Care Bear Stare

So, home at a respectable hour on a Friday afternoon I trawl the net on an instantly beloved new laptop to find that really, I prefer life with my blinkers on.


I have managed to stay as far away from news on the Haitian crisis thanks to a home which runs without television, a selfish taste for news which is immediately relevant to Me and a husband who reads the highlights of international news to his sleepy wife late at night off an internet connection via his pda phone. Our experience of the news is almost always coloured with the lumenescent green ping of progress bars indicating the successful upload of our newly awaited favourite youtube advert, made in a country we’ve never visited for a product we’ll never see in our own.


The irony does not escape me, entirely.


Add to this the fact that two weeks ago I managed to drive into the garage, on one side of the house, at precisely the same time as my husband sat down on the bed with his set of house keys and alarm buttons in his back trouser pockets, on the other side of the house –resulting in the electric garage door closing slowly and very painfully onto the roof of the car I was parking and snapping the radio aerial. Leaving me radio-less on the way to work and completely isolated from any daily news breaking between 6:30 and 7:30am.


The bottom line is that my first interaction with the current international crisis was a Saturday morning 5FM countdown – soundtrack to what I’d like to call an aerobic workout but is just me dragging a confused broom across the kitchen floor – where Sheryl Crowe featured in a chart-topping Haitian Salvation Hymn and Madonna was praised for her financial contribution to the disaster fund.


Without the context to engender some kind of empathic response, all I thought was that Sheryl Crowe has indeed not had a hit for some time now and that jumping on some bandwagon is better than being left at the side of the road with mud on your shoes – and Madonna, well I thought she was hoping to be offered a bevy of Haitian babies for adoption post proffering a financial contribution that just about doubled the entire country of Haiti’s GDP for the last three years.


And then today, on my afternoon off, on the afternoon when I have three hours to enjoy not having to contemplate anything at all, The Mail and Guardian runs a side story accompanied by the most vivid images of children being rescued from the rubble of the Haitian devastation. 10 years ago those images would have been banned. Now, dying children are a side-story on a flashing five second banner in the middle of an international news agency’s website; because that’s what it takes to get my attention.


The irony does not escape me, entirely.


As it turns out, I couldn’t read the article. I was gutted by the flood of my sudden compassion and I didn’t like the way it felt.


There is always a way to turn an international crisis into a personal one.

-Soba

What are little girls made of?

I tend to do most of my musing in the shower & climbing to the top of the charts this week in terms of “most obsessed over psychotic theory” is definitely the idea that I might in fact, BE what I eat.
If I were edible, what kind of food would I be? hmmmm…..
Or do those close to you get to decide?

I have for sometime now set about convincing fellow bloggers Soba & Gleam, that I am in fact an onion (like Shrek), and that this is because I have many layers which you might miss at first glance, but actually make my nature fairly multi-dimensional & keep me adapting all the time.  But what else does this boring bulb say about my character I wonder? That I intimidate people to tears or that I can be likened to a bad taste or smell that lingers on your breath, clothes & hands long after I’m gone?? Apparently, insects don’t like onions either. When rubbed all over your body, onion can actually act as an insect repellent. This is interesting. NOT. 
Even the most hated organisms in the universe are REPELLED by my food rep.


Ok…… So what about the concept that “You are what you eat?”
If there’s any truth to this idea, then I am in fact the new limited edition Cadburys Mint Flake.
Now like the chocolate itself, this notion tantalises you into believing this to be a great idea at first. I mean the stuff quite literally melts in your mouth, and it does so with just a hint of minty mystery, which only intensifies as you sink deeper into the hypnotic chocolatey-ness. Towards the end, if you're like me, you might even be shameless enough to throw your head back like a commoner, open your mouth, & tilt the mesmerising metallic packaging towards your lips to allow the final crumbs to tumble down your throat in order to bring your closer to God himself. Realistically speaking though, most of the stuff either ends up on the floor or stuck to your car seat and I would like to think that it would take a little more than somebody metaphorically gently puffing smoke in my face, before my entire existence is irreparably blown to pieces. Fragile much? I would certainly like to believe that I’m a touch tougher than that. What's flakier than a flake? 

