Thursday, March 19, 2009


Driving from work and doing what most women do (patching up make-up whilst trying not to drive over squirrels), I headed to the place where one sip fermented grape-juice undisturbed and with a broad view across the ocean…

Oh you know I feel exhausted writing all that. But it is a tiresome business that lurks behind my thoughts this morning. And why, you ask, is a chic like me so deep and gravely serious on a sunny, cool, somewhat blasting easterly morning?

Because I acknowledged a sad fact driving to my sundowner place. It revolved about the small word "laughter" and happy thoughts. The absence of those two hit me hard near the Shell garage and opposite an old age home. I came to think how grim one often feels and how terribly sad or pathetic it must seem to the outside world. So unsmilingly sad that it could turn other drivers into DEPRESSION and send them straight into a lamp post or tree perhaps…

It struck me how terribly and unwantingly sad one often goes about a day of work. Nine hours spent in a world which is plastered in the grime of seriousness which leaves some of us alone amongst strangers and to fend for one's sanity, dignity and the self.

It baffled me as I became aware of the existence of muscles in my face as I suddenly smiled at my very own thoughts. It felt as if I awoke from a very bad dream as the smile spread even wider. It also felt as if my face was about to crack. And nearly choked at feeling life returning to a rather stiffened mask called my face.

How insane it is living a life without laughter. Real, hearty and happy laughter which can be shared with those one have to share each blessed day with.

Today, remember that it could be your last or first day to do some laughing. Make those facial muscles work; it keeps wrinkles at bay too.


And the winner was…

Ma-ladies and gentlemen,

Today I am of a mind not to twitter about twat, but inform you of the very long-awaited good NEWS that has hit home: so much so that I have not even considered popping more jelly tots or champers (yet).

Today, I will officially resign from the ghastly job – the german mafia will soon no longer have any power over me anymore.

Shudder and sigh of relief.

The search and waiting period is over and it seems that I was headhunted and found. That makes for a change.

The waiting to hand over my LETTER OF RESIGNATION (smacking lips with a schmuck grin) however is somewhat of a disappointment. It is agonizing. Every few minutes I experience heat-flushes and unpleasant heart palpitations. Curious, because it is not dissimilar to the symptoms of someone falling in love.

I’m not in love… with the mafia. That we all know.

Counting the hours will be counting every day of the next 14 long 24 hours.

Pray for me.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Dear Mr. Ray, Rust, Suterland and others...

I have read a certain book that covers a certain topic… Picking up the same type of conversation on blogs24 earlier this week, I went basking in the late afternoon sun yesterday and mulled it over in my mind.
Now, before I get to the bottom of the well (subject), I'd like to emphasize my feelings about this 'topic':

It is a tired and tiresome subject (yawn);

A subject that does not deserve much thought;

A lean but tough subject;

A subject stretched so far out that the stretch-marks will never...will never fade;

A slack and worthless subject;

A subject that leaves a sour taste of curd sugarless milk on my palate.

You want to know why 'the topic' brings on a black and thunderous (murderous) mood?
Oh no-no-no guys, wrong! It’s not that I didn’t get any breakfast or the hormones raging or the fact that I'm slowly ageing… I’m just being assertive, but ladies we know that the lads might read it as aggressive. The male world, eh.

But let me say, I am pissed off with the general assumptions doing the rounds all over the world of UNMARRIED WOMEN who are seemingly tragically and WITHOUT choice despairingly sitting on the rack.

THIS IS NOT about divorcees. This is about us slightly older women who don’t have the balls to jump in and out of relationships on a weekly basis, get married every other week and join the throngs at the divorce-courts on a monthly basis.

Older Single Women are an alien species to men who like to believe the following :

She’s in her thirties (forties or older) and has never been married??? Un-fucking-belieeeevable!!!! Something must be very wrong there…

OH NO, no ovaries working there; may be menopausally crazy...

She always goes to church alone; never with a man. Maybe she’s a lesbian…poor old thing

If she likes hanging around her own place and not getting drunk like a slut in public all the time, she must be a freak.

Definitely something askew with that old bag who likes to blog – maybe she is too ugly or sad to have real friends in real life

Well I always see that chick at this pub/restaurant and she never has been seen with a man. Can’t get one, I presume…

No boyfriend for ages or years? Wow, maybe she is a virgin (dads can think this about their daughters too)

She must be slow or ugly... if you want to introduce that old maid to me ...........

Women in the chat-rooms are soooo good, they meet my sexual fantasies…I’ll never have to meet and have strings attached to the faceless cow and sad creature too-oooooo....

A lot of older women prefer (sometimes with little choice) to live their lives to the best of their ability, without being dictated. Why give up ones hard-earned values to men without integrity?

Guys watch your thoughts and tongues.

Women are more than a pair of pretty eyes, legs or perty boobs. We don’t have to be patronized into the belief that we’re not good enough simply because of the prejudiced world of men. You older guys can be quite neatly screwed up too, so I believe. So it can be that older women don’t always settle for second best. Unfortunately its gets harder when we leave the 20’s, 30’s and 40’s behind. I’m beginning to feel the effect of ‘depression’ and see it all around me and in my women buddies lives too.

Guys this might hurt, but perhaps a lot of you have baggage. We don’t want your baggage for the simple reason that we don’t have any and don’t want to share those which you so selflessly offer to us. I really don’t fancy sharing your baggage; life’s hard enough as it is.

So older women, if men look at you with a suspicious squint eye as to why you haven’t tied the knot yet or before… or why your relationships never exceed two years maximum… well, why worry about men old, bold and cold who harbors such crude or useless imaginations?

