Cafe Hypnagogia

Some Place Else

2011-12-02T04:54:00.007-05:00

The other night I met my friend's little one. He is two weeks old but 8 weeks too early.

INCREDIBLE.

Incredible that he is here so early.

Incredible that he was supposed to be some place else - deep inside the warmth of his mother's belly.

He seems too big to be inside anyone's belly. And too small to be out of his mother's belly.

He was asleep for almost the whole time we were there. [Himself] held him in his arms and I remember thinking "Not once does your hugeness make this slip of a thing look fragile." Instead, both [Himself] and this 8 weeks early boy looked perfect.

Towards the end he opened his eyes. He looked around a bit. I thought of his eyes, they have only been used for two weeks, and they are 8 weeks early. They are almost brand new. they are supposed to be closed in some place else for another two weeks. Does he feel it's better here or back there where it was warm and his little body and his eyes didn't have to work so hard. What is he thinking, I feel he is thinking - but what is it? Is he thinking he is supposed to be some place else; with no vocabulary, no way of interpreting the unidentifiable things, sounds, sights around him, no way of sense-making. Because its too new, too soon. Because he is supposed to be some place else. Only he is here now. And there is no going back.

Today I feel exactly like that.

Last night I foolishly - but it was necessary - opened a Pandora's box that opened my eyes. I sit now, without the vocabulary to express what is. No way of interpreting things that before were so well-known to me and now seem alien and strange. Nothing makes sense. Beliefs I held now lie ruined, meaningless at my feet.

I want to scream: I wasn't ready!! And I wonder maybe, just maybe, I ought to be some place else. Only I am here now. And there is no going back.

Mozambique and Smurffette

2011-11-24T07:54:00.003-05:00

I am going to spend 10 glorious days surfing, eating fresh seafood and cashew nuts, saying sexy things like 'hola' and 'como estas' and 'obrigada' ('hallo', 'how are you' and 'thank-you' in Portuguese), steal kisses from [Himself] in the sun- be it on a towel on the beach or at the table in a beach restaurant. I am going to Mozambique over the holidays. I need not tell you how much I love this beautiful, struggling country that is trying so very hard to rebuild and heal after almost 15years of civil war left its brutal mark on it. It is one of the worlds poorest countries and on it's coastline its poverty is enunciated bizarrely by it's beauty - limited infrastructure means little development, which means unspoilt natural beauty; but also it means the local people have no access to most facilities like electricity and running water that you and I may take for granted. Yet they are incredibly kind, generous and warm with what they have (okay except for a few characters who will try to swindle the unsuspecting tourist - but you will get this anywhere in the world as long as you have unsuspecting tourists in the same space as someone looking to make a quick buck).

And before any of you haters remind me that it's rainy season and it can pour sometimes for days on end, did I mention our beach-front accommodation with sea views and the half a dozen books I have stored away that I CANNOT wait to sink my reading-teeth into?? Did I mention that even on the rainy days I would still be able to eat fresh seafood and cuddle with my man and read for hour-after-uniterrupted-hour?

I. Need. A. Break.

I have already started giving myself small breaks. Today I took 10minutes to ponder on this:

Smurfette (and the Smurfs) was born French. Her original name was Schtroumpfette. She and her boys were subsequently exported to a number of nations where she became Smurfette (English), Schlumpfine (German), Puffetta (Italian), Pitufina (Spanish) and Smurfin (Dutch). What would she be in Zulu? uSmefet? Nomasmef?

Just saying...

2011-11-23T02:55:00.002-05:00

We went to a wedding this Sunday last. There were many highlights - the groom is Nigerian... and Nigerians are a colorful and fascinating people strongly rooted in their culture even when a thousand miles from home... a recipe for highlights - but for me, the biggest highlight was reliving a moment I will never get tired off: The moment in which I look at [Himself] all dressed up and think, "That's one sexy beast".

[Himself] really looks good in a slim-fit shirt.

Just saying.

He may sometimes insist on looking like a slob in casual wear (but he's MY slob). But when you spy him in his formal wardrobe, all 6ft1000 of him in a well tailored slim-fit shirt, better when it's white showing off his slight but evident tan, well then... move over George ~~Whatsername~~ Clooney!

Yes. This really deserved a blog post on its own. My pervosphere is wider than Dwayne Johnson's perfect teeth and Vin Diesel's sculpted biceps you know! Sometimes I don't have to turn to E! or surf the net to get a fix of hotness, it's right here next to me ~~scratching it's balls~~.

Black Tuesday

2011-11-22T12:25:00.004-05:00

The picture above is my alma mater's home page for today. UCT is lending its voice to protest the information bill which was, sadly/unfortunately/alarmingly/horrifically/[insert appropriate reaction], adopted by a majority vote in parliament today.

In a nationwide protest, the pressed labelled today Black Tuesday and encouraged anyone opposing this bill to wear all black... this is in reference to Black Wednesday when the apartheid government at the time targeted and banned anti-apartheid journalists and newspapers.

I saw a new headline:

Black Tuesday: The Beginning of the End of Freedom of Expression

A bit dramatic perhaps but one can't help but get that shivers-down-your-spine feeling that something is horribly wrong with this picture. It seems this bills spells out nothing but doom and gloom for South Africa.

What a sad day for democracy.

On being okay...

2011-11-16T01:47:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I am thrilled by simple philosophies. This post by Akona thrills me. It reminds me of one of the most gratifying, satisfying, inspiring moments I have ever had as a lecturer.

One of my students, in a sociology class where we were discussing identity, seemed to be having a bad day, and went off on a rant about society's need to 'fix' things without actually realizing what we want or need,or if the result of an action or implementation is what we desire.

He finished off his rant with a deeply exhaled and plaintive "Can we just be ok with not being ok. Please. Can we start there?"

Could I have said more, in that moment after he had so perfectly spoken to the theme of that morning's class? I truly didn't think so. Only I was the lecturer and dismissing class after a robust 'Amen' was not a very lecturey thing to do. I did hope that my student's concluding statements had sparked some sort of existential inquiry in his peers minds.

I just felt like right there was the crux of all things identity: To stop for a minute and just be okay with being (as long as the basics are ticked as Akona writes ... I mean it's hard to be okay with a growling stomach). And maybe then...

As a researcher I know how endless the possibilities that 'maybe' offers. It's exhausting. I am black and have race politics hypothesizing my possibilities, I am a woman and there are state departments dedicated to empowering me and my peers through endless gender programmes, I am a third culture kid and have rims upon rims of literature espousing the panoramic potential of capabilities... and on and on and on.

It's exhausting. And sometimes I need to stop and take in that moment and breathe and recognize that right now, sans aspirational goals to whatever, I AM OKAY.

Homeware shopping tips

2011-11-13T13:57:00.000-05:00

Before you go off and get yourself a vacuum cleaner I suggest you equip yourself with nothing less than a 4year university degree in science or engineering... rocket science is preferable.

What ought to have been a simple excursion to Makro this weekend for a vacuum cleaner turned out to be an hour long session involving the dynamics of suction; the advantages of hepa* filters over water filtering systems; the virtues of canister or upright vacuum cleaner on deep-pile carpets; curtain and upholstery brushes and - within that - the mechanics of brush rotation... and so on and so on.

When did a vacuum cleaner become more than a vacuum cleaner??

I discovered the difference between a R500 vacuum cleaner (which merely rearranges the dust in a room by sucking it up in one corner and, through a poor filtration system, blowing it out to another part of the room) and a R3000 vacuum cleaner (that not only removes 99% of the dust in an entire household but if given the chance, could solve the world's problems because it's just that smart!)

So what did we get? [Himself] and I illustrated the textbook definition of compromise in a relationship. His ~~thrifty self was violently opposed to spending R3000 on a vacuum cleaner~~ shrewd self would not be taken in by the unnecessary gimmicks slapped onto a suction device and inflating its price (I mean why do I need a vacuum cleaner to play the stock market for me?); while my ~~snobbish self was mortified at the thought of a vacuum cleaner that cost less than a cup of coffee~~ pragmatic self warned against the likely non-durability of a cheap machine.

We settled on a respectably priced bad-body that looks like a robot (canister; though without changeable suction settings, it has hepa*-filters). While it may not sing classical music nor check my emails like its higher-priced counterpart, it will certainly do what a vacuum cleaner is supposed to do: clean.

*Whatever those are

Italy... or South Africa?

2011-11-10T02:39:00.006-05:00

Who cares... it's all the same.

Being neither an economist nor an expert in the financial markets*, its rather bizarre to watch how Italy seems to have plunged the financial world into madness. Literally. I imagined Berlusconi's resignation might provide some relief to Italy's crisis but alas. It seems the immediate relief is only to the millions of Italians who have been mortified and angered time and time again by their scandalous leader's blatant disregard for the laws of the land and for the moral esteem constituents would like to hold a leader up to. It appears that, for now, B's resignation will do nothing to soothe the jittery investors who will continue to flee as the country enters into a period of political (and thus fiscal policy) uncertainty till after the logical move toward new elections.

One of the headlines in the UK Telegraph today:

Italy's debt crisis: doomed by corruption, bloated bureaucracy and poor productivity

With indices like:

...Of the world’s top 200 universities, only one is Italian – Bologna University in the north, one of the oldest in Europe...

...Italy also performs poorly in global rankings of transparency and competitiveness...

...Italy’s National Statistics Agency has estimated that the “black” economy makes up at least 16 per cent of GDP...

...Tax evasion is almost a national sport. Italians resent paying high taxes when they feel they get little in return – streets are potholed, hospitals are overcrowded, playgrounds for children are often smashed up and covered in graffiti and public transport is frequently shabby and outdated.

...And they have been set a terrible example – among the plethora of accusations that Mr Berlusconi has faced in his many trials are those of tax fraud and false accounting...

...The unemployment rate for young people between the ages of 15 and 24 is close to 30 per cent...

...Seeing no prospects at home, young Italians are leaving in droves to seek better opportunities in Britain, the US, Australia and the Gulf, in an accelerating brain drain that will deprive the country of much-needed entrepreneurial talent...

I couldn't help drawing parallels. Just a couple of name changes here and there and one could be reading from the pages of a report on South Africa. I love Italy and harbor dreams of one day being made an honorary citizen of Roma. I wonder if I can use my South African experience to motivate for how I will feel right at home as an Italian.

*Being neither an economist nor expert in financial markets also means I do not engage financial news with anything more than lay-interest (except where implications on my passions - education and unemployment - are direct). I prefer to wait for [Himself] to explain the financial news and all its inaccessible jargon to me in simple English over a leisurely Sunday morning breakfast. Financial crises are best understood this way I find.

Celebrating the deaths of bad arab men...

2011-10-23T14:46:00.002-04:00

I was rather relieved to come across this article: Celebrating the deaths of bad Arab men.

It was a relief to know that I am not alone in my mortification of the way in which the world seems to have taken pleasure in the very public end to the lives of the Arab leaders from Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden to Gaddafi. Like the author in the article above, I do not feel sorry for these men. I am just alarmed by the very public display of death and the derivation of some kind of pleasure or glory from it. How different is the celebration over a) Hussein and Gaddafi's death, b) the public flaunting of gruesome images of their dead bodies to the bloody carnage that took place in the Roman gladiator arenas? Thousands have been queuing to view Gaddafi's body where is lies bloody and half clothed on a cold-room floor. Sure the guy was a tyrant and now he's a dead tyrant but what does it say about our humanity if we would revel in such imagery.

Why should we concern ourselves with a dead man instead of focusing on rebuilding a badly beaten down nation? I am not Libyan but I imagine if I were I too would feel some relief at the news of his death. But how does his being dead benefit anyone? It's not going to build schools and hospitals, nor guarantee the establishment of democracy or keep civil war at bay... all more pressing concerns of the Libyan people that they and the world should be focusing on, instead of glorifying the pathetic state of Gaddafi's very dead body.

What I did when I stayed home...

2011-10-18T13:12:00.004-04:00

...Then and now

Today I stayed home from work nursing a bad cold. As strange as it sounds I have been nursing it with food, because that's all my body has been craving: muesli, banana and yogurt with generous lashing of honey for breakfast, a mid-morning snack of boiled egg and toast, lunch was a toasted avo, bacon and feta sandwich, and my mid-afternoon snack was a banana, dried mango and some cookies. And as soon as [Himself] brings some vegetable ingredients on his way from gym I will get started on that basil and chicken fried rice I am craving for dinner.

That's right. I am feverishly alternating between hot and cold, sniffling away and blowing my nose every 5minutes and all I want to do is eat!

I have also been missing my mum. I wonder if this has anything to do with the sudden appetite. I had a teary moment when I remembered being 8 or 9 or 10 and staying home from school because I was sick. My mum had to go to work and for some reason I have a niggling voice from that part of my memory that tells me that on this particular day she would have rather she stayed home and looked after me. Instead she did the next best thing to staying home with me; she tucked me into her (and my father's) bed.

I may have fallen asleep or not I don't remember. What sticks out strongly in my mind though is a very awake moment spent exploring my mum's dressing-table. She had one of those old-fashion hardwood dressing tables that had a pink-velvet padded stool to sit on in front of a huge mirror that had smaller mirrored panels on either side with which to look at the back of one's stylish head.

My mum loved pretty things and she was a perfume collector. She had her most prized and beautiful perfume bottles on the dressing-table, amidst bottles and containers of heavenly scented lotions and creams. Never a big jewellery fan my mum's only pieces consisted of two watches, one gold and one leather, and her wedding rings. Her little jewellery box would have been empty as she wore both her wedding band and engagement ring everyday. It probably carried her dainty gold watch because I seem to remember her preferring to wear her leather-strap watch to work daily.

This was the doily phase when it came to home decor, so all these things would have been arranged neatly on a pink or ivory doily set. My mum's bath-robe - an ivory satin number she wore after her evening bath would have been folded over the stool. I loved to put it on and sit in front of her mirror. It smelt of Anais Anais by Cacharel or Opium by YSL or Chanel No. 5 (the whole room always smelt of whatever perfume my mother had used that day; even the cloth she used to wrap her perm at night). I would sit on that stool, my feet barely touching the floor, pretend I was a grown-up lady and try on my mother's face creams and lipsticks. This was the best way to spend a day off sick.

Now. Today, 20 years later my own toilette holds no such fascination for me. Instead I am happier stuffing my face with food than powdering it.

I want to be a little girl again with all the innocence and beauty and wonderment. I want my mummy.... waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaail... I want chocolate brownies. Those will make me feel better. I think I will make some chocolate brownies.

New Chapters...

2011-09-20T02:16:00.003-04:00

I have a new job. I am a post-doc research fellow, whatever that means. I am excited about the company. I am excited about the unit I am working with (Education). I am excited about my colleagues. I am especially excited about my boss. I am still so bright eyed that I love her. But then again I am quite impressionable and easily impressed by people who are at the top of their game and are good at what they do. She is at the top of the game and good at what she does. Talking to her feeds something in me... something growing. Ambition perhaps. Passion maybe... yes for research - sue me, I am a nerd - but also for making a difference. Our research informs social and economic policy. This is pretty special.

After two weeks of working - in my own spacious office with a door that has my name on it*, and a view of the city - I HATE leaving the house to catch the train at 6:30am but I am loving where that train takes me to.

Insert within the chapter:
I hope this is a chapter I am going to enjoy writing over the next few years. Though I must admit that in the 45seconds between my 5:20am alarm and the moment [Himself] literally has to shove me out of bed the following picture looks VERY attractive:

Dr Farmer Mrs Becks-[Himself] owner of the Tranquil Organic Farm (TOF), nestled in a valley amongst the rolling green hills of the Limpopo Province. All year round Farmer Becks breeds organic poultry and in the summer she grows organic strawberries and blueberries. In the summer the children from the neighbouring villages bring her baskets of ripe delicious mango and banana. In return she tutors them in English and Mathematics. During winter when there are no berries and the children prefer the warmth of their homes she frees up her time to sit on her patio under a gas heater over looking the lush vegetation of the area and writes science fiction. [Himself] joins her every weekend from his city job. He is working towards early retirement so he can join her permanently. His dream is to set up a solar power plant in the area to provide electricity to the villages around them. Sometimes her friends and their children come to visit. She doesn't have to get up for the 6:30am train.