And what of my regard for friends & family?
I’ve always seen my mother as something of a Zoo Biscuit. Simple, understated, a timeless classic that ages 8 through to 80 still get a kick out of. This biscuit has also stood the test of time along with it’s Marie & Tennis buddies & therefore clearly possesses the kind of charisma that made the (all flash no fibre) Romany Cream frantically alternate between 42 billion flavours in order to try break back into the market. I mean, Classic Choc, Mint Choc, Vanilla Choc, Choc Fudge, Coffee???? Can you spell DES-PER-RATION?!
But if “You are what you eat” then my Mom simply cannot be a Zoo biscuit.  I would wager a bet to  volunteer for electric shock therapy before catching a squiz of a box in her shopping basket. 
No, this theory leaves my mother more like a Lays plain salted crisp or a Manhattan Milk Bottle.  No analysis required.

My two very best friends from as far back as Primary School, are like pink champagne & sweet melon wrapped in Parma ham. These of course, are at their most spectacular when served together preferably on the beach and in the sand, where, if I were to represent the purple sunset, we could encapsulate a small glimpse of heaven, whose synergy quite simply makes others swoon and can build you up to 10 feet taller than you actually are. With this kind of support you can conquer the world.
Mrs Parma-melon is unpredictable & yet obvious & classy & DEEP. She's like a stylish little bittersweet treat with a hint of sophistication wrapped around good old fashioned loyalty that you just don't come by anymore. But this girlfriend has the appetite of a sleek runway model & she gnaws on twigs and dried fruit and birdseed and stuff. How should I see her then? As a lentil or celery shoot? Not exactly the food of champions in my book.
Mrs Pink-champagne on the other hand is vibrant & trendy & courageous. She's like that contagious bubbly that seduces you into sipping on it for hours because its light & sweet & REAL. But as far as I know, her daily diet is more like a couple of rusks & a jungle oat bar while she's on the run after her 1 year old. Now whilst I'm sure this keeps the energy up & has the fibre under control, it's not exactly the kind of sultry snack I imagined representing her.


Personally I'm not enjoying this theory at all. I would like to believe that I can decide to be anything I want to be and so can the rest of you. “Master of my fate,” “Captain of my soul,” and so forth.
I’d opt for a cherry. Down to earth enough to kick it in an orchard amongst fellow cherry trees hanging in the simple life, but yet surprisingly romantic enough to bloom in Pablo Neruda poetry and still pretentious enough to splash around in a Cosmopolitan or sexy enough to be kissed with cream & passed from mouth to mouth by lovers in the moonlight.
Yet I feel like my cherry is sounding suspiciously like a dressed up Shrek onion? With its oh so very many layers….
Maybe we are what we are, even when we’re not or even when we glam it up.
Maybe the beauty is in the simplicity of working with what you’ve got. 
I suppose I could learn to work with the onion. One could always clean the oniony smell from your hands with a dry salt & lemon juice exfoliating type scrub? Then your hands would look 10 years younger & smell like margarita instead:) The onion was also an ancient symbol of eternity because of the concentric circles that it contains. I'd like to think my integrity can aspire to being that consistent. Glass is half full & all of that.


Life is like an onion.
You peel it off one layer at a time;
And sometimes you weep.”
—Carl Sandburg, American poet

Woodwinked - over & out
xx

1, 2 Buckle my Shoe, 3, 4, Hit the Dance Floor!

So last Friday I found myself in a club in the Ville for a girls night out.  For me, any kind of socialising is usually reserved for Saturday nights when everybody is well rested from the week & completely out of work mode.