In SA I can’t walk into any old pub or chat to any old fool, because I have learned that people here do get the wrong ideas.

Guitar man who does gigs; he could not ‘get it’ swiftly and so opted to dump a friendship for something easier elsewhere. Dumb twit.

I think I am sexy and smart; but most men don’t like girls that don’t have money or a glamorous job or flashy car (and mine always need a wash; if anyones up for it for no extra pay).

A lot of men don’t like a woman with a mind of her own; something must be wrong with her

Men want to be worshipped – why, if I want a true friend instead of a hairy god in my life?

Men want us to be pretty and perfect and in a man’s life anyone older than 30 can’t possibly be those. Men want stupid buttocks bimbos; cheap horny tarts, or submissive throw-away-able doormats without spunk.


Surely not…in…my…life.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Kinship or..?

I have an ungodly fear of the Arab race.

And am forever grateful that I will probably never have to deal or ask one to translate for me. Because I am too scared to visit the Arab countries.

Arabs, that dark-skinned and shrewd nation, forever sketches haunting images in my mind of sables, barbaric screaming & galloping after innocent people, greedy and sharp clawed fingers with dirty nails, beaky noses with gold rings, cruelty unheard of and revolting oily moustaches and the list continues… Oh, and don’t forget that ghastly picture of woman-stealing-raping pirates under a wide Arabian night sky. Nothing remotely romantic attached to the vision.

Don’t quite understand why I so adored the childhood story sweetheart called Sinbad. I even named a pup after him… Could be that little Sinbad had not yet grown a beard at the time and I shiver to think what BIG Sinbad would look like now as a grownup hard-stubbed fearsome Arab legend.

Captain Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean would probably wet his socks should the unfortunate pleasure befall him to set eyes on an adult-version of Sinbad.

Many grownups harbor strange fears for certain human races. The Chinese for example can induce a holy fear by some, and others are freaked out by things like clowns.

Do you have an unreasonable fear of such things or people?

An evergreen love-affair

…with figs and trees

I have green fingers and two fig-trees: one in a pot and a medium size one brought back from the farm post Christmas.

In the spur of the moment earlier this week, I said to the landlady that her husband may get my potted fig-tree as a birthday present in June. We missed out on giving him something last year. My offer stands, as long as he doesn’t go chopping off our garden trees again. I politely refrained from voicing it as a severe warning.

Yesterday I found her weeding on our side of the front sliding doors.

That’s quite endearing actually. Maybe she really wants that fig-tree… So, I find that there is no turning back and I will have to part with my beloved fig-tree. My tree and I have walked quite a bit of road since its humble beginnings as a bare leafless cutting that survived the trip through the hot Karoo.

Well, I still have the harvest of popcorn-pips to look forward to. Sewn in January, it has produced miniscule mielie-heads, by lack of the appropriate name for those.

I’ll be sorry to pick them…

Monday, March 2, 2009

Office Palaver

Office life can sometimes be looked upon as a soap opera. All the kings men and queens going about killing, winching, scheming and decapitating one another with blood spilling all over the place (in a metaphorical sense). It so reminds me of the mother-of-the-son versus daughter-in-law scenario; nobody will give way to another.

I work for an impossible German entity, as you already know. Friday the employer (never a boss) decided to let off steam on his ‘useless’ and unsuspecting P/A. What makes employers think they have the power to talk to an employee in a manner of trash? I quietly stood my ground, and out of the blue the imbecile quoted that I don’t greet the office.

I’ve wondered when the paw-paw would hit the fan in this air-condition-less hot hole… Lately two females in the pack of wolves decided to stop greeting me. It suited me well as I can’t stand false pretence, but unfortunately the big nosed boss feels his wife and her adder friend does not quite deserve my rejection.

My instant (cheeky and fed-up) short reply was: I’m only returning the favor.

Oh boy. He puffed up and nearly exploded.

Oh really?

Yes, really.

I left the office in a silent huff to drive home stuttering aloud some type of Turrets code. I suppose sometimes one feels just too indignant to say much at all. Got home and finished a whole brie cheese in no time, swallowing the bitter bile down with a good measure of good wine. It helped a bit. But to keep angry tears away I looked across the lawn at the weed that seemed to be loosing their fight against the addiction for flowerbeds. I helped the poor weeds by getting themselves forcefully removed from the sulking powerless flowerbeds. And felt a lot better for it.

An eye opener to me was how harsh and prejudiced remarks can tear Friday Peace into tattered and bleeding shreds waving in the wind.

One must watch out for the nettles and thistles in this life and not allow them ever getting too close. But sometimes, only so rarely, some of the thorns do catch one unawares. My resolution is that I will not dwell on stinking sewerage pipe manners, but concentrate on the fresh, living and drinkable waters of life.

PS: They don't say for nothing In vino veritas...

'Anatomic' Matters

I realize the seemingly odd topic of shoe-sizes could seem weird on a dull Monday. But remember, Mondays are odd in itself. For the moment, don’t think about shoe-fetish or any other connotations to shoes and feet – only size.

Then, if the Monday mood doesn’t completely suck and you feel you can cheer the day into something with fun and funny things…feel free to corrupt our minds with more than smelly feet, cheap plastic work-coffee and the pleasure of work.

Asking a colleague the size of his wife's feet, he hesitated... He thought and thought and stuttered something between a number 5 or maybe a 6. He gave up altogether knowing his wife’s shoe and slipper size.

With quiet amusement I returned to my desk and puzzled at how many men actually know the size of their partner’s shoe?

Do you?