*It says Dr Becks but I wonder if I should change it to Dr Mrs Becks-[Himself] to reflect the many things that I am.

8 cows and a marriage...

2011-09-18T06:58:00.007-04:00

I have multiple realities - like most people - that I exist in. Much as I'd like them to be mutually exclusively - and sometimes they are - most times they overlap. I am an African woman with a largely western upbringing. I have relatives that subscribe to the 'African ways' of being, doing and living; while most of my immediate family and friends, if not western in in origin, also share a similar history to mine: one informed and characterised by a mish-mash of worldviews dominated by a more western outlook.

Reality is, among other things, about perception and about sense-making and about personal truth. Like most hybrid beings, living on the intersect* of two or three or more different cultures/value systems, I sometimes lapse into private contestation over what I hold to be real and true. I am open-minded enough to respect the fact that different cultures hold different representations of reality. I also will admit that as much I respect different cultural practices (to the extent that they do not result in the loss of dignity or injury to another human being) I do sometimes feel discomfort when some of these representations do not make sense to me.

This is the essence of what I feel when I try to understand my feelings over the events of three weekends ago when [Himself] paid lobola for me. I confess, I was an accidental tourist at my own lobola ceremony. The novelty and the interest-factor of the process was enough to get me through the day in a somewhat good mood despite my misgivings about the notion of a group of men sitting amongst themselves and negotiating my 'worth'. Granted, my uncles had spoken to me the day before about the process. It is a relationship-building exercise between two families. In more recent times lobola is now seen as a money-making event with families charging exorbitant bride-prices for their daughters**. So I was relieved to hear my (chief negotiator) uncle (who also happens to be an African history professor) insist that according to our tribe's cultural belief-system, eight cows were all that was required and that they were never to paid in one go but rather in instalments which would involve the two families (bride and groom's) coming together every few years for some festivities. My Prof Uncle insisted, "We are not selling anyone here, so I don't want to see any cash coming through my doorway tomorrow. Tomorrow is about officially meeting your young man's family and acknowledging the new relationship ties".

A part of me was relieved by these relatively 'light' terms. [Himself] is European and I know that this tradition of lobola in particular is one that is controversial among the more western among us as a re-enactment of a practice that involves the 'sale' and subsequent oppression of women. I appreciated the emphasis on the relationship building as opposed to the material/monetary benefits. This relaxed me a little even though I still (as I do now) would have preferred to forgo the practice altogether. It has it's worth, serving in a past before marriage licenses and legislation, as a marriage ceremony and authenticating union between two people, and involving the families so that - theoretically -when things go pear shaped a couple could access structures of support from their family and community as their union was 'officially' recognised. This is all well and fine, but in an increasingly westernised society where societies are governed by laws and regulations laid down by the state, to me a cultural agreement as such does not possess as much 'truth' and realness as a legally issued marriage license. I understand how this would disappoint proponents of African cultural ways, but this is my truth. I loved my lobola ceremony, I was respectful of its values and acted as I supposed to act as the 'bride' but at the end of the day I still struggle to call [Himself] "Husband" on this basis.

Never-the-less. I am now 'married' - culturally anyway. And I admit, there are advantages. For starters, my ~~haters~~ relatives can stop gossiping about me living in sin.

Secondly, [Himself] has achieved 'man' status in my family. Because he has paid lobola (instalment one anyway) he can sit, eat and interact at the same table as my uncles and my female relatives are obliged to respect him as a male family member... traditionally anyway - I doubt my sister will jump up to serve his tea as soon as he wakes up in the morning and while my mum might make his dinner I am sure she won't protest too much when he insists in washing the dishes afterwards. My more traditional relatives however would probably kneel on the floor in front of him to wash his hands before a meal and serve his food on a tray (shudder). Still, he is family now.

Thirdly, we can have a baby! If you know my reproductive health complications you will know that this is big. However while we have this right we haven't yet exercised it. Sure we have indulged in ummm married boys and girls activities - okay I admit we did this in sin too - but we somehow never got to the point of being brazen enough to contemplate baby making before marriage. It's nice to know that if I got knocked up I wouldn't have to run around like a headless chicken trying to organise a wedding in two weeks. Okay I don't think I would care, but my mum would. This is important to me.

So. I am married. To describe the day... Well.
9:30 I had asked a couple of my BFFs to be there as my sisters - I only have one and one needs lots of hands at such gathering to help with the cooking and serving after the talks. So NB and NM came to pick me up at home. They helped me dress like an African bride - i.e. long African print skirt, a black Woolworths long-sleeved stretch top (must retain some sexy) and NB helped me wrap my head in a head-scarf (read: silk pashmina). This latter fact is interesting because NB is the blondest German girl I know and yet she knows how to tie a headscarf African-style.
10:15 we arrive at my Prof Uncle's house and I am immediately spirited upstairs with my friends as I am not allowed to be seen before the negotiations.
10:20 we peak out the window spying on [Himself] and his people arrive. He had asked one of his African director's husband (this couple have been very kind to [Himself] over the years and consider him a son) to be his negotiator and this man we call Uncle D, asked two of his BFFs to accompany him on this mission. So they arrived at my Prof Uncle's and [Himself] was told he couldn't come in - that's just rude. My cousin, who met them outside the gate asked the what they wanted - remember this whole thing is just a game - and they explained who they were and in turn she asked them what my family totems were. they had no idea and she left them to sweat a little before letting them in.
11:00 I was called downstairs with another cousin and told to sit in the middle of the room surrounded by my uncles and [Himself]'s negotiators. My Prof Uncle asked Uncle D which of the girls in the house had they come for and Uncle D pointed to me. My Uncle then asked me if I knew these people. In my head I imagined a WILD CRAZY universe in which I would say "Er... No!" and pack out laughing and then say, "Just kidding". But I said meekly - while trying hard not to giggle my ass off - "Yes Uncle, I know them". My uncle then sent us back upstairs.
11:30 negotiations are done and we are sent downstairs to cook.
11:30 - 12:30 we cooked and I was initially not allowed by my aunt to go and serve food because theoretically [Himself] hasn't 'paid' anything. We then found out that his negotiators had insisted on paying half of the lobola on the spot, apologising profusely that while they realised this was not in accordance with my family's tradition which required the lobola to be paid in bits and bobs from a month after the negotiations and over years, they wanted to show how serious they were about marrying me and [Himself] and how much they appreciated my family's goodwill. Boom! X-Rands (symbolic cows, my mum lives in a condo in Indianapolis... what will she do with four legged beasts??! That moo!? And poo!?) swapped hands to be wired the very next day to the mother of the bride. So that essentially meant [Himself] could come into the room and sit with the 'men' and be a man among men.
12:30 Now that we knew [Himself] and I were really married I had to serve my 'husband' and his people. DAMN. I had to kneel to wash their hands and serve them food. [Himself] and Uncle D, with whom at other occasions I have sat across the dinner table and debated politics and economics tried hard not to giggle. I was somewhere halfway between being amused and being highly irritated. I thanked God that this was not my truth nor was it the norm in my life. I vowed that I would never subject my daughters to this. My chronic condition - known as penis envy - intensified and worsened.
13:30 finally we girls could sit down and eat. NB had bought a bottle of bubbly to toast my 'marriage. She hid it in her handbag - woe betide the alcohol imbibing woman especially at such events - and we uncorked it when we sat down to eat lunch in the garden - separated from the men of course.
14:30 Prof Uncle insisted it was picture time and we had some photo-opps in the garden.
15:00 I went home tired, married, happy, annoyed.
15:30 I sat down with my girls to copious amounts of tea and rehashed the events of the day and share thoughts about the treatment of women at the hands of such customs.

It was definitely an interesting experience. I would like to say the most significant thing for me out of this whole experience was the way [Himself] embraced a culture that was not only alien to him, but probably bizarre and confusing. I know that it made my mum happy, raised her standing in society because it is a thing to be proud of to have lobola paid for you, and to have lobola paid for your daughter. It eliminated the anxiety she felt about [Himself] and I living in sin. I did this in many ways for her. [Himself] did it for me. This is very special to me. He did it because he knew that it would make my mum happy and thus it would make me happy. I am blessed. And I am forever in awe of [Himself] who went through the motions exactly as he should as a bridegroom, as if he has lived this culture forever, as if it's values were his truth; as if they were my truth.

How many ways do I love this man who has paid eight-cows to make an honest woman out of me. I can never count them. All I can do is high-five my dude....
(Becks: Baby, high five.
[Himself]: For what?
Becks: For being amazing.
[Himself]: Oh wait, can I swap that for a ****-*** instead?
Becks: Never mind.)
...Or maybe never mind. I'll just love from a safe non-****-***ing distance.

*Sometimes my hybridity does bring about circumstances that make this intersection feel, instead, like an interstice. This is often experienced as a cultural clash when the expectations of those who subscribe to one culture jar my sense of reality so violently there is a complete separation between realities as my mind rejects the notions and values of one and seeks refuge in the 'realness' of the other.
**And ofcourse opening up the women involved to all sorts of abuse and opression as the men would feel that they 'paid' for them.

And on and on...

2011-09-10T06:31:00.004-04:00

The more I think about these issues the more I think as wonderful as life can be, how bizarre it can turn out sometimes; how strange and dark and non-sensical.

And in these moments, how fragile our sanity...

... so that hitting another person seems a normal way with which to put across your point, turning to heroine seems the only way to escape one's reality, faking a troubled pregnancy seems the optimal strategy to get a man to love/marry you, killing yourself seems the most fail-safe solution to ones problems and the 1001 other things we try and do to find meaning when there is nothing left in front of us that makes sense.

So small. And fragile.

Life goes on...

2011-09-10T05:26:00.003-04:00

And on and on and on...

My brother/BFF/cousin, Bunzz just sent me an IM bearing the most hideous, shocking message: A guy we both went to school with - he was in my class and I might have had a crush on him that might have lasted had he not been one of those types who insisted on wearing their school shorts so baggy every time you saw him you itched for a staple gun - committed suicide last night.

There is so much I want to say about this, on the subject of suicide, about the selfishness of it all - like how he took his life while on holiday visiting a friend in her home (my closest encounter with suicide was when an emotionally abusive ex-boyfriend threatened to off himself when I tried to break off the relationship. He guilted me into giving us another try and bought me some staggeringly spectacular boots I had been dying for, as a birthday present. I never wore those boots, even after I did eventually break up with him and he didn't kill himself) - but I won't say anything because this is the first time someone I knew rather closely has killed themselves and suddenly (while I feel deeply sorry for the person in whose home he decided to die and think that was unfair on his part to put her through that) I am also aware that he must have been in a very dark place for this to happen; the kind of darkness that I - never having contemplated suicide before - have no idea about.

What makes a person decide this is the only way out? I mean we are all going to die, no running away from that, but what makes a person choose to die this way - by their own hand? Do they find peace in the moment they die? Oh dear I feel another existential crisis coming on. I know a guy who tried to commit suicide and straight after drinking poison thought, "Ohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitohshitoshit" all the way to the hospital where they pumped out the poison and told him he had sustained irrepable dammage to some of his internal organs and would never have children amongst other things. "But I'll live right?" he might have asked. That's all he wanted.

And life goes on.... because in other random, dark, twisted happeninging, [Himself]'s housemate - who used to beat his now ex-girlfriend - finds himself on the other side of the table as the reciever of some unpleasant treatment from the same girlfriend he slapped and kicked around. After 10months of lying to the world it emerges that she was never pregnant with the twins she claims she was carrying. The old age trick - only she didnt get it right. She thought if she could get pregnant he would marry her. Only she didn't get pregnant so she faked it. Only he didn't marry her so she created twins - to double the joy and perhaps the love and subsequently the chance he would propose. And when he still didn't marry her she created a difficult pregnancy - lets go on the pity-ticket. And when he still didn't marry her, she bought more time by changing doctors because the first one was an incompetent idiot who had messed up her due date and set it back by one month. And so on and so on. And he still didn't marry her. This is an incredibly sad story because she is such a beautiful, smart young girl. A part of me initially thought - I confess - "well they deserve each other" because he has proven to be a manipulative, abusive fellow. But now I feel incredibly sad for these young people.

"Well at least that unhealthy relationship is now over." Shelbels chose to look at the upside when I updated him on the latest events.

Yet life goes on because in yet more random, dark and twisty news, another friend has in the past 6 months revealed himself as having a drug habit he is struggling kick.

With all this going on around me I am aware that this is my first weekend 'off' since I started work* and all I want is to sleep ALL DAY. And this is all I am going to do because on Monday, no matter who beats his wife, who commits suicide, who develops a drug habit, who creates a fantasy pregnancy, I'm gonna be at work expected to work my ass off!

..and on and on and on.

Sigh.

I pray for God's mercy, compassion and above all - grace.

*Yes I am now a tax-paying adult with a job that has 'senior' in it's title with a non-corner-but-spacious office with a great view. I promise to update this aspect of my life when I am not so depressed and exhausted because this is actually a happy happening.

Always (never) read the manual

2011-08-31T10:53:00.005-04:00

Becks realised too late that her new phone came with a warning...

So I am still playing with my new phone. I'll call it Purplicious (because its deliciously purple). I'm on the Gautrain with a lot of time on my hands and no signal. So can't talk, can't text which means I start noticing things on the Purplicious like the 'A' key also has a padlock sign on it. I simultaneously Think and Act.

Thought: 1) So this must be how you lock it; 2) Lets see what this does
Act: I long-key-press it down.

Well this does exactly what is pictured on the phone. It LOCKS it.

Which is great. Spectacular in fact for anyone who, like me, has unwittingly dialed random people in my phonebook after neglecting to lock the phone.

Except that I don't know how to unlock it. I haven't read the manual that far. Actually, I have'nt read any manual at all.

But the Purplicious Mobile-Phone Gods were smiling at me because across the aisle from me sat a young man tinkering away at his cousin-of-Purplicious mobile. As the train whined to a stop he put his phone away and I accosted him.

Me: Hey, I noticed that you have a [insert phone name]. (And yes, this really seemed like the right thing to say)
Young man: *Looks at me like, I'm a stalker*
Me: Ummm *embarrassment turning my chocolate to blue-black* You see I locked my phone... uh... it's new you see...

I explained my predicament. He smiled with relief and amusement and right there on the platform gave me a tutorial on how to lock and unlock my Purplicious. AND MADE DO IT IN FRONT OF HIM before he was satisfied enough to say goodbye and walk away.

What a rock star! (Thank you wherever you are!)

Wisdom teeth and new toys

2011-08-29T14:00:00.005-04:00

Becks couldn't believe the options...

Today I got my two wisdoms removed and a filling repaired. I got home with a mouthful of bloody gauze, numbness in half my face which made me feel swollen as if I had connected with a large fist travelling at several miles per hour.

The anaesthtic is starting to wear off and my mouth is starting to feel like I have been chewing gravel sprinkled with iron filings.

Luckily I have my new phone to distract me. Its not as manly nor is it a beast like my PEBL has been, but its pretty. Really pretty. So pretty I am afraid it might turn out to be an air-head.

I miss my PEBL (which just teased me when an alarm I had set on it for this evening just went off. The first thought that entered my head was not: how the heck is my phone ringing without a simcard in it. The first thought was: My baby's back!). Depressing.

I also miss having a mouth that does not ache.

And since the dentist appointment I have a sudden craving for the one thing I cannot eat right now: a fat juicy steak!

Viva the PEBL... or not.

2011-08-29T13:27:00.004-04:00

Dear Motorola People,

After a four year love affair - yes, FOUR, that is called staying power - I am sad to say goodbye. My PEBL served me so well, so faithfully over the years that I must admit, even though I have inserted my sim-card into my new phone and activated my new contract so there is no going back, I have hectic withdrawal symptoms and and feel a heartache not unlike that experienced at the reluctant end of a relationship when the other person has outgrown the relationship and you haven't.