AIM:  To get drunk & disorderly with some girlfriends in an effort to try to do something different on a Friday night, even though this evening is usually reserved for curling up on the couch, black fluffies on feet, pizza delivery & a bit of Celebrity Apprentice on Series with my cat.


METHOD:  Hit a local pub/club to unwind from a hard week at the office & perhaps pursue some mindless banter over a cocktail or 6 until about 11:00ish before packing it in for the night. (It’s Friday after all, & who has the energy).


OBSERVATION DURING FIRST 3 HOURS:  Is it me or is the music WAY too f*cking loud in here? There is no idle chit chat to be pursued in this miniscule smokey bar area where I can barely hear myself think. (When did I get old?). My stilettos are also making my feet feel like they’re being beaten repeatedly from all angles by tiny elves with their tiny little elf hammers & I have absolutely ZERO intention of dancing in my sober rhythmless state. I am, however, surprisingly not the oldest person in here & although I recognise a few people, I’m not about to high five some old friends & ask what they’ve been up to, because I feel kinda “shy????” wtf?


OBSERVATION IN LAST 3 HOURS PRECEDING HOMETIME:  After Jager-Bomb number ..... something, the music is getting hot & the Red Bull is buzzing in my throat. I’ve been dancing plenty with an old buddy from school days & my feet have gone numb (The elves are apparently also intoxicated). The hazy fumes in the air are no longer irritating my contact lenses or lungs, but only seem to contribute to the dream-like vibe consisting mostly of stress & inhibitions evaporating into thin air. I have at this stage located both my rhythm & personality & am smoking a menthol cigarette whilst chatting to a sassy blonde that I really don’t know THAT well at all.
She is telling me that people come into our lives with only 1 of 3 purposes. For a SEASON, a REASON or a LIFETIME. She also suggests that perhaps I shouldn’t take it so personally when I discover that not EVERY SINGLE human being that passes through my life is intended to stick around for a lifetime.
This epiphany is evidently the most solid intelligent idea I’ve heard in years.
So it IS actually ok to just accept something for what it is and to not necessarily see it as a failure or a reflection on yourself. It also means that I should pay a little more attention to those who clearly ARE going to be around for a lifetime & waste less self esteem & energy on those who have turned out to be seasonal, or come along for a reason to teach me something. They have also just served their purpose & I should learn to satisfy myself with that.

CONCLUSION: My Friday party night spud-like scorecard reads as follows:

• Chatted & bonded easily with someone whom I've wanted to get closer to for awhile.
• Rekindled an old friendship with a lifetime friend that I would LOVE to see more often.
• Openly chatted with & included a guy friend's love interest so that she didn't feel quite as uncomfortable on her 1st introduction, as she might have.
• Approached an acquaintance who I ASSUMED disliked me, & discovered she was actually only shy & quite sweet and really kind.
• Laughed till I cried with a virtual stranger I had practically just met.
• Received truly inspirational advice in the last place I’d expect & at a time when it was sorely needed.
• Sang with the girls in the car on the way home until my ears rang.

3:00am & I’m in bed with my black fluffies on, watching the Celebrity Apprentice re-run with my cat curled up & purring on my chest. I have missed nothing except that my heart is also warm & fuzzy & inspired. Only experiences can make you feel alive & you don’t have them whilst hanging out in your living room on a Friday night.  Sometimes no matter how you feel, you need to get up, dress up & show up.

Woodwinked - over & out.
xx

How to achieve a deep meditative state

As a teacher, I know that my breed knows something about group work. Not, it is true, as much as the twat (not to be misconstrued with the homonym for pregnant fish) who thought that sitting in a group working with people you don’t like for hours on a project which is petty and pointless would be a great idea. As is obviously the case, this poor sod was an office worker bound to his cubicle and desperate for any human contact and not a teacher himself whose colleagues, having been through a system of being taught in groups, now also believe that this is the most fun one can have while teaching teachers.

Yessir, we know all about group work.


