on the spot. Apart from that, the general naked bitchiness is just a little too much to handle, but I am a little more used to it by now.

When it comes to the machines, I am the bitch, I always look at what everyone else is doing on their screens and if I am going at a harder rate than them, I feel like a better person. Fuck the lot of them 

Pain in the Ass

Posted in Random Randoms with tags , , , , , on November 3, 2008 by starstripe

What an eventful Sunday. Well, Saturday evening and Sunday.
Late Saturday afternoon, I began getting a sharp pain. In my left butt cheek. Now I am suspected of having TB (I am being tested, don’t panic. You probably won’t have infected it from me if you know me, if you have, I’m so sorry) so I thought that the coughing 90% of the day must be responsible for the dull ache in my derrière. Having snoozed for the afternoon, I woke up at seven and decided that instead of spending an evening being a slave to my laptop, slouching around, miserable, alone at home, I would go to a good friend’s house to go and slouch around, be miserable and a slave on his laptop. Plus he has DSTV which means Crime investigation network marathons (for those that know me I have a healthy fascination with serial killers).

So my friend swung by and picked me up and I spent a good hour insulting people on Facebook from his laptop before I went to lie down and watch the last ten minutes of a horror and some C&IN thereafter.

My butt had not really been aching much since I had woken up from my snooze so I plonked on the bed next to my pal (he has a super duper nice LCD TV which stretches about the length of his bedroom). After pulling his massive hound, Digga, off the bed I was able to settle and start giving advice to a terrified couple being stalked in a motel room on the screen. My friend has no TV in his lounge – it is in the bedroom. So when a bunch of us go round to his place for breakfast to watch the grand prix, we all have our designated “spots” on the bed.

Now this friend of mine is about mid fourties, Jewish and one of the most vulgar characters you would ever have the mixed fortune to meet. But he is like a father to me and has been ever since I got clean. Actually he pretty much saved my life when I was about to pack in four and a half months of torture in rehab to go and use again after I had been ‘asked’ to leave for (ahem) fraternizing with another patient (oh come on, who the hell doesn’t do that in rehab?!!!). Running down the road to go and score, I happened to see his car, knew that he was recovering, beat down his door squawking for help and to cut a long story short, I never made it to the dealer and haven’t since.

Anyway, back to my butt cheek. As I was watching a random doccie on C&IN on another jealous, homicidal boyfriend who offed his sensible girlfriend who had dumped him for being, erm, a freak, I tried to move my legs. My right one obeyed straight away. My left one however, did not.

As one of the worst pains I had ever experienced seared through my butt cheek and down my leg, I squealed and writhed in pain which, in turn, caused me to squeal even more and writhe further and so on. This went on for about ten minutes by the end of which my friend wanted to take me to hospital and his poor dog was severely traumatized from the strange lady clutching a buttock, tossing on the bed and disturbing his sleep. I don’t want to think about what the neighbours thought was going on.

I found that if I lay completely flat on the bed, the pain was bearable. But after the psycho boyfriend in the documentary had been put behind bars and the family had cried in their interview, I was bored and wanted to load some photos on Facebook. Once I was up and about on my feet, the searing pain had retreated into a barely noticeable ache. At half past one, I woke my friend up to drive me home. Well, I actually threatened to steal his car if he didn’t wake up, so he was out of bed rather quickly. I actually ended up driving his car home with him as a passenger, after which he was fully awake and unable to sleep for the rest of the evening. I then went to bed, thinking nothing more of the pain.

Until the next morning.

I woke up. And wished I had never been born.
The pain was so bad, I started crying. I tried to get up, but the slightest movements made me wince and howl in pain like a goth at a Take That concert.

After lying on the bed for a while, figuring out what to do, I realized I needed to pee. Oh Christ. My bathroom is a nine pace walk from my bed, so you can imagine the trauma. I managed to get to the bathroom in what can only be described as looking like some form of interpretive dance: even standing up on my feet required me to grab my desk chair for support. And my butt.

Afterwards, collapsing back onto my bed, I called my sister Alex, who is a physiotherapist. We are originally from Durban and usually speak like La Lucia Kugels when on the phone, hence some individuals think I am mentally challenged.

(Alex)    “Hello Sistaaaaa! Hawzeeeeet!”
(Me)    “Aleeeeeeeeeeeex! M-m-m-m-y  bottom!!!  *sniff* Something’s wrong with my bottom!!!”
(Alex)    “What? What did you do?”
(Me)    “I think I coughed to hard!!! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!! *sniff, heave*”

After calming me down, she worked out that I have a ‘trigger point’ in my left butt cheek which is pinching a nerve. She told me to get some anti-inflammatory gel or pills and it should help. So, because I have no car and a throbbing butt cheek, I did not opt for the walk-to-chemist-for-advised-anti-inflammatories option. An hour later I was about to get taken to the emergency room for the pain.

Luckily for me, I managed to grab onto a teensy weensy bit of dignity inside me and realized that if a doctor was going to be fondling my nether regions, I was going to have a shower before setting of to the hospital. And miraculously, the pain stopped in the shower, probably because of the hot water and walking around.

Taking that as some pretty important insight into my condition, I steered clear of lying on my bed, instead choosing to ‘perch’ and cancelled my lift to Christian Barnaard Memorial Hospital.

Yet even now as I write this, and I am lying down and my bum is killing me on my left hand side. Now, my sister says that if the pain does not go away, the only remedy is to get a physio to stick a needle in my bum cheek. Joy.

She did mention, however, that this is “really common” and that she “sticks needles in peoples bum cheeks all the time”.

That makes me feel so much better.