Part of the reason I kept my 2007 PEBL for so long is because in 2009 it was run over by a bus - remember I told you about this - and it survived! This was endlessly special for me. I couldn't bear to part with it after that. As 2010 brought a wave of smart phones into mainstream mobile-phone-society I resisted parting with my beloved PEBL. Flaunting the Blackberries - is there a plural for blackberries? - and iphones, my friends teased me about my phone and called it names (like fossil, the beasts). But I could always say, "My pebl is a rock! It was run over by a bus! What's yours done?" They would then want to know the story and my PEBL would achieve star status in a sea of smart phones.

*whispering: Another reason is that I was graduate student and I was broke*

Just when I was thinking my PEBL would outlive me, guess what happened? It slowly started giving up. Like a wise grandparent, it's decline was an educational experience. First the battery-life lessened to 30seconds per cycle (It taught me how to manage my mobile-phone comms efficiently when away from an electrical outlet point). Then it started freezing haphazardly, often during important telephone interviews (It taught me how to apologise sincerely). Finally the audio went bust so that the only way I could hear was through the loudspeaker (it taught me to be aware of other's privacy).

Last Friday I finally admitted that the time has come to let my PEBL have it's rest. I bet it's been the last PEBL in use on the planet. Today I finally collected my new phone. I shan't tell you what it is. It's not worthy to be mentioned in the same missive. It is not a Motorola - only because all the rather cool looking Motorolas seem to never find their way across the Atlantic to South Africa. But know that I am sad.

I just wanted to let you know and hope you don't feel betrayed.

Affectionately
Becks

PS On a more positive note, my mum got a new smart phone the other day. This is BIG because she really only learnt how to send a text without help, LAST YEAR!! Guess what she got? A MOTOROLA!!! Apparently its a mean machine operating on like Android 103!!!!!! So at least you are still in the family.

PSS I don't think my new phone is a mean machine :(

Womanifesto

2011-08-15T06:00:00.002-04:00

This woman is banging!!

Clearly, I am not a fat ass. I am active brain, and lip smacking, peach deep; sometimes too aggressive in its honesty. And heart, sweet, that loves wholly, and completely, whom it may chose, whomever it may choose.

I am not gonna lie, and pacify. I am arms to hold. I am lips to speak. I am a muthafuckin G; strong legs that stroll off the 33 bus, or out of a money green phantom, comfortably; knees that bend to pray, clean from ajax washings; hair that is thick and soft, thighs that betwixt…an amazing, all expense, grand prize.

I am eyes that sing, smile that brightens, touch that rings, and supplies euphoric release. I am a grand domme queen beast. I am warm, I am peace. from the roads of Botswana, from 23rd street; from the inside, third eye, ever watching this wicked, wicked system of things I do see. I am friend to pen, and a lover of strong women; a diamond to men. I am curious and interested, like children.

I welcome the wise to teach, appreciator of my culture, thick, not just from bone dense and eat. I have a rhythm in my ways, and a practice in my seek. And yes, I do crave the rhythm of my space with a man that rejoices in God’s grace, with faith. I do hear to listen, two hands that fist when force pushes to shove, and your ego won’t submit. I am gifted, I am all of this, and indeed the shit.

Clearly, I am not…just…an ass.

~ Jill Scott

Always, there is love...

2011-08-14T18:57:00.006-04:00

It's sweet, when it doesn't hurt (though, sometimes pain titillates).

It's complicated, but it isn't. It's straight-forward, but not all that time.

Love is.

And sometimes...

... sometimes you just gotta run with it.

Growth and Development...

2011-08-14T18:06:00.004-04:00

I reconnected with a friend I hadn't seen in ages. We met in Cambridge and spent precious sunny days on the green banks of the River Camb drinking £4 vino (No judgement - PhD stipends were never generous) and eating our favourite garlic-stuffed-olives from the town market. How I loved that market. The food was inexpensive and yet fresh and organic. When we could afford it on our student budgets it was quite a treat.

This Saturday afternoon we gorged on seafood platters in a swanky restaurant and drank a bottle of premium sparkling wine in her luxury apartment.

We laughed about those days gone by, and agreed that today we are better women because of them; and that, in fact, those days - filled with sunshine, friendship and laughter in a foreign country when our lives were usually comprised of dreary weather, endless, solitary reading and writing of dissertations whose completion seemed depressingly distant - those days of lightness and love were freaking awesome!

Eye... I mean Hard Candy

2011-08-11T13:43:00.004-04:00

There is a gigantic potato-stuffed condom with a peanut for a head sitting on Ellen Degeneres' couch.

Oh! My bad.

Its Dwayne Johnson with a shaved head.

I love The Rock but sometimes he looks like he is bulging in places a human being should not be bulging in... the dude is so muscled he looks like he has ceps EVERYWHERE *wink*. I bet his has ceps in his pinky!

I think I'm going to watch Fast Five tonight.

Idiot criminals OR symptoms of a dysfunctional soceity?

2011-08-09T09:18:00.005-04:00

The world-wide-web* is abuzz with the riots in England. "London Burns" is a phrase that's been included in every headline and/or news report bringing to life imaginings of what the 'Great Fire of London' must have looked like 1666. Of course the fire of 1660 London was attributed to a bakery accident. In the present day, it has been blamed depending on which side of the political fence you sit, on a) scores of idiotic criminalistic youth who have nothing better to do than to riot, loot and incite violence everywhere they go or b) a system that has failed it's poor through, cut-backs and job losses.

While there are those criminal opportunist involved, I refuse to believe that ALL of the hundreds of people who took part in the looting or violence, many in their own home towns, did so for the 'fun' of it. What I do think happens is that sometimes, and a first world country like England is not exception, a people becomes so disaffected in the society they live in that they get carried away in a moment of mass hysteria into partaking in some non-sensical events. We are living in an era where, as a result of the recession that has gripped the global economy in recent times, economic austerity has become the trope of our time. Lets not kid ourselves and pretend to not realise that fiscal policy does not have human consequence.

It would be a grave mistake for England to continue to blame the last few days events on a band of gangsters with nothing better to do. Policy makers, community leaders and educators need to realise that what has happened is the result of a discontent that has been simmering for a time. The unrest began in Tottenham with the suspicious shooting of Mark Duggan by the police and the shoddy way with which Duggan's family was subsequently handled by the police. Duggan was also a black man in a society where racial societal differences are ignored. These events were not the cause of the riots, but rather a match that set off a bonfire that had been, for a long time, been waiting to be lit.

Poverty and the resulting misery are not an excuse for lawlessness. But, societal progress and accountability comes out of an inclusive economy where citizens possess a sense of societal responsibility because they are stakeholders. Rioting and looting does not sound, to me, like the past time of someone who considers themselves an accountable citizen and a societal stakeholder; and the questions policy makers/drivers need to ask is 'why?' and 'how do we change this?'

*I love to say this phrase because everytime I say it I remember how Optimus Prime says it in the first Transformers' movie when he explains how the Autobots have learnt Earth's languages :)

Fiddy is Shona? (aka Dreams of a Polyglot)

2011-08-04T06:08:00.008-04:00

...in my dreams.
In my dreams. The inexplicable happens.

I dreamt that Tyra Banks and I were kicking it like besties. True story! Well in my dream anyway. We were sitting on her bed and hanging out. Then suddenly Fiddy was there! And in my dream he was Tyra's boyfriend. True story. He was hanging out with us. (And like a bad friend I didn't tell Tyra exactly what I thought about 50cent being her man). So he and I started chatting while Tyra was on the phone and then it turned out he was from Zimbabwe. Of course my reaction was, "Dude? For real?! Do you ever go back?"

"Aw man, all the time! I go in my helicopter, I'm like in and out!" Fiddy told me. In Shona*. True story. Then he does this Optimus Prime thing where he shows me a vision of his helicopter landing in a dusty barren red-soiled open space.

Never mind the special effects. The interesting part is that the rest of the dream was in English till the minute I started talking to Fiddy. I was aware that he was speaking to me in Shona and I was speaking right back, even though I almost never have occasion to speak what little Shona I knew** and have thus lost most of it over the years.

I think this dream comes from the fact that I wrote a note to my cousin in Ndebele and I included the word 'saka' and he freaked out about how the Shona have stolen their women (long story about Shona-Ndebele relations). I retorted: "I'm a polyglot. Sue me" and then proceeded to write 7 ~~probably nonsensical~~ sentences in 7 different languages. (English, Ndebele, Sotho, Xhosa, Shona, German and Italian).

That's why Fiddy can speak Shona in my dreams.

*And nobody ask me what the shona word for helicopter is!!
**which really involves me beginning or ending an English sentence with the word 'Shaa'. And interjecting sentences with the word saka (Loosely translate to 'friend' and 'so' respectively). Many people have been fooled by this stunt. Example:
Shona speaker: "Becks, you speak shona?"
Becks: "Hiiiii, shaa. Saka you are seriously asking me shaa? Of course I do shaa!"
Shona speaker: *prattles into some hardcore shona speak*
Becks: Hmmmm shaa! Saka what happened?
Works every time. EV.ERY.TIME.

Ndebele 101

2011-08-02T12:28:00.005-04:00

Why thank you for the warning. I think I shall.

For my ndebele peeps (Looking at V.... and Itayi by association). My baby sis,The Chocolategurl is in need of some ndebele lessons. I know I am laughing at her when I had to sheepishly admit ignorance the other day when V. told me about 'sthembos and things.

Becks: u[Himself] uyavela mhlaka 28?

Baby sister: Evelangaphi? Uyenga'?

She cracks me up! I don't know if I can explain, to non-ndebele speakers but I'll do my best. The word for approaching a woman's parents with your intentions to pay lobola (bride price/dowry) in ndebele is 'vela' and it also is the word - in some contexts - for 'return'. So essentially the conversation went something like this:

Becks: [Himself] intends to ask Rambo for my hand in marriage.

Baby sister: Where is he coming from?

BED!

2011-08-01T11:53:00.003-04:00

Just got into it because its so cold outside of it. My little toesies are... well if I could feel them I'd tell ya!

[Himself] assured everyone that beneath the ice is a very lovable ~~monster~~human being

How the heck does it get that cold that fast. From nice sunny 18°C this afternoon, it's now a nippy 10°C, on its way to a forcasted night time temperature of FOUR DEGREES CELSIUS.
It's August, 4 weeks till spring ~~which, in our Savannah climate tends to be more like summer~~ *breath Becksy breathe and think of s~~umm~~pring*.

Super Hero(ine) Fever

2011-07-31T14:52:00.003-04:00

The other day I chatted to two guys about the avalanche of super-hero movies on the big screen. I am a big fan of Marvel and DC comics so two hours in the movie house watching live-action reincarnation of comic-heroes whose adventures I followed since I was old enough to read arouses in me the same pleasure other girls will get from two hours getting a glorious spa treatment in a 5-star facility. In fact I love super-hero movies so much that where other men elicit squeals of pleasure by buying their partners flowers or chocolate because it's Tuesday, [Himself] recently got the same reaction when he came home and surprised me with tickets for the new Transformers movie.

At the time we had this chat, I had just watched X-Men: First Class and the Green Hornet. A few months ago we went to watch the fabulously chested Chris Hemsworth as Thor. We talked about how we anticipated the release of the movie, The Avengers, due to be released next year. Aloud I wondered why Hollywood had been behind the spate of Superhero movies we have seen in the last few years. Hollywood has covered almost every well known superhero from the solo players like the Incredible Hulk, Spiderman, and Batman; and the team-players like the X-Men and the G.I. Joes. Where were the female super-heroes in the flurry? Well there's been two, Elektra and Catwoman, but what about the Ultimate chick superhero.

Yes. I'm talking about Wonder Woman!

"What about wonder woman? They should make a WW movie." I said wistfully.

"What! No!" the guys cried. "She's got stupid powers, what does she have? The lasso of truth and the indestructible bracelets. That's lame!"

Lame? Stupid? In a world where stories are written and movies are made about grunting green giants with super-human strength; and an alien who flies around in a blue body suit with his underpants on the outside and a red cape, same dude - I might add - who wears a pair of nerdy glasses to hide his identity and that's enough to fool the (obviously stupid) people he works with into believing he's a just a nerdy, wimpy reporter who happens to disappear everytime the dude in the blue bodysuit is around... in that world, Wonder Woman's gifts are 'stupid'??

Come now gentlemen, lets stop with the sexism. I love both Superman and the Incredible Hulk but COME ON. If Wonder Woman's gifts are lame then the whole Super Hero troupe is made up of a bunch of gimps!

Just saying.

Lessons in parenting 101

2011-07-28T08:28:00.004-04:00

'Go the F*ck to Sleep' is what author Adam Mansbach, calls a 'children's book for adults'. "Mainstreaming of vulgarity" aside, this really is funny in a I'll-never-publicly-admit-it* kind of way. I am no parent so maybe that's why I find it funny but I do wonder if parents ever feel like this inside, while on the outside sweetly reading their child to sleep?? Would they dare admit it?

Story has it that "when Adam Mansbach's daughter Vivien was two, she would take up to two hours to fall asleep. Exhausted and exasperated, one night Mansbach posted a note on Facebook, "Look out for my forthcoming children’s book, Go the — to Sleep". Following his post, friends of Mansbach responded enthusiastically, so that Mansbach began writing what was then only a hypothetical book".

To any of you impatient parents** that think that this might be a good book to read to your child, or even think that showing your frustration is okay... the Men's Health response entitled Get the F*ck out of my room should set you straight.

*Like I'll never admit that sometimes I watch 'Beeeeeeeeep'. You can torture me a thousand different ways but I'll never admit it motha fucka!!

Mmmmm whatcha say

2011-07-21T04:41:00.002-04:00

Now I can't get the Imogen Heap tune out my head,

Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmm that you only meant well?
...well of course you did
Mmmm whatcha say,
Mmmm that it's all for the best?
....of course it is
Mmmm whatcha say?
Mmmm that it's just what we need
...you decided this
whatcha say?
Mmmm what did she say?

Happy Birthday Madiba... and me

2011-07-18T21:21:00.006-04:00

It's awesome to share a birthday with one of the greatest statesmen in the world but lets just forget Madiba for a second coz up in 'ere,

I am the man!!

I turned ~~twenty-er... thirty-o... thirty-coughmumbleth~~ twenty-one today.

I had a lovely day full of friends (near and far), flowers, bubbly and delicious food. I really like birthdays and want to have one regularly.

The biggest surprise was [Himself]'s birthday present to me. A designer dress. You see, [Himself] is the kind of man I have to lie to if I spend more than R300-500 on an article of clothing depending on what it is. The dress he gave me for my birthday is the kind whose price-tag (never mind purchase) would ordinarily give him a coronary**. Yet he bought it. For me.

A bundle of words swirl in my brain in particular order. Love. [Himself]. Beautiful clothes. Love. Joy.

*No. It's not vintage I checked*

I am tempted to say to the imposter sleeping next to me, "What have you done with the REAL [Himself], give him back!"

But I won't. Because my dress is so pretty it's all I can do to not wear it to bed and dry-hump it all night all.

*No I have no shame. What you gonna do to me?
**I am pretty sure if I speak to the ladies at store, they will remember the 8ft tall German who hyperventilated in the store when he had to hand over his credit card...

Hide and Seek

2011-07-16T20:33:00.002-04:00

My Dearest Chocolategurl

The first time I really listened to this song it brought to mind the of an extremely young, heart-wrenching and utterly naive love I thought I would never get over...

At the time, it took a lot of courage to say "I don't believe you". And to stop believing in that love. And to walk away from it, realising that beyond it, was a whole other beautiful life before me.

You have reservoir of strength. May you find the courage to draw from it.

All my love
B.

Labour of love

2011-07-11T18:20:00.003-04:00

The heart is a muscle.

That's what I told my 20 year old sister over skype much to [Himself]'s disapproval. He begged her not to listen to me. She has been having problems with her 25 year old boyfriend. You know, the normal stuff that often creeps into relationships while you're not paying attention and that, when you continue to ignore it, grows into something bigger than the both of you, big enough to utterely consume the relationship, so that when it's done you wonder why you ever got with each other in the first place.

She told me she wasn't sure what her heart was telling her to do. And that's when I said, the heart is a muscle. No, I don't believe I am a cynic when it comes to love and other matters of the heart, but I do believe that sometimes when we wait for the heart to guide us, it is because we are lazy. We are lazy to do the work that needs to be done to make a relationship work. We are lazy to take the time to think and consider the tough decisions that need to be made when a relationship should be allowed to end.

I wonder if the Big Sister torch is misplaced in my care. I wonder if I should be allowed to give advice to my 20 year old sister.

Weekend Shenanigans

2011-07-10T17:39:00.003-04:00

So at my last post-op visit where the doctor encouraged me and [Himself] to start pro-creating a.s.a.p (with the words "I want a baby") he also urged me not to be afraid to live my life. Do the things you always did before the operation, maybe a little less, or a little slower, but don't not live because you afraid that you will damage yourself.

Well. On Friday I took his advice literally. I LIVED. Well... only to the extent that drowning one's liver in half a bottle of sparkling wine, a cosmopolitan and 3 gin&tonics is 'living'. The evening, which started at NB's house with a fine bottle of Steenberg Brut between us two girls, during which we had a delicious dinner and changed into our Friday night finery. A typical girl's evening which I haven't had in ages where you change together and do each other's makeup. Only it was I doing NB's make up. I have never done anyone's makeup before. Ever. Yet she trusted me to do it as well as I did. Feeling like Hilary Clinton giving Martha Stewart advice on which skinny jeans to buy, I did NB's makeup and to my surprise she was pleased with the results. I put on my blue suede shoes, not intending to dance the night away... moreover, I am still in a space where I can't pop my ass without any pain.

Our first stop was the Circle Bar for a cosmo. The Circle Bar on this night was a strictly one-drink-venue and after being leered at by lonley business-men and BEE types we tottered on our heels out of there and made our way to The Bank - a club that plays hip-hop on a Friday night. Woo hoo!

This was a venue that called for Gin&Tonic and excessive amounts of dancing. I am sure NB and I were the oldest people in the club, but that didn't stop the vulturistic men and boys who - as NB said with that straight-face that is so uniquely German - were "like flies to shit" as they swarmed upon us. Some men hit on NB and others on me, and still others - more interestingly - hit on us BOTH as if we were a duo, half of the same entity to be had together.

But perhaps the most interesting event was having a strange young woman named Candy - and this is no joke - ask to join us. She insisted on introducing herself and when we both didn't catch her name drowned by the loud music she pushed the already dangerous decolletage aside to show us the wordCandy tattooed onto her breast.

"Alrighty then."..... "Candy".

NB thought Candy was merely strange. I was convinced Candy was... ummm a lady of the night. We were merely props. At around 2:30am she askd NB for the time and when she heard that it 2:30 she promptly put on her coat and left. On our way to the spa the following day to recover from the effects of the night before, NB surmmised Candy's abrupt departure was because she was tired, 2:30 is late to be out. I argued that she might have had curfew with her pimp.

While I was busy ~~making judgements~~ dancing up a storm the heels that I put on because I didn't think I would be dancing in, I didn't realise my mobile was getting stolen.
So I woke up on Saturday not only with a raging hangover so bad it hurt to blink, but also phoneless.

I am annoyed with myself, I am too old to be losing my phone in club. Grrrr.

Still. It. Was. An. Awe. Some. Night. Out. Spectacular. And NB and I had organised a spa date for the day after which was a perfect way to recover. A mani & pedi to feel pretty, a wholesome vegetable soup and lots of tea to help flush out the poisons from the night before and a beautiful hot stone massage to soothe a battered body that no-longer has any business being kept out until 4am!

Pizza-rific Delights

2011-07-06T04:38:00.005-04:00

I am not a big pizza fan so imagine - to my surprise - actually LOVING the pizza I had at Toni's last night.

We were a small birthday party of three and arrived at the establishment about 30minutes earlier than our booking thinking we would spend the time at the bar having aperitivo or something. The reception from the head-waitress person was as chilly as the outdoors, as she seemed infinitely annoyed that we were early, and curtly informed us that there was no bar. Feeling castigated like errant school kids, we wouldn't have minded going somewhere else for 30minutes but she irritably herded us to an empty table, giving us the impression that we had just caused her some near-catastrophic inconvenience.

So we sat at our table, feeling a chill that was more than the draft from the door behind us. Though we were sat under a gas heater we kept our coats, and it wasn't till our super friendly waiter came over and MORE than made up for the unfriendly hostess that we could take them off.

The cheap yummy cocktails, and EXCELLENT pizza obliterated any lingering sourness. I had a delicious mushroom and garlic pizza while the Birthday Girl had an interesting pear, walnut and Gorgonzola combo while [Himself] had a spicy chorizo pasta. The pizzas were alarmingly gigantic till you dug in to discover wafer thin, light crust. Bliss on a round flat dish. Garlickey bliss.

The rest of the evening could only flow luxuriously after that. [Himself] was in such a good mood he didn't mind running two car loads of girls as we went off to pick up the BG's basketball team at their bed&breakfast and taking us to a student bar-cum-club were we made merry over cocktails and shooters while dancing our asses off to bubblegum pop sounds surrounded by under-graduate pimply faced youth.

All this... in Pretoria. Go figure.

Forever ♥

2011-07-06T03:44:00.004-04:00

I ♥ Tom Ford and I ♥ a good love story.

In Tom Ford and Richard Buckley Forever, Tom and Richard each tell their side of the story about how they met and fell in love. What a courageous and heart-warming story.

"Every time you think, I love you, I really believe you have to say it. If you think about holding their hand or kissing them, you do it. I do it all the time" ~ Tom Ford

Man I love...

2011-07-04T08:51:00.005-04:00

I have been poorly the past few days. That's neither here no there as I have been in various states of unwellness for the past 6 weeks that being 'poorly' is all starting to feel normal. Okay, I am wallowing and feeling sorry for myself, so nothing like a man who loves me to cheer me up right?

So I just succumbed to crippling stomach cramps followed by a bout of nausea not more than an hour ago. When I started to feel better, I dialled [Himself] at the office. I thought I should let him know in case he came home and found me dead on the floor. So I had to give him a heads up; and of course to give him my After-Death Instructions:

Me: Honey, I just threw up my breakfast.
[Himself]: Baby, don't you know that food is expensive?

Okay.

Wallowing over.

Grab Bag

2011-06-13T11:03:00.003-04:00

This is a collection of random ramblings.

Wit of the stair-case
IF I had a bucket list I could essentially tick an item off it already (not that I have a bucket list and not that this item would make it onto my list If I had one) . [Himself] and I had an orgy. Yes, there were other people involved. Yes there was sex involved.

Background: [Himself]'s house-mate announced once that he had Kim Kardashian's 'Sex-tape' video - yes the one that went viral and she ended up suing somebody's newspaper pants off and eventually sold the rights to it for $5million before she took most of her clothes of for Playboy - on his laptop. Yesterday was the day that [Himself] decided that it was high time he saw this sex-tape. And so we watched snippets from this tape, [Himself], my-self, House-mate and his girlfriend. So picture the scenario. Two couples watching a third in a sex-tape. Three couples, sex-event, Orgy!!!

(quick aside... Ray Jay - KK's sex partner on the tape - had a ummm equipment so long it I wonder if he wouldn't have a more profitable career as a porn star instead of singing).

Broody bunch
(I confess to being weirded out by the fact that I have these two items in same post)

For a very long time I didn't think I liked kids because I didn't think kids liked me. But to my surprise, not only did kids* like me, but I** LOVED them back. The me pre-friends-popping-babies-left-right-and-centre (PFPB) would look on the me-now and be in wonderment as she sees the me that not only agreed BUT OFFERED to babysit my friend's little one. The me PFPB would be even more amazed not by the fact that I had a great time, but by the fact that my friend's little one had an even greater ***time.

For sure the me PFPB would have high-fived me for picking a guy like [Himself] who is absolutely so wonderful with children and soooo amazing with the little one that my ovaries have officially gone into [Himself] groupie mode and if they could have asked him for an autograph they would have.

And as a result the ovaries twitched in yearning anxiety every time we saw a parents/children combo in the restaurant the next day when we went out to lunch.

New shoes.
I got new shoes. Ivory coloured canvas brogues. They make me feel like modern-day Katherine Hepburn. I can't wait to rock them on Thursday night when Micha and I join another couple for a foursome - this time over cheese fondue at a Swiss restaurant. This is ~~the only~~ one of the reasons I am so looking forward to the evening.

*And these are some very biased little people because their parents are my friends
** But I might also be biased because I love their parents dearly.
*** The only reason this beautiful child's pleasure surpassed mine was because I was nervous and worried about forever damaging the child every-time I opened my mouth to say things to [Himself] like, "Woody would be a great name for ~~Ray Jay~~a pornstar" while the three of us watched Toy Story. Then I'de realise what i just said infront of the little one and I'de be like "Oh sh~~iiiiiiii~~erbet!!!" so sherbert sounded like Sheeeeeee-yerbert!

Things [Himself] says...

2011-06-03T13:54:00.000-04:00

I am sure it's a function of too much studying and it's cooking his brain.

Actually be warned... there are some TMI moments in this post:

The Toilet is My Friend
So one of the side effects of taking prescription pain meds is constipation. To say I have been struggling is an understatement. But. I also get how it could be overshare. But anyway, [Himself] cracked me up the other day:
Me: I HATE MY LIFE!!! (4 days of being unable to take a crap will do this)
[Himself] seriously: Baby - turning around in his chair - lets deal with this once and for all*. What is your attitude to the toilet?
Me: Huh?
[Himself]: See. For me the toilet is a happy place. I sit on toilet and I can read the Financial Times, or cartoons and I am happy. Do you like the toilet baby.
Me: Huh?
[Himself]: You need to re-examine your relationship with the toilet baby. Change you attitude to it. You'll find your problem will go away.
Me: Huh?

Mother Nature intentions
So this evening I have my hair out in a full blown billow-in-the-wind afro for the first time in like forever - I usually have it in an afro puff at the top of my head.
[Himself]: run's his hand through my hair
Me: Ouch
[Himself]: How come your hair is like that?
Me: raised eyebrows, wondering were this is going. The white boy is surely not asking me why I have curly hair!
[Himself]: I mean, my hair is not as greasy. runs his hand down his normally shaved but growing out hair.
[Me]: My hair is greasy!?? run a hand though my tresses in terror... Lord don't let my hair be greasy! That's nasty!
[Himself]: No, it's not greasy greasy but there is definitely some stuff.
Me: Well because I put stuff in it!
[Himself]: Why?
Me: Er... because it's dry. Its much drier than your type of hair. If I don't moisturise it, it will literally snap off!
[Himself] seriously: I wonder why that is? I wonder what Nature's reason is?

What? For hair that snaps off in half? There has to be a reason? Like the extra bone? You - to Mother Nature - Explain yourself! And you - to [Himself] - stop studying already!

*He is HECTICALLY studying for his CFA exams and for him to take a moment to deal with my constipation drama is a BIG THING. It's one of the things that show me he loves me.

Because Blacks get boo-boos too...

2011-06-01T15:35:00.004-04:00

...and regular band-aid is just racist!

So the other day, while at a mate’s house I needed band-aid for a [TMI scenario]. My friend , who is European ( and thus white - in case that's not implied) – let’s call her NB, instructs me to dig around in her medicine cabinet. “We’v lots of band-aid,” NB tells me. “There’s even some for black people*.” The last bit left me perplexed. What does: ‘There’s some for black people’ mean? Why would black people need special band-aid? Does this special band-aid stick better on our skin because it has melanin-sensing glue particles?

When I eventually found it, it took me a split second to realise why this strange looking chocolate brown band-aid was for black people. My medicine box contains kid’s novelty band-aid with Disney characters and flowers on colourful strips so it suddenly made sense that someone would want to capture the black market in the world of band-aid. Then it occurred to me that regular beige/nude coloured band-aid was actually coloured that way for whites.

Turns out [Himself] is not a fan of the black people band-aid. Said it was too alarming. Perhaps because the brown of the tape did not come close to matching my shade of brown. (Or perhaps seeing a strip of any colour stuck across your fiance's noombie after two and a half weeks apart is too distressing for any man. After being away you don't want to come home to see your favorite play things have been broken in your absence and stuck back together by brown tape.)

*Apparently a relative sent them to her from Europe for her Xhosa (and thus black - in case that's not implied either) boyfriend.

Not-so-long-road to recovery II

2011-05-24T05:34:00.002-04:00

Post-surgery shower/bathing is a gymnastic event... trying to shower without wetting a section of your torso, should be turned into an Olympic sport... one I would have scored gold at. As of today I am no-longer a participant :)

Busta Rhymes and Karmin

2011-05-23T18:57:00.004-04:00

I just really am crazy about Busta Rhymes. I have fond memories of playing Extinction Level Event - yeah, so, I was a morbid teenager, what?! - on my little walk man in my dorm room in high school; and singing along to 'Gimme some more'. The man has skills.

And so has this woman!! The Amy half of Karmin just really kicked ass with her rendition of Busta in their cover version of 'Look at me now':

The duo was a YouTube sensation when I heard of them so I was so excited when Ellen picked them up and put them on her show the other day (well it might have been a few months ago, don't know how behind we are in South Africa). I like them. I really hope that their music career blossoms from this exposure.

So when I was 14 I had dreams of being a rap artist even though I was a nerd who was frightfully good at nerdy things like math and science. So the hip hop heads were not even trying to look my way and I was too... well nerdy to look theirs - stupid self-limiting foolishness of youth. So I rapped along to Dre, B.I.G, MC Lyte and Busta Rhymes in secret and tried to write down my own lyrics (though I suspect I knew nothing about songwriting and my compositions were more of poetry than songs).

When I watched this video I confess to being insanely jealous, for split second, that she could do what I ~~forgot~~ was too shy to do publicly even IF I could do it. But then I remembered that being Nicky Minaj is not a burning ambition and hasn't been for years. Maybe because I realised that I can't hold a tune to save my life.

Le'go!!

Not-so-Long road to recovery... I hope.

2011-05-20T01:30:00.000-04:00

Need to get me one of these babies for the shower!!

I just realised that since my myomectomy last Monday, I have been reminded every single day that truly I AM WOMAN. Wonderful (the miracle of it all) and despairing (the pain that comes with it) all at the same time. It's been a learning curve in a lot of respects... though its a lesson I kinda already knew, but before I think "what a waste" I would rather think of it as a reminder: how resilient and awesome and strong our bodies are.

And also how fragile! And tender. And need of love... from ourselves and others.

I am on the way to recovery. Truly. I can laugh a little more each day without fearing that I will rip open some stiches; though I still can't cough without fearing that I will rip my stomach open (I told this to my doctor this afternoon when he called to check up on me - what a guy - and his response: Cough now, while I am on the phone with you. My response: in your dreams dude... I would only feel safe enough to cough if I was in an OR with a surgical team prepped and ready to stitch me back if anything happened). I am still terrified of getting the incision wet; so my showers are still an interesting dance of trying to divide the body into two: washing the lower half is easy enough but try showering the upper half without a single drop of water running below your belly button. All I can say is, THANK YOU God for detachable shower heads and this I say with more sincerity than the thanks I gave mum when she once used her air miles to get me an upgrade on a NYC-London flight (and there I was almost kissing her feet). In the real world of myomectomies, first-class seats have nothing on detachable shower heads!

Shower gymnastics aside, I can sit up without much pain for longer periods of time, and with some pillow padding for back support, I can comfortably turn maybe up to 10 degrees so that I am SLIGHTLY on my side in my bed without too much pain. And as of today I can carry 8month old, M2, who is so beautiful he is just a joy to behold, never mind hold.

So I am really on the road to recovery and taking some giant leaps.

Black women are super hot!!

2011-05-19T09:57:00.005-04:00

Black women are less attractive than whites and Asians

That's the headline in the London Telegraph today. I too, initially thought it was a hoax and my my first reaction was dismissal as I thought, "Hmmm, hateration." Black women already carry a double burden when it comes to prejudice - racism and sexism and now we gotta contend with this pycho-babble from a charlatan.

Then I read on and discovered it was indeed an authentic reportage based on findings by one Kanazawa from the LSE. My next reaction was: How does he even dare. A quick perusal on the www to find out just who this man was revealed a number of studies he has undertaken all speaking to the the concept of biological racism. Black women are ugly, people from poverty stricken countries have lower IQs etc. A number of people have distanced themselves from him and his work, but if you threatened to shaft me anally using a heavily splintered broomstick I wouldn't get more chills than I got as I read the article and realised that Kanazawa as a proponent of such brand of biological racism was collecting together the perceptions of random people out there.

The results he used came off a poll administered online by the University of North Carolina (yes, a university no less... so much for universities being bastions of enlightenment). I have no idea where the participants were from (nor am i interested) but I do wonder how many people took part in this survey. Are Kanazawa's results the opinions of many or a handful? One wonders what supremacist attitudes people out there are sitting with out there. Does my hot, intelligent, BLACK, womanly self confuse their reality informed by misguided beliefs bred into them through centuries of race-bashing via slavery, colonialism and apartheid?

My brother, ever the devil's advocate dared to ask me: Is there anything wrong with preferring someone who looks most like you?

Maybe. Maybe not. But in a society such as ours for example, where race relations are driven by the vagaries of slavery and colonialism, and closer to home where apartheid laws dictated who you could and couldn't fall in love with, where that way of life was internalised and welded into peoples psyche so that people that dared to love interracially are regarded with some wonder, one wonders if 'preference' isn't (historically and socially) racially biased.

BUT when race is used to hierarchically organise, groups of people; to elevate the qualities of one group over another, in any context, then we have a problem. This is what is frightening about Kanazawa's brand of racism.

Nike and eleven year old boys...

2011-05-17T15:32:00.007-04:00

Things I discover when bored:

I am shocked to only discover this 'years' old ad only now but how awesome is this Nike ad:

In a world where skinny equals pretty how awesome to see an ad dedicated to the woman who - not matter the extremity/dedication/effectiveness of exercise or diet - will never be a size 00 (US) or a size 4 (UK), women who just want to be fit and healthy at whatever size they are, women who will always wonder if their "butt's too big in this?" . Basically the 99.9% of women NOT represented in fashion magazines. I know Nike have been running this 'My Butt is Big' ad campaign for a few years now* but it's cool to see some rhetoric in the fashion world that challenges the "it's more stylish to have hips and ass like an eleven year old boy" story.

Because in real life, the only people who look normal with hips of an eleven year old boy... well, are eleven year old boys.

*And I know they are trying to widen (no pun intended) their customer base

In other news: DSK

2011-05-16T16:34:00.004-04:00

How crazy is the drama involving Strauss Kahn??? I am not saying he didn't do it. I am just saying, this smells of political meddling. He was apparently the front runner to the french presidency in 2012. I REALLY can imagine Sarkozy gloating. They are both on their third marriages, with Sarkozy's rumoured to be in trouble amidst even more rumours of extra-marital affairs. Sarkozy is probably sitting back in a cushy armchair, getting a massage from his current squeeze, drinking whiskey, smoking a fat cigar and giggling his white french socks off going: Dom, Dom, Dom. Vy deedn't you just have anozer offair vees a villing partner like me?? At least zat eez not a crime, yes?

On a more serious note. With DSK arrested - without bail - and Lipsky (number 2 at the IMF) having announced his exit for August, what does that mean for the IMF? The organisation played and continues to play a huge role in the financial crisis both in terms of American and European strategy. It also has a large g20 portfolio. And now it's in a crisis of it's own: a leadership crisis.

Perhaps what is most interesting for me is the list of candidates tipped to take the IMF reigns. There were many names neither know how to pronounce nor am ever going to remember except one: South Africa's own former minister of finance: Trevor Manuel*. Just for being considered, good going Trev! That, was an exciting moment that took my mind away from my scarred body! Woo hoo!

*Did I ever mention that I saw Trevor Manuel in Cavendish (shopping mall in Cape Town) TWICE last holiday season. Both times he was with his powerful-banker wife Maria Ramos. Otherwise I would have given him my phone-number. (Whispering... Trevor. Call me!)

Myomectomy adventures continued...

2011-05-16T15:33:00.004-04:00

Recovery from a myomectomy is, it seems, not very unlike recovering from giving birth by cesarean section. I DO acknowledge that I might have it easier because unlike c-section, there is no baby to look after, no maternal obligations to fulfil while I convalesce. And boy am I convalescing - a post for another day.

That said - and let me make a disclaimer: I still want my babies! All ten of them! One day. But that said, this is the hardest sh*t I have ever had to go through and I not only applaud but BOW to the likes of KLM and Shazhi2 and my other mates, who have given birth by c-section and so have some idea - if not MORE - of what recovering from this type of surgery entails. HIGH. FIVE.

Let me not be negative by listing the things I can NOT do and list the things I CAN:

I can sleep only on my back, pain free.
I can sit, only half lying back on a bunch of pillows, pain free.
I can walk really slowly
I can take cartons of pain killers if I want to do any of the above differently.
I can take a laxative to, well you know... deal with the results of too much codeine in the pain killers I take to do any of the above differently.
I can take naps at anytime during the day when functioning like a normal human being tires me out.

Another thing that instills positivity is the fact that during the doctor's visit today - the first since I was discharged last Wednesday -, he made a rough sketch of my uterus and explained how exactly the procedure went. He dealt with, in total, some 8 fibroids. Well he removed five and three were small enough to be burned away. NOW. The amazing bit. For the last 12 months - since the diagnosis - we thought the biggest fibroid was 12cm long. One of the reasons my doctor was pushing for surgery was because we thought it was growing faster than normal. It basically went from 9.8cm in diameter last Feb to about 11.8 cm last November. I could tell that this was vexing him given that myomas are supposed to be slow growing. WELL. Okay, now for the amazing bit -really this time. Turns out that our mysterious extra 2cm cam from the fact that we were looking at changing angles of a SEVENTEEN centimeters in diameter large ~~fibroid~~ THING!! SE.VEN.TEEN. That's the size of a 4.5 month old foetus. My doctor's words shortly after telling me,

Dr: I don't know where you were hiding that thing.
Me: Word.

Now I get why he was 'beaming' after the surgery. With all the risks associated with myomectomies, the largest being bleeding out, its amazing that he managed to do what he did with what he had. This is one in a series of miracles.

And yet. After all that wonderfulness (even though some of it is supported by some 46 pain-killers over the last week in my blood stream)... Only one thing I am trying to be positive about but failing dismally: Today the doctor took off the dressing*. Try as I might be positive, I could not stop crying when I saw the scar. I knew this was going to happen. Ten years ago I had a lumpectomy and when I first saw the fresh scar a few days after the surgery I cried for days. Of course that time I was lucky to have my mum there with me. This time I am not so lucky. More than any other time I wished [himself] was here. But he isn't.

Experience has taught me that the scar is a) not as bad as it looks and b) will heal to look better than it looks now. BUT I found myself sitting in the bathroom this evening weeping my heart out at the appearance of what looks like a once-flat-ish-now-deformed tummy.

I know that you are thinking that this is nothing in the face of the fact that the surgery was a success and I have my life and there have been no complications. These are things are try to tell myself.

But all I can think is how difficult the next few weeks, months are going to be. The pain will probably go away in a few weeks and I will return to functioning at normal human being levels but the scar will always be there. I start to feel guilty and trivial for going on about a scar that his well hidden below my bikini line so I will shut up here.

*We had a conflict moment when he took of the dressing:
Me: Er... you not putting on another one?
Dr: No. It is slightly inflamed but I think it's healing nicely. You don't need a dressing.
Me: Dr? Have you ever gotten a paper cut wet? It stings ~~like a motherfucker~~ something awful! I won't be able to shower or bath! I'll stink. I demand to be redressed!
Dr: You will be able to shower and bath as normal. You will be fine.
Me: I won't.
Dr: You will.
Me: I am not leaving until you give me a new dressing.
Dr: Becks. You know we have a psychiatry wing in the hospital.
Me: That will be better than running around with a gaping wound on my abdomen.
Dr: You don't have a gaping wound on your abdomen
Me: ..... silence complemented by steely gaze....
Dr: Sigh (as he caves). Okay. Lets compromise. I'll give you something light that you can remove later.
Me: Ok (really I know a good deal when I see one... I was just not ready to go cold turkey on the dressing.)
And that is how I came away with a panty-liner against my scar, sticky side stuck to the inside of my panties. Sneaky doctor.

Shifting perspectives

2011-05-14T07:46:00.003-04:00

I admit to being more fervent in my prayers when faced with a tough situations. I wish I was fervent all the time.

I feel the same way about my friendship right now. Sure I have actively solicited love since my op (unashamedly reminding friends that I just had surgery, am bed ridden so to bring lots of chocolate even though I am not a choccie fan at all) but I am slightly appalled that I more aware of the beauty of my friendships now than when I have shared with them in joyful situations. Note to self: Don't take friendships for granted.

But in all seriousness. How wonderful, how beautiful my friends and family have been. I had teary a moment last night when I lay in bed and wondered what I had done to deserve such beautiful - for it cannot be described in any other way - treatment from the people in my life. I was lying in bed in Shazhie's beautiful home after she insisted I come and recuperate in her space so I wouldn't be alone while [Himself] is away, after a day where the most Expensive FB friend I have since encountered (EFB)* made me breakfast and dumped a load of exciting reading material in my lap - and had just read an email from KLM who kindly but firmly scolded me for my previous post where I dared to consider 'barrenness'***. She declared that she would not allow me to think that was a possibility and would - quote unquote - bitch slap me if I dared to speak in that manner again. It was a short email, but in reinvigorated in me a sense of wellness, a sense of "I'm going to be okay"-ness. And hope and positivity about the great things lying ahead of me. And I thought about how, in their different ways, my friends and family have been loving and encouraging without letting me wallow**, something I have been on the brink of doing many times this week.

My biggest fear about this whole procedure was having it done and recovering in a city far from my friends yet, new friends and old friends I haven't seen in year have opened up their hearts, homes and libraries and have not for a single minute let me feel alone.

And so this post is really to honour these wonderful people, near and far, the ones I have come into direct contact with and the ones quietly remembering me by way of thought and prayer.

My deepest appreciation and all my love.

*Between our impenetrable privacy settings it's been quite an adventure trying to locate EFB on facebook. That's why I have decided she is expensive!
**It's been a confusing week. On one hand I want to put my hand on my tummy, where the scar is and think, "I'm bloated and in pain and this sucks! I'm gonna have a scar, I'll be ugly'. But how do you allow yourself to think this when so much love and encouragement if flowing your way?
***I only dared to think this because I am aware of the small window of opportunity to be pregnant and the fact that my doctor has been talking about nothing else. I must remind myself not to let the pressure get me down or discourage me. So KLM, I am putting this out there into the universe: [Himself] and I WILL have beautimous children when I am ready for them, myoma or not.

Things to do when you are bored

2011-05-12T15:43:00.000-04:00

So now that I am in post-operative, recovery mode which involves lying back with your feet up and existing on the dizzying heights of pain-med effects I have a LOT of time on my hands with to entertain myself (and possibly annoy others).

So I have compiled a list of things to do when you are bored in no particular order when it comes to preference.

1) To learn the words to all of Busta Rhymes jams.
2) When asked how the surgery went, to innocently query, "Which one?"
2a) When asked how the surgery went, to innocently query, "Which one, the one where the doctor mistook me for an appendicitis patient or the second one?"
3) To draw.
4) To fire chocolate balls at well wishers walking through the door and pretend I didn't do it even when I am the only one in the room.
5) To blink constantly when talking to someone
6) to buy every glossy title in the store and read it from cover to cover, yes even 'Horse and hound'.
7) To cut all the faces out of my favorite glossies and when someone asks what I'm doing, to claim they were looking at me and creeping me out.

And my current favorite:
8)Answer EVERY phone call from well-wishers with, "Sorry I can't talk right now, Jerry Springer is about to start" and promptly drop the phone.

Life's Prognosis

2011-05-12T03:20:00.000-04:00

Mini-becks defied odd to grow into an ass-kicking super brainy basketball ninja.

The awesome thing about being recovery from a [successful] major surgery is that you are treated like a princess i.e. incessantly spoilt.

Texts, calls, emails, visits, orchids, dark chocolate and fresh-made soup from friends. Breakfast in bed, tender kisses and my favourite snacks as treats from [Himself].

Possibly the craziest thing out of all this is the fact that my doctor would like me to fall pregnant asap because quote unquote “these things tend to grow back you see”.

I do see.

I do see that I am running against a fast ticking clock here. But the girl of February last year who almost died at the possibility of never carrying to term a child of her own has been replaced by a woman who firmly believes, what is, is; and what will be, will be. And she is okay with it. I want a mini-me. [Himself] does too. I mean have you taken a look at us! Our spawn would be a tall, cute poofy haired, half euro-half African version of us with extra bone to run faster & jump higher (watch out Kenyan marathon runners & Michael Jordan) and lighter bones to swim faster (watch out Michael Phelps) and all... the ultimate sport machine who would be good looking AND brainy too.

But what is, is and whatever will be, will be.

Myometous adventures

2011-05-09T02:12:00.004-04:00

Today is the big day. The Myomectomy happens at 2pm CAT and then I spend 5 days in hospital surrounded by sick and/or dying people. Two weeks ago I signed an indemnity form in my doctor's rooms basically agreeing that if he fucked up and sliced open my stomach, or snipped off my bladder or gauged out an eyeball by mistake, I wouldn't sue him... essentially the only response I would be allowed to make to my doctor saying, "Oops, my bad" would be: "Hey, no worries mate, shit happens".

Yet. I am not as nervous as a) I thought I would be and b) as I was last week.

Maybe this has a lot to do with the fact that [Himself] is telling everyone that I am going in for decapitation surgery. It's too gross to be funny but morbid enough to distract me.

We lay in bed and prayed last night. Well I prayed while [Himself] listened as if I were reciting poetry. I was calm. I am calm.

Perhaps what is keeping me level headed is that, though most of my family and friends are far away, they have not, for a single second missed an opportunity to show me and tell me that that are thinking of me; that I am loved. I appreciate this. More than they realise.

Big love and showers of kisses to all my people.

Joseph Heller, Yossarian and Thor

2011-05-02T07:36:00.003-04:00

What a pleasure to open my Sunday Times magazine and find a ‘footnote’ on Joseph Heller. It literally is just a morsel as far as article’s go but I am such a huge fan of his most famous book Catch-22 and the lesser known ‘God Knows’ that I will inhale anything on the author. Published in 1961, Catch-22 is one of the best contributions to English language literature in the last century. I have just learnt that is was published 5 years over the deadline and, before that, he sent an incomplete version to publishers having decided that if none of them liked it he would not finish it. Thank God someone did or else we would have been deprived of sharing in the, at once, poignant and funny and crazy adventures of Captain Yossarian (whose sole exercise throughout the novel is to prevent his own death while stationed in Pianosa during the second world war as a bombardier and constantly encounter’s Catch 22 during this quest) and his friends.

On a different note. I love superhero movies (except one questionable green monster who is the epitome of the reluctant hero and just how creepy is the love affair between the green monster and Betty) so I was literally palpitating with excitement when we went to see Thor last night. Actually, besides the X-men, Thor has always been one of my favourite comic-book heroes from the Marvel family, so how nice to see him grace the big screen. And how, beautifully he graced it even when he was angry, arrogant, petulant, foolhardy and all those other flaws that made him an unsuitable heir to the throne.

In the final scene when he wonders what his mortal love, Jane Foster (played by Natalie Portman), is doing, he is told: she is searching for you. I thought, hey I would switch my discipline from sociology to astrophysics and search for you too buddy!

What’s good with this movie that makes it worth a look? Asguard is pretty impressive as a conceptualisation of what a city of the Gods would look like. Anthony Hopkins is probably the only person who really ‘acts’. Hemsworth (Thor) is beautiful to look at and doesn’t seem a half bad actor at all though this role doesn’t give him much room to show of his acting skills.

What’s bad with it? Don’t watch it if you seek profundity. The Earth scenes come across as painfully thin so that even the romance between Thor and Jane seems premature and forced; and ultimately unconvincing. This is a waste for Natalie Portman who is really a fine actress.

But who cares about profundity when you have a beautiful Norse God with a ~~chiselled~~ cut body to look at. ~~In this role Hemsworth's Thor makes Hugh Jackman's Wolverine look pudgy~~ what am I saying! Hemsworth and Jackman are both Aussies... I wonder if it's something in the water?

2011-05-01T17:59:00.003-04:00

In December of 2004 - just after Christmas - I travelled to New Orleans. It was an exciting time to be in the Big Easy. The city was alive with New Year's revellers, the Sugar Bowl took place just after New Year and during that time Bourbon Street seemed to be bursting at the seams with supporters. To say I had an amazing time is an understatement. So when, two and a half years later, things didn't work out with the man I thought was the love of my life and I suddenly 'needed to get away from it all', my cousin suggested I join her in New Orleans for a few weeks. I jumped at the chance. Hurricane Katrina had happened a year before that and I was excited and curious to see what New Orleans, post-Katrina would have in store for me. What I thought was that I would see the city I remember falling inlove with, and only this time it would be different. I had no way of conceptualising how different. Which was a good thing, perhaps.

I took a 6month leave of absence from university, left Cambridge for New Orleans (via Dubai for a particularly poignant 'Good-bye' to the man I was convinced was the love of my life, and New York for a particularly crazy weekend with a girlfriend who believed the cure all for break-ups was red lipstick, high-heels and cocktails in a ritzy place) and for what I thought was the adventure of a life-time.

Very little of the city I had fallen inlove with had remained! I say this emphatically insisting that as awesome as the French Quarter (and Cafe du Monde) is and as great as it is that it emerged relatively unscathed from the effects of Katrina, this is not the be all and end all of New Orleans. I was immediately hit by a sense of a loss of something bigger than just the physical devastation. There was something metaphysically eerie about seeing a car still stuck in a tree; or a part of a grave headstone lying in a field where it probably washed up during the flooding. There was something chilling about experiencing the unnatural stillness of the Lower 9th ward that was essemtially now a ghost-town in its barren vastness. I didn't hear just the silence - and that stillness was bad enough on it's own - but I also heard what had been lost: the bustle of life that once existed, laughter and cries of children at play, dog's barking, cars in the street, music pumping from the bedroom window of a rebellious teen, birds in the trees...

The sounds of Life. Of people living, dying, loving, fighting. Being.

A part of me was humbled. At how, in the face of nature, for all our technological leaps and all our advancement as the human race, we are still defenseless against some forces.

A part of me was angry. At the helplessness of it all. And I wanted to know: What's the point?

Today is an extension of my 'What's the point of it all?' mood.

GET. IT. OUT

2011-05-01T17:03:00.005-04:00

I realised yesterday that the surgery I thought was two weeks away is actually a week away. That's right. On the 9th of May I am going under the knife to remove these pesky fibroids which have, since I discovered them a year ago, grown at an alarming rate, so that the size of the largest one is apparently - at 12cm across - the size of a 16week old foetus*.

I don't want to talk about the actual surgery. I will let my surgeon worry about that. What's getting to me is the sudden sense of helplessness of it all; that niggly feeling of not being in control; of feeling betrayed by my body. I have never had delusions of being immortal, invincible** perhaps, but never immortal. Not for one second. But suddenly the thought that this condition invaded my body without my permission or knowledge, that someone is going to literally hold my life in his hands for the duration of the surgery, that when this is over ability to bear children may be compromised to - for now - an unknown degree... these things not only scare me but plunge me into the throes of another existential crisis.

What is the point I wonder? There must be. A part of me cannot bear to contemplate a reality in which this experience is meaningless. That I incidentally grew a couple of useless lumps in my uterus that I must pay thousands of rands to remove, compromise my fertility in the process and get up and live life as normal, as if nothing ever happened?

But ofcourse you are probably going to want to tell me to remain positive... and I do will... later. For now, let me wallow.

Because actually. I. Am. Terrified. I'm terrified of all the things I know you know I'm thinking (and you are probably thinking). I'm terrified of the unmentionables that I dare not mention for fear that I will give them form and thus life.

*If you are saying to yourself "WHAT THE - and you are allowed to say a naughty word this once - FUCK!" I feel you.
**Delivering a kick-ass conference paper in fuck-off^ hot stillettos will do that to you.
^I'm allowed to say naughty words. I am going under the knife. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

The future of nostalgia

2011-04-27T01:12:00.002-04:00

I am reading the Future of Nostlagia again by Svetlana Boym. Again. I remember writing about my thoughts while reading it a few years ago so I revisited my notes to see if anything had changed in what the book meant to me.

I remember pronouncing it one of the best books I have ever read. It is still one of my most favorite books ever! When I read it first it was for my PhD thesis and yet I had such an intensely personal reaction to it and it resonated with me in ways no other book I was reading for my thesis did. Sure I was writing about a particularly sensitive subject for everyone involved directly with the project - racial and cultural identity in post-colonial/post-apartheid South Africa, and I had read some books that resonated with me personally, but none touched me the way FoN did.

Funny thing time. Reading it again, it's still as profound to me as it was 4 years ago yet now the reaction is not so personal. Sure it still brings up instances when I reflect on my own personal experience - books should do that, to teach you something about yourself. Sure it still forces me to confront my own attitude towards nostalgia (though I argue that it is a useful exercise in identity construction, I catch myself feeling its a waste of time and I have had to learn to identify sadness and regret in these feelings and to subvert them into tools for the future) BUT. Reading the book now, I realise what a foundational text it is on a broader level for various subjects ranging from art, history and philosophy to politics and science.

Boym traces the history of the concept Nostalgia from a scientific perspective when it was regarded as an illness, outlines it's use in art and literature as a longing for something lost, something absent on the 'now' and uses it to explore her own personal journey with a Russian life she once lived and will never live again.

I admit in dwelling in the past quite often. I however refuse to long for it. I remember happy times in my past. I however refuse to define them as 'happier times'. Boym speaks of restorative and reflective nostalgia. I choose to embrace the reflective. I however have the luxury of taking this stance having read the book a second time around AND having written extensively on the virtues of nostalgic reflection in the process of identity construction. What Boym does so well is recycle an old concept into a fresh, thoughtful and thought-provoking cultural commentary. Of particular interest to me this time around are the references on art and literature, especially as I am on a story-telling journey and am hungry for artistic and literary expressions of identity and culture.

Either way, what a stunning read all over again and I am feverishly thinking of ways to build it into a course I can offer to university students.

On the brain: Limitless

2011-04-26T07:47:00.007-04:00

A night at the movies:

I watched Limitless last night. Firstly I love sci-fi. Secondly, I love Bradley Cooper (and I noticed in the lineup scene that he is 6'6... I love this). [Himself] thinks it was bubblegum for the brain and that I only dragged him out to watch it because I wanted to see eye-candy in the form of BC. I told him that while BC is eye candy the movie that will most fufil that role will be Fast 5. Imagine 8 biceps on one screen (we are not going to see Ludacris' here on account of the baggy t-shirts) ???? Imagine Vin Diesel, the Rock and Tyrese on one screen? Lank hot!

BUT. Back to Limitless. [Himself] feels it was bubblegum for the brain. While I don't think it was particularly profound I don't agree with him. I like movies that explore human potential and/or capacity for than we currently believe we have access to, be it outer space or our minds in this case. This idea has always fascinated me that at any given time we only use up to 20% of our brain (and unlike the myth we do 100% of our brain though not all of it at the same time) and the movie did make me wonder what would happen were we use 100% brain function at one time. I can't imagine* that we are physically capable of having ALL our brains neurons firing simultaneously. Sauteed brain anyone?

I immediately picture a cartoon-vision of a brain's wiring, cogs and wheels becoming unhinged and smoke shooting out of the ears as some high level neurological break down takes places.

*This is annoying because now I really am curious, and this is going to mean another couple off hours I'll never get back reading up on neurological science. Sigh. Maybe I would take that pill after all.
_ _ _ _
On an unrelated note: I am upto my eyeballs in work but I cannot escape that annoying niggling feeling that there is something outstanding that needs attention. MY hair. I am currently afro-ing my way but winter is setting in in the Southern Hemisphere and I will need what hairlistas call a protective* hairstyle. Grrrr. I hate that I even spend so much time thinking about my hair. Yet it annoys me that I haven't settled on a winter hairstyle yet. It's an infernal circle. So trivial. So significant. So frustrating. I have a love affair with my hair. Most of the time. In winter it's super dry, super fragile and super unco-operative. It's like I'm caring a petulant, fragile, needy child on my scalp. I need a protective
I need help.

Rant over. Work.

*This is a style that protect my hair from the damaging elements of the harsh winter weather. Braids and corn rows are the easiest.

Intercultural Marriages

2011-04-25T08:12:00.002-04:00

Though the cafe is swanky, it is also an extension of a leading bookstore, lending a certain bookishness to its patrons, all casually having breakfast on a Saturday morning over chit-chat with companions, or in solitude with a newspaper or a book. One table in particular is occupied by three people, two men - one significantly older than the other - and a young woman. If anyone dared to eavesdrop they would hear that the conversation straddles the boundary between the superficial and personal. All three parties are friendly and smiling with occasional bursts of laughter talking about everything jovial strangers forced into the same space would talk about: work, recent travels, the inconvenience of bank opening times on a weekend, property prices in different parts of the country and so forth.

If the eavesdropper stayed tuned in long enough they would realise the superficiality masks the uncomfortable build up to the the real reason why this gathering has taken place. As the moment of truth approaches the conversation becomes more strained and the gaps of silence more frequent, and longer. When the older man is suddenly distracted by his ringing phone, which he apologetically announces he must answer, the young woman, whispers to the young man next to her, as she tries to speak to him inconspicuously. What is laughable is that she defines inconspicuous by speaking out of the side of her mouth through closed, barely moving lips, especially when one notices the resultant un-conspicuously-comical expression on her face.

The older man gets off the phone and the younger man, trying to keep a straight face after witnessing the facial contortions of the woman next to him, clears his throat, thereby announcing his desire to bring up something so heavy its stuck in his throat- has been stuck throughout breakfast. Our eavesdropper would learn that the younger man wants to marry the woman sitting at his side - comical expressions and all bless her soul - and would like to state to the man, who represents her family, his intentions.

This is a strange conversation all round, for everyone involved. For the young man, German with little idea of African traditions around marriage. For the young woman, raised on Western values with little idea of how to follow a tradition she has never lived but only experienced through the stories of more traditional family members. For the older man, as the woman's 'father', who raised his children on western values and has never before had to fulfil such a role (nor showed interest) and has little idea what performance is required when it comes to things 'traditional'.

The older man is quick to confess his ignorance, proclaiming, "Some of us are so out of touch with the traditional these things can go only one way, a mixture of the traditional and the, the, the..." he searches for the word.

"Contemporary?" I offer.

"That's right. The contemporary. Modern." He elaborates.

There we have it. [Himself] will have to pay lobola* in order to marry me. And this old African custom is about to unfold in a contemporary manner. I wonder what that means. I doubt Rambo knew what he was talking about when he uttered those words. But a part of me understands at this early stage that no doubt this will be a (not necessarily) long process riddled by all sorts of politics and difficulty because as much as my immediate family is westernised, much of my extended family isn't and will insist that they want to see things done in 'a manner that is proper'. What they don't realise that Rambo can be pretty gangster and if he understands that as the father-figure, he is the head of this operation (Lets call is OpXL: Operation Xolani's Lobola) he is going to want this done as quickly and as smoothly as possible, 'proper manner' be damned. I am not at all averse to this.

In all this, I cannot for the life of me read [Himself]. I am not sure whether he is pro-Lobola or simply going along with it because it's what my family expect, it's what one does when marrying an African** woman. This leads me to ponder inter-cultural relationships. All relationships are riddled with dynamics so intricate entire libraries could be filled with texts written on the subject. Human beings are a complex animal as individuals, what more as pairs trying to function as a single entity. Add cultural differences into the equation and well, you left scratching your head marvelling at one or both of two things:

1) How these two people from different cultural backgrounds trying to make a life together have not yet been declared insane
2) how wonderful and resilient this thing called love is when it makes two people from different cultural backgrounds able to transcend those differences and make a life together.

And when I think of [Himself] and I trying to make a life together and the ways in which we have negotiated each others' cultural differences and navigated the wild terrain of our interacting backgrounds, upbringing, nationalities, cultures, education and all those things that make us who we are as individuals, I realise that there really is nothing for it than a contemporary meets western lobola negotiation ceremony. Couples in intercultural relationships often find themselves struggling to fit into predefined systems and categories and cultures. This is difficult for one or both of the individuals. As difficult as it is to compromise when it comes to values and traditions the fact is: there has to be a give and take somewhere. especially where things can get complicated. And lobola - to those not familiar with it - is very complicated; in concept alone. It's premise can easily be misunderstood: "how can it be a practice denoting respect when it involves the purchase of a woman using cows???" is the horrified question a friend recently asked me. My (unqualified and inadequate) response? The custom involves two parties sitting down together for negotiations thereby bringing families together, solidifying ties, fostering mutual respect and the bridegroom demonstrates his ability and assurance to provide for his bride. In our time, when both the bride and the groom contribute significantly to the household economy, the last part merely becomes a formality. I have friend's who argue that this is not to different from the western practice where the groom will first ask his intended's father for her hand in marriage, and once this is done he too seals the deal with something of monetary value: a diamond.

And like any custom or practice out there lobola has been and still is in some cases, abused, sometimes underscored by greed, with many families viewing their daughters' nuptials as a meal ticket or a windfall. I know that [Himself] has heard these horror stories because he jokes that he will have to sell a kidney (or both) to afford my lobola, after all I am reasonably attractive, with no children out of wedlock (had I been a virgin the price would have quadrupled), well educated and my parents will argue that they sent me to the best schools and I wanted for nothing as a child.

These things affect MY sensibilities if I am honest. I didn't get a PhD so that it could be used as a bargaining chip excuse me.

I ~~hope~~am confident that my family see this as a mere formality and a respectful nod toward a traditional that my people and ancestors followed for centuries. However, I am prepared for nasty surprises - I have seen it happen with friends who found out at the last minute that their families turned out to be blood-sucking vampires to a point that one girl eventually didn't have the wedding of her dreams as all their hard earned savings - and credit - went towards her lobola. To this day she harbours a secret resentment toward her family so intense I fear a fall out, if it ever comes, would be bloody. This friend has warned me to implore to my family for compassion. So, I have warned my mummy, should any nasty surprises arise, I'm not that invested in this traditional business. I will have no qualms writing an I.O.U and taking my intended and flying out to an island for a quicky marriage under the palm trees, with some scantily dressed surfers to stand witness, toasted afterward over cheeky cocktails sipped, watching the sunset.

*Lobola: Dowry/brideprice
**Not all African peoples carry this custom

The one

2011-04-24T11:46:00.003-04:00

If there ever was THE.ONE (and not that there is... 6 billion peeps come on! Do the math. But if there was...) George Clooney is THE. ONE.

AFTER [Himself] ofcourse!

Social Network Politics: Facebook Wars

2011-04-23T12:50:00.000-04:00

Tune in to Gossip girls to watch Becks and the Hater in action

I was recently involved in a *cringe* cat-fight in which I had to bitch slap some ho.

Virtually ofcourse.

So I had a coaching session with my US based coach via skype at 6pm west coast time... U.S west coast time. Which meant it was 3am for me; in other words: stupid o'clock. At ~~stupid o'c~~4:30am the session ended. It was a good session. My mind was buzzing with creative potential and all the feel-good endorphins that such sessions produces in so pliable a mind as mine that I couldn't fall back to sleep immediately. So I went online pottered the web, caught up on my favorite blogs and news sites and even had time to update my facebook* status accordingly. It was an innocent enough status, something along the lines of: Up at stupid o'clock following an intensely inspiring session with X.

I was taken aback when, later that morning, a friend emailed me and at the end included a PS Have you seen the comment that The Hater has left on your status? You know you can remove facebook comments on your wall right?

I immediately jumped onto facebook! Twice in a space of 12 hours to see a comment from a friend, the Hater, with whom I have had warring heart**. She had responded to my status update alone the lines of: "You still with X? Me a little bit over her now! Think have just outgrown her".

Ah. Dude.

My gut reaction was: What is your problem?!

Why must we hate on each other's life coaches? Just as I was thinking me and my friend might be overreacting I see an email from another friend who knows and dislikes the Hater: Dude? Have you seen the Hater's comment? What is her problem!?

I must admit, though I like to think of myself as thick-skinned, I was a little hurt by the comment and it's cattiness. I get that she is in a different place re X, who she has actually never encountered personally but only through her books but to say this so insensitively and bitchily... on. my. wall.

Demm-eet!

My response: Never mind my response. Just know that it was the equivalent of a virtual *bitch-slap*. It then prompted not one, BUT THREE emails AND a text from the Hater. I didn't respond immediately. I was over it, and her, and thus uninspired to engaged. And it was Easter and Sunny. Honestly? I hated the mean girls in school and hate them now. After I have always maintained that facebook annoys me because as opposed to the grand vision of a platform on which people can be themselves without the real-life baggage, it actually facilitates the re-enactment of playground politics pretty accurately, serves me right for encountering mean-girl politics on facebook. And frankly that's too much life-admin for me. I'm lazy! Having my overseas/out of town friends berate me for non/slow response to long gossipy smses or novel-length newsy emails is ENOUGH administration of virtually run relationships for me without indulging in dissection, deconstruction and reconstruction of bitchy comments on facebook.

*yes, yes... I was on facebook. I said it!
**A story for another day, one from which I am still traumatised from

On beauty

2011-04-21T03:40:00.000-04:00

The whole point about beauty is it's imperfection...

~Diane von Furstenberg on why she would never opt for plastic surgery.

I love DvF... well not herself per say...I have never met the woman! I do love her luggage designs. That woman single-handedly led me to appreciate what happens when art meets a fabric container on wheels. So what a pleasure to find out that in an age when its fashionable to go under the knife she embraces and loves her wrinkles. Good for you Diane! Be proud of ~~looking like a geriatric ~~er.. growing old gracefully.~~~~

To Goddess everywhere...

2011-04-20T05:55:00.002-04:00

This post is to big up my mum!!! And all* the mums in the world. I just made a 'light' lunch for [Himself] - who is working from home for the next ten days - and I. AND while I made lunch, I was busy preparing the ingedients for tonight's dinner - oxtail - which needs to simmer for 4 hours! Between 12:30pm and 2pm I cleaned the kitchen, put fish for lunch into the grill, trimmed the oxtail of fat, put the oxtail on the stove to brown, made salad for lunch (while [Himself] - bless is over-sized white cotton socks - dashed to the supermarket to get me some forgotten ingredients) chopped up the vegetables I needed, had lunch when [Himself] got back, during which I finished browning the meat in batches, finally got the whole thing on the stove to cook for the next few hours and cleaned up the kitchen. ALL the while running to and fro my computer and working.

Sure [Himself] could have helped but I had so much going on in the kitchen I didn't want him in my way and banned him from the kitchen. I'm sure he was happy to oblige. But I remember my mum (and aunts and friends' mums) pulling off similar stunts while holding down a full time job AND she worked away from home during the day. I realise that there is a generational difference between the way my mum and I view the sharing of domestic chores: when my mum was a 'wife' there was NO sharing of chores. Sure my dad would insist on making dinner** once in a while but I don't ever remember him standing in the kitchen helping my mum to chop up vegetables or doing the washing up after mum had cooked. I don't think mum could have even asked him to help either. It was just not done... it's still just not done in many households of even my peers. The household (and it's chores) was and in many cases still is the woman's domain. So I realise how lucky I am that I can ask [Himself] to help when I need him to help and how lucky I am that he will regularly busy himself in the kitchen with dinner or breakfast pancakes.

And for that reason I want to big up NaBecks (mother of Becks) for some extraordinary feats and doing this day after day for almost 20years because DAMMIT I'm fucking exhausted!!!

*Well the ones that fulfilled the role of mum to the best of their capabilities beyond just the biological bit.
** This is in exclusion of the braai (bbq) where mum would prepare everything while dad's constribution was tending to the fire and the grilling of the meat. When dad made dinner, he through some meat into a grilling pan in the oven and as soon as it started to brown, shoved some haphazardly chopped veggies - anything he could find in the fridge - into the fat from the cooking meat. We would have this concotion with pap. Surprisingly it was very good.

April Fools Baby

2011-04-07T11:13:00.004-04:00

What. So a man can't have breakfast on April Fools Day?

Every April Fools for the last 8 or 9 years, Shelbels and I play pranks on each other... well as best as we can from 14 trillion miles apart (we've only had two April Fools in the same vicinity and these have been epic). This usually involves emails flying across oceans with the subject line: "I have something to tell you..." followed by a confession of hopefully catastrophic proportion along the lines of: I'm pregnant and Julius Malema is the father, I'm gay and Jack Black is my boyfriend, I'm lesbian and getting married to Joan Rivers, I'm adopted, your mum just asked me to tell you you're adopted, your dad just asked me to tell you he's getting married to Joan Rivers...

Every year the emails get more and more juvenile. So what that provides me with the fullest measure of pleasure? Don't judge me. A wall street banker who survived the recession and a PhD candidate who survived four years of thesising are allowed some trivialities.

This year I dutifully sent my April fools email:
From: Becks
To: Shelbels
Subject: I Need You.
[Himself] took his ring back. I need you!

And I received his:
From: Shelbels
To: Becks
Subject: Dude...
SoTM* is pregnant. What the fuck am I going to do?

As it turns out. One of those pranks was not a prank!! Today I receive this email:
From: Shelbels
To: Becks
Subject: Dude...
Shit! She is really pregnant. What the fuck am I going to do?

SoTM - in true Shelbels humour** - told him on April Fools day that she was two months late. I honestly think she deserves a medal for the timing. I mean imagine a universe in which I should be lucky to tell [Himself] on April Fools day that we are about to have offspring - AND IT'S TRUE? That would be nothing short of impressive. But such luck will never be mine. Of course Shel is not as impressed as I am. Nor is he amused when I congratulate him on his April Fools baby. If she is a girl I think she should be named April and have an initial F. That's all I'm saying.

I'm going to be an auntie to ~~April F.~~ a Shelbellet!!! Woo Hoo.

*SoTM= Squeeze of the month... it's what his brother calls the women in Shelbel's life who infrequently appear for in short bursts. Though current SoTM has been SoTM for almost 9months which is the longest by approximately 8months that any SoTM has lasted in Shel's life. And I actually kind of like her. SO DOES HE***.
** If this had happened to someone else Shelbel would have guffawed like an idiot at the irony
***Don't let this baby thing distract you my honey. YOU. LIKE. HER.

The disarmingly cute lisp of "Iron Mike"

2011-04-06T07:51:00.006-04:00

Nobody needs to know about this Becksy

Mike Tyson has a LISP!! I confess to never hearing him speak before so watched an interview he gave on the Ellen show with a measure of curiosity. Sure I had encountered (with mild interest) stories about his latest turn around. But I guess I still expected a badass mofo who would unapologetically growl on stage and maybe punch Ellen.

When Ellen asked him about his life with its extremely high highs and its super low lows I expected him to respond: "I've had a crazy life bitches. You better ask somebody ARRRRRR"

Instead he responded: "I've hath a cwathy wife." And then. He. GIGGLED.

This is like finding out your favorite Villain... Darth Vader or somebody... cuddles an Elmo doll to sleep while reading Jodi Picoult. Disorienting.

Lucky (?) to be alive...

2011-04-02T16:25:00.003-04:00

...and I feel like this every second of every day since then...

I was involved in a car accident. My life did not flash in front of my eyes like illustrations of death in pop-media would have you believe. Maybe this didn't happen because I wasn't actually dying... per se (though I didn't know this at the time). Maybe it doesn't happen at all because sometimes death does come out of nowhere, so swiftly you don't have time to look into his/her eyes and actually know its him/her (sneaky bastard/ess).

All I know is that I was at once helpless and highly aware of everything that was happening around me. The accident itself happened so fast I cannot tell you how it happened, yet the moment between the realisation that the car was going to crash, and when it actually did, happened in slow motion, like something out of the 'Matrix Reloaded' movie.

There was, bizarrely, a vivid awareness of life during that moment. I have never been as alive as I was in that one moment - whether it was three seconds or 10 or 15 I will never know. I neither screamed nor panicked; there was no time. All there was was this calm acceptance of what was in that moment.

Afterwards there was a lot of speculation of instances of luck. Lucky that the car didn't roll. Lucky that the car crashed into the wooden part of the fence and not the metal part. Lucky that there was all the luggage in the back probably weighing it down. Lucky to escape without a scratch.

Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to be alive.

I don't know about that much luck. That's too much lucky for me to believe that some elements in the universe just happened to arbitrarily come together in perfect unison to save my life. All I know is that everyday I just wanna high five God for some good looking out:

High five.

Life Encounters...

2011-03-11T02:37:00.008-05:00

I have ~~realised~~ decided that love is a drug. Class A. Cut with all sorts of stuff to varying degrees of purity. It is widely used... sometimes notorious for abuse.

Conversational Faux Pas 101

2011-03-09T11:27:00.004-05:00

Becks could have been better of having read this book before 9AM today

How to embarrass yourself to death in 5 easy steps:

Step 1:
When you see an old friend - the longer since you last saw her the better - and she has put some weight on the rather skeletal frame she had when you last saw her, take care to notice that the baggy sheer top she is wearing over a stretch lycra one has ridden over her slightly distended belly and ask her cringe if she is having a baby cringe.

Step 2:
When she says she isn't and laughs with embarrassment while probably cursing you and your descendants to eternal damnation for making her feel fat and horrible - which is crazy because she actually isn't* - pray sincerely that the ground opens up and swallows you or better still, vow to jump infront of the first moving train you see.

Step 3a:
Because talking to your BFFs about this stuff makes you feel better, as soon as you part ways with the old friend you have just insulted, discover that you can't call KLM or the German Blonde or Sips or even [Himself] - though he will laugh like a drain-pipe and make you feel worse - because on the one day you really need telephonic comfort, you forgot your cell-phone at home.

Step3b:
Proceed to wallow in the horror of your mortification for the next three hours.

Step 4:
Throw yourself infront of moving train.

Step 5:
Die.

*She actually didn't look pregnant at closer inspection. Sure she's bigger than she used to be when we were 18, we all are, but it's the way her top was sitting. Eish. If I had but tarried just a split second I would have seen her tummy from another perspective and the scene above would have evaporated in the thought: "She's pregnant?! Oh, my bad. She isn't". But NO. Broody me is seeing pregnant bellies everywhere! Next I'll be wondering if the Lion on Simba chips is knocked up. Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid Becks.

Vital Self Affirmations

2011-03-08T12:01:00.002-05:00

I'm a rock star bitches!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Better ask somebody a.k.a the chick from Nashville.

New (Sane) Chapters

2011-03-07T00:49:00.001-05:00

Maybe it's greener on the non-student side. At least $$$-wise it is...

I lamented entering the corporate world as real full-time working adult-person-thing only to have my friend accuse of being the perennial student. I don't get why Ed-Love says it like its a bad thing. First and foremost, though I am about to leave this world of academe*, I am a researcher, not afraid to admit and encounter my own infinitesimal knowledge compared to whats out there. I am curious and investigative, I'm not afraid to dig deeper and wider, infact i enjoy it - and by virtue of this, I'll always be a student. And I'll always be a researcher.

I've probably indulged in some form of social research long before my official academic career began. I have always been the quiet one in class, in the group, in the family. And as a result of being known as the quiet one, of knowing no-one ever expected me to speak up (only strangers not familiar with my ways would ask why I was so quiet) I could get away with doing what, to this day I still enjoy doing best: observing.

Going out to public spaces with friends/partners/family for serious conversation is sometimes torture as I would much prefer to people watch. I have always loved to make up stories of strangers in my head. Sometimes I dare to share these stories. And been called crazy as a result. But 10 years on, now regarded as an expert researcher by way of having collected a bunch of – useless? – postgraduate degrees from a bunch of prestigious institutions, I realise that with rigorous application of scientific methodology and some literature – preferably from a bunch of dead guys*** who indulged their craziness in the nineteenth century – the fruit of my crazy is what can be termed in more respectable terms: ‘ sociological research’.

And I am so going to miss it.

*And scared as fuck**

**I am allowed to say fuck when I am scared. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

*** brings up necromantic concerns till you remember they were alive when they penned their books.

Wedding dress shopping

2011-02-20T10:12:00.006-05:00

... to my surprise I fell in love with a princesscringedress *shudder*. Yep! My top three dresses include two dresses that made me look most like a bowl of fluffy desert *shudder*.

[Himself] and I may have found a venue ( I will describe when we confirm it but its spectacularly beautiful and wild... literally) for an outdoor wedding. So this gave me licence to let my friends persuade me to go wedding-dress shopping.

F***. I am getting married.

Hopefully NOT in a princess dress. But seriously: I am going to be a bride?! Nothing to make that fact sink in faster than an anvil in quick sand than four perfectly normal women deciding that spending the better part of two hours watching one of their party try on yards and yards of white/ivory fabric is a productive use of their time (8 man-hours!!!). Never mind that the average cost of these dresses is the equivalent of 6months wages of the average South African*. The part of me that desires permanent detachment from EV.E.RY.THING wants to howl in laughter at the hilarity of it all, at my poor friends and family who seem to take this whole thing seriously, at [Himself] for being the poor sucker who was idiot enough to think that I am someone worth spending the rest of his life with...

...mostly at me for being suckered into believing that I am the kind of person someone would want to spend the rest of their life with.

Luckily the part of me that loves and feels blessed to be loved is strong enough to handcuff and gag that bad boy; and can’t wait to be a bride.

That’s the part that thoroughly enjoyed trying on beautiful gowns and fell in love with poofy dresses despite my conviction that I ~~would~~ will wed in an elegant Grecian number. That was my third favourite dress, a beautiful, elegant, softly flowing dress that made me feel like a quiet million bucks. Sigh. The girls liked it as well. I was with three stellar women: KLM, Seeps and Janny-baby who were three very different, very individual and very helpful voices of reason, excitement and love. I went in there not knowing what to expect and came out with my head spinning. I have an understanding of how bride-zillas are born.

Speaking of bride-zilla... this is [Himself]’s new favourite word. He obviously heard it recently (I wonder what he was saying about me for the word to come up) and uses it in EVERY conversation we have about our upcoming nuptials – and every other conversation that doesn’t include things matrimonial. A recent illustration:

Me: Yesterday I bought my first bridal magazine.

[Himself]: Oh no baby! Don’t you turn into a bride-zilla!!

Me: That’s stupid. It’s just a magazine. But there is sooo much to weddings it’s over whelming. Dresses, venues, cakes, bridesmaids, guest lists – I mean who are we going to leave out!?

[Himself]: Oh no baby! Are you turning into a bride-zilla??

10minutes later during the same conversation:

Me: I bought some seafood mix. I think I want to make a seafood curry. Oh dammit, I have no coconut milk.

[Himself]: Oh no! You are turning into a bride-zilla!

Me: .........................long silence.................... Ok. You obviously sleepy now. Goodnight.

[Himself]: Are you upset? Oh dear. You’ve turned into a bride-zilla.

[Himself] and his bride-zilla obsession aside, yesterday was lovely. The only downer was not having my mum there and missed a few other girlfriends I know were gutted not to be there. But i am grateful for the ones that were. What joy, what blessing, what honour to have shared those ~~8 man-hours~~ special moments with them.

My Summer Romance

2011-01-16T15:16:00.004-05:00

I am traditionally a winter person. No matter where in the world I am, no matter how cold, how grey, how wet... There is something comforting about hot chocolate or a bowl of steaming pasta; something romantic about soft woolly crocheted scarves and hats, and cuddling with your partner on the couch with a glass of red wine in front of the fire (if you are lucky enough to own a fire place of course); something mysterious in the bundled up faces, in the way everyone spends more time indoors - what are they doing, what are they discovering, who will they be when they emerge from their layers... from their homes?

I love spring, it's fresh-ness, its clean-ness, and sense of promise... and hope. Dreams are born in spring.

I love Autumn for its colours - well in the Northern hemisphere where its noticeable anyway. I thought I fell in love for the first time in one autumn day a few weeks after moving to New York City for school. He sat on a bench in the park and the yellow and red and brown leaves of the towering trees lent a golden glow around his person... it was surreal and I felt like I was in a dream. I thought I fell in love and at his veteran hands I did fall in love with New York City.

I have a problem with summer. While I appreciate the fashion - who can resist a little floral jumpsuit with the perfect skinny belt - and the braais (bbqs), and out-door dinner, and endless beach days, I dislike extreme heat and cannot stand the prickly sensations of too-hot sun. It itches and it's sticky and I am cranky.

However. What I am currently going through now can only be described as a love affair. With summer. With life. With Cape Town. With my friends. I can’t explain it except that it thrills me tremendously and I don't want it to end. I love the summer smells of fresh fruit - my kitchen smells of mangoes and pineapples; I love the colours of lush green avenues, flowers and bright summer clothing; I love that the beaches are packed because everyone has come out to play. If dreams are born in spring, they are lived out in the summer.

And over long beach walks in Blouberg, lazy Sunday afternoon window shopping along the bustling streets of Kalk Bay, mojitos at sundown on the rooftop garden of Daddy Long Legs, al fresco sushi dinners under starry skies, summer dresses, painting the town red* in shorts skirts and fuck-off hot heels, lunches and dinners cooked at home while chatting or dancing to shock-your-mother vulgar Snoop Doggy Dog sounds, picnicking at an outdoor concert listening to a band we’ve never heard before and not caring because the vibe is amazing, lying on the grass in the sun with fashion magazines and fruity white wine, eating too much at braais and poitjies and being thankful for the baggy summer tunic to hide a protruding belly that would otherwise tell a story of one too many lamb chops, sipping tea on the couch and sharing our hopes and dreams and fears ...

Through all these seemingly mundane events I experience summer and friendship and love all at once... always love. And I fall in love with life all over again.

*To be honest it's more like a pale pink, I turned coughmumble and suddenly it seems as I am physiologically incapable of staying out after 11pm.

Look! A Negro: What colour are you?

2011-01-12T18:42:00.002-05:00

Look, a Negro!" It was an external stimulus that flicked over me as I passed by. I made a tight smile.

"Look, a Negro!" It was true. It amused me.

"Look, a Negro!" The circle was drawing a bit tighter. I made no secret of my amusement.

"Mama, see the Negro! I am frightened!" Frightened! Frightened! Now they were beginning to be afraid of me. I made up my mind to laugh myself to tears, but laughter had become impossible... I discovered my blackness, my ethnic characteristics. I was battered down by tom-toms, cannibalism., intellectual deficiency, fetichism, racial defects, slaveships, and above all else, above all: 'She' good eatin'."

~ Frantz Fanon: The Fact of Blackness - Chapter in Black Skins White Masks

Is race alterable?

Frantz Fanon says it isn't but wishes it was. Blackness is a prison into which he has been locked into. And in his era, in his time... in our time, blackness is laden with all sorts of 'legends, stories, history and above all historicity'.

But is race really unalterable?

Today I was in sociological/anthropoligical heaven. My first day of class, teaching a race course to a group of American students from a prestigious university, here to spend a semester abroad. Having taught on this programme before I looked forward to it, albeit nervously: Its a lot of pressure on me, the students are sharp - they have to be to be accepted on this programme - and I feel like I have to be on my toes. The classes are small, thank heavens, and it makes for fabulous discussion sessions. I love teaching. I tend to love my students. As a teacher I am imparting knowledge, sure. But I also drink thirstily from their pool of knowledge because I believe we have something to learn from each other as human beings.

Today's session was dedicated to introducing race, defining key terms, unpacking key South African race concepts and basically getting them to feel comfortable talking about blacks, whites, coloured, racism, apartheid, stereotypes and other such potentially charged concepts. I was keen to have them discuss their own experiences of how they have encountered race in South Africa. I loudly, strongly, constantly stressed the fact that my classroom is a safe space. As long as you do not disrespect anyone - because it is 100% possible to talk about race without disrespecting another - you can bring up an issue: lets talk about it all, put it on the table: stories, legends, histories and historicity.

I was enthralled with the discussion - and I hope they were too. But probably the reason why I am still up ruminating over this class at 38 minutes past midnight, is primarily because way the discussion went always brought us back to the question: is race alterable. It seems laughable to suggest that it is when ofcourse the greatest signifier of race, the skin, is the most visible and obviously unalterable part of it ~~I am now dying to make a Michael Jackson crack but I won't~~. Right?

Yet.

In South Africa we have the political race categories: Black/African, White, Coloured, Indian/Asian and Other. In the USA, African-American is used to refer all black people including those of mixed race who would, otherwise, be coloured in South Africa when in the States they are simply light-skinned African-Americans if we must make a differentiation. Ofcourse I am oversimplifying things. But this is the gist.

Bearing this in mind I was touched by the experiences of my African-Amrican students. One of the African-Americans in the group, he is the only dark-skinned one. One day he was one of three African-Americans, a few days in South Africa and he – labelled by others – is black and his friends are coloureds. I can only imagine their confusion, which came through the recounting of their experiences. One of the light-skinned African-American-cum-coloured-in-South Africa, was puzzled, a coloured guy had approached him on the beach to chat while he hung out with his darker skinned counter-part. He noticed that this guys friends were all the same complexion as he was (i.e. coloured); did they not mix with darker skinned Africans? He seemed incredulous as I tried to expand on my definition of South African political race categories by dipping into the history. “So over here I’m coloured?” he asked me. He didn’t look impressed. Frantz Fanon came to mind, he wasn’t impressed when he was seen as a mere Negro, to be frightened of or to be made a novelty of with or to be oppressed.

A young lady spoke up following this discussion. Someone had asked her if she was Japanese or Chinese. She was neither, she explained, she was American. Perhaps a slightly different issue – one of identity, but one that still speaks physical appearance as a signifier of race. I didn’t ask what race she was, I felt it would be inappropriate to do so given how affronted she had appeared.

While they all seemed to understand that this race-labelling – different to their own – was a part of the South African psyche, the notion that their race back home was a different, somehow altered thing here, seemed simultaneously disturbing and interesting. Interesting because let’s face it, they are very few things in life cooler than malleable identities that allow you to ‘fit’ in more than one socio-cultural group (makes you that much more interesting); disturbing because, you want to think that people see more than just ‘race’ when they see you, especially when that race that is ascribed to you comes burdened with all sorts of stereotypes and negative histories.

“The evidence was there, unalterable. My blackness was there, dark and unarguable. And it tormented me, pursued me, disturbed me, angered me. Negroes are savages, brutes, illiterates. But in my own case I knew these statements were false. There was a myth of the Negro that had to be destroyed at all costs. The time had long since passed when a Negro priest was an occasion for wonder. We had physicians, professors, statesmen ~~dammit!~~” ~ Fanon ibid

Visit Saldanha Bay

2011-01-08T12:43:00.005-05:00

I spent the last three days at friend's beach-house in Saldanha, a little town pocketed in a bay on the west-coast. On the first evening we walked on the beach and watched a thrilling sunset that made me want to high five God:

This set the tone for an amazing three days filled with friends (new and not-so-new), fun, sun, fresh fish, beach, late nights... all fuelled, chased down or accompanied by loads of vino. I feel sluggish and I need to catch up on at least two nights worth of sleep but what a blast it was the whole time.

Saldanha turned out to be something of an unexpected gift. I was invited to tag along with friends and their friends. "What's Saldanha like?" I enquired skeptically before I accepted the invitation, worried about a vague memory about someone telling me Saldanha was little more than a fishing town (one of South Africa's biggest fish processors is based here). "Well," I was told, "Its quite pretty if you ignore the steel processing plant that occupies the entire left hand side of the bay". Fishing and steel plants. That didn't fill me with much enthusiasm, and I accepted with reservation. We were going to leave on Thursday.

On Thursday morning I woke up feeling lazy and didn't think I was going to go anywhere, till the temperatures soared to about 37 degrees by midday. We have had a mini heatwave in Cape Town. I love the sun but can't stand extreme heat. I thought I was going to go insane the way I desperately needed to take my skin off me, that's how hot it was. I even sent my mum a text asking her how she would like a skinless daughter. She didn't seem to thrilled with the idea and advised me to take a shower instead.

I needed to get out of Cape Town! Saldanha was on.

What a pleasant surprise. Despite being built, the beachfront is beautiful is beautiful in a non-commercial kind of way... the different and sometimes crazy homes people have erected along the beach (Someone built a castle that is completely windowless on one side) add a certain quirkiness.

My friend's house was literally on the beach so I could roll off my bed and into the water. Long white beach led from the house to the centre of town along the waterfront - a 500m walk; you could go fishing, and you could go pick mussels on the rocks a few meters into the water. The water itself was a beautiful turquoise that was deliciously cool (not ice-cold like Cape Town waters brrrr). On my first morning there I was up by 7:30 and walked the length of the beach to (though I didn't know it) the town before I turned back. It was quiet and still, and other than a few joggers/walkers that occasionally crossed my path, it was just me, the gulls, the partially submerged shipwreck, and the gently rolling water. Heaven.

The steel plants were indeed, present and visible but not imposing. Saldanha is a natural harbour and one of two deep water bays in South Africa and so can accommodate the Capesize ore carrier ships that are too large for most other ports. So most of South Africa's for-export steel and coal - I learnt - leaves out of Saldanha. Actually, there is quite a bit going on in Saldanha, including a large seafood processing plant as well as the Navy training academy. The ore Carrier ships hunkered in the water in the distance, though large seemed to just blend in with the scenery of a port town.

After my walk that first morning, I got home to find the lodge next door preparing for a wedding on their lawn right on the beach. While they dressed up a gazebo and put twenty chairs in front of it - it was a tiny wedding - I made some coffee and found a spot in our garden from which to watch the proceedings. By midday, the dark grey clouds of an approaching cold front had gathered in the horizon and a strong breeze threatened what had set to be the perfect beach wedding as it blew a light mist from the water. It was still clear skies, though slightly misty when the wedding took place but nothing took away from the beach-wedding essence. I had by this time gone back on a second beach walk with the rest of the crew when they got up and then we had gone to Charlie's (family-owned fresh fish shop) to get some fish for dinner. Charlie had everything from prawns to yellowtail, angel fish and mussel cocktail! Our host took us a around the town, past the academy and into the seafood processing plant.

By the time we had our so-late-breakfast-it-was-actually-a-late-ish-lunch the mist had almost obscured the huge freight ships that and the fresh sea air... I ~~napped~~ slept like a log through most of the afternoon and woke up early evening to more guests, fresh white wine, rolling mists and a fish braai accompanied by an uplifting green salad.

On the water, the mist, which completely obscured the ships and steel plant structures that are normally completely visible even at night, as their lights would brightly light up an otherwise dark horizon. Off the water, strangely, the mist had cleared and we could see the starry night sky above us as we cooked the fish on the braai outside.

Today was completely clear, like we had imagined the weather change the day before. We were driving back to Cape Town today and we decided to drive through Langebaan, another west-coast town about 20minutes from Saldanha, where we stopped for a leisurely breakfast at a beachfront restaurant. I love this town! I have been to Langebaan before with [Himself] and some friends for some water-skiing/wakeboarding and this is another town that inspires me to high five the big guy. Built primarily as a tourist town around a beautiful lagoon, water-sports and beach activities are the main draw-card so its a more touristy vibe than Saldanha, with quite smart shops and restaurant geared toward commercial tourism.

We ate at a restaurant called Kontiki and they were kind enough to let us order from the breakfast menu though they had officially stopped serving breakfast by the time we arrived... well everyone else had breakfast - I had a BIG FAT burger with crunchy fries and 1000litres of coffee. It was a perfect breakfast to have with the sun on our backs as we sat outside.

Once again, I come away humbled by the sheer beauty of nature... it's perfection. I came away wanting nothing more than to be the best I can be, the best expression of myself... because, yet again I felt like God had given me the best of himself through some of the beauty I behold. I have had moments, through the years when I am terrified by how awesome this planet is, whether its witnessing the perfect sunset over the Savannah during a long distance drive or hiking through lush green terrain along some coastline, and in those moments I wonder what I have done (what do I have to give?) to deserve those experiences... Could it be enough?

...then almost immediately afterwards I am humbled and I am thankful. I have to remind myself that by simply being, I was entitled to accept without any I.O.U, without obligation except maybe to be the best person I can be, to be the best expression of myself.

A reason to miss Cape Town...

2011-01-07T01:06:00.000-05:00

[Himself] is insanely miserably in the Concrete Jungle that is Johannesburg. Moreso since I've relocated and moved back to Cape Town to teach this semester's batch of bright young Americans.

Above is a picture I took during our September visit to Cape Town. We went walking on Muizenburg beach, it was warm-ish for Cape Town Autumn... windy as hell. It was still beautiful...its more glorious in summer.

Oxtail with mushrooms and baby onions

2011-01-06T02:36:00.004-05:00

Yummicious oxtail recipe for V.

Oxtail with mushrooms and baby onions

500g beef shin pieces

2T (30ml) Olive oil

1T (15ml butter)

1-1.25kg oxtail trimmed of excess fat

2t (10ml) Ina Parman’s Garlic & herb Seasoning**

1t (5ml) Ina Parman’s Garlic Pepper Seasoning**

3 large onions chopped

3 large carrots sliced

3 cloves garlic sliced

1 bay leaf

3T (45ml) flour

2cups (500ml) red wine

2 cups (500ml) water

2T (30ml) Ina Paarman’s Beef Stock Powder**

2T (30ml) Ina Paarman’s Tomato Pesto***

250g whole button mushrooms

500g pickling onions

2T (30ml) olive oil

Brown the beef shin and bacon in the oil/butter mixture in a big heavy-based saucepan. Remove with a slotted spoon and keep aside. Brown the oxtail in batches in the same fat. Keep on one side. Season meat with Garlic & herb seasoning as well as Garlic pepper seasoning. Brown the onions in the same pot and when golden brown, add carrots, garlic and bay leaf. Stir fry for 3minutes. Add the flour and blend in. Add the wine, water, stock powder and tomato pesto. Bring to boil. Place the meat (tail, shin and bacon) back into the pot, cover and simmer very gently for 2½ -3hrs* until the meat is fork tender.

Remove the bay leaf. Blot off excess fat with double layer of absorbent kitchen paper. Briefly brown the pickling onions, and mushroom in olive oil in spate frying pan and add to meat. Simmer for 15minutes until onions are just tender. Adjust seasoning to taste. Garnish with gremadola and serve with rice or parsleyedpotatoes. Enjoy!!!

Gremadola:

½ cup (125ml) chopped parsley,

3 cloves garlic crushed,

1T (15ml)grated lemon rind

Mix all ingredients together

*Or all weekend if you want edible bones for those with tastes that way inclined.

**P/S Where it asks for Ina Parmaan ingredients which I am sure you don't get outside South Africa you can substitute it with similar ingredients and it works just as well... For example with the garlic & herb seasoning and the garlic pepper seasoning I have simply used garlic seasoning, some ground black pepper and mixed herbs...

*** I find the same amount tomato paste instead of tomato pesto works just as well (I know its in my head but I feel like tomato paste makes for a richer sauce).

Love B. (helping friends get their orgy on since 2011)

Flour foot-prints

2011-01-05T13:40:00.008-05:00

Who let the cookie monster loose...

Cookie-baking on Christmas eve unleashed the cookie monster in me! Today was another scorcher... apparently 35'C (95'F) or some such hell's-threshold temperature. After work (I love my two hour days teaching job) I rushed home, had my second shower and lolled about in my underwear and a tank-top... it really was too hot to put on anything but I cannot bear prolonged nudity including my own. As I fought the urge to shave my braids off and peel my skin off; and felt my heart start to race in the agitation of being too hot even indoors, I knew I had to do something before I went completely mad. And so I did.

I have burnt my finger tips smooth, my kitchen is flour-dusted from ceiling to floor, there