This is why it came as no surprise when on our first day back at school management announced that we would be doing some group work, about group work. Because it is well known that you can get the best work done by harnessing the power of six minds who all think that one of the other six is doing the work.


Completely skeptical, I announced my sincere abhoration to the group and attempted a brief explanation of why, psycho-socially speaking, this joint brain-tossing session was nonsense. I was launched upon by the Life Skills teachers – obviously, their entire year plan would be comprised of a sheet of blank paper if they couldn’t use group work to teach teenagers how to practice ostracizing one another in a safe and caring classroom environment all while never really doing any original thinking of your own.


Needless to say the next 15 minutes were for me, and one or two others, a lesson in its own right on how to achieve a deep meditative state. Until the head tosser turns to you and asks whether you have any contribution to make:
‘Yes I do actually. Group work sucks and I hate all of you.’ Smile.

Is what you really want to say, but all that comes out is the strained smile earning you an encouraging pat on the back, ‘You’re doing just fine Non-Contributer, maybe you’ll have a really good idea when I ask you again later.’ Smile.

I am not remorseful of my blank disinterest, quite honestly I believe that my contribution of carbon dioxide and body heat was worth more than many other verbal contributions.



It was only on achieving the meditative state despite the rancid yacking of a permanently dissatisfied group member that I realized the poor woman just playing her part in the group. As was I. She had to say whatever came to mind, right or wrong, because she was The Yacker. Head tosser had to ask for my contribution because he was The Head Tosser who asks questions and writes down everything The Yacker says to avoid being The Doer –the person who is going to have to stand up after this session and tell management how we wasted their time. And the Non-Involved Douch, who picks dirt out from under her fingernails with the edge of her notebook instead of contributing anything useful. That would be me.



And while all this totally makes me want to be a better person, I still really loathe group work.

-Soba

EULOGY TO SHOES

It is with great sadness that I find myself compelled to bid the fondest farewell to the following members of my shoe family:

To my Red Beaded Moccasins who went so well with my red Indian print wrap skirt (which has not been worn since the move to Cape Town) – your cuteness knew no bounds.  From the footprint styled soles to the funky sequins you will be sorely missed. From the moment the stitching over the left big toe started to go, I knew our relationship was almost over.  It was good though, while you lasted.

To my Beige Corduroy Platforms, you were not expensive, but you added great height.  I know I will long for you at the very next 70’s themed party.

To my Very First Pair of Croc’s who taught me that beauty indeed comes from within.  Since our first date on a 28 hour shift when I looked upon you, I saw not black plastic, nor poor style, but felt comfort in my darkest times in perhaps the most meaningful way.

I did not intend for things to end this way.  It had been my hope that by this time I would be married to my own Mr Big, with a walk in closet and a wall just for Good Memory Shoes (next to the wall for Very Beautiful, But Unlikely To Be Worn More Than 3 Times Shoes) and we could have lived happily ever after together.  So I too, am disappointed in how our time together must come to an end.  May you continue to tread softly, as you tread through my dreams. (With apologies to W.B. Yeats)

This Is Not A Self Help Book

There are two types of women in this world.  There are those whom you tell, of the anxious desire to run what generations of female chromosomes have culminated in your genome to tell you is the perfect home, and who then promptly proceed to tell you that there is no such thing, that you really shouldn't even try, and that you're just being too hard on yourself - only to turn their back on you and smile wryly to themselves while clicking their devil-long finger-nails together and catching a sharp glimpse of their ears suddenly pointing and their incisors sharpening in a spotlessly reflective surface in their own homes (because the only way you can run such a home is to sell some part of yourself to a dark art that in return for your soul grants you, and only you, an extra five hours of daylight between 2 and 5am).
And then there are the women whom you simply don't tell of your eternal struggle between good and the invisible evil (not Satan, Dust) because they really don't care and it's awesome not to.
As it turns out, no amount of Eckhart Tolle and any other self-actualising This Is Not A Self-Help Book is going to make me okay with sharing a house with dust-bunnies.

-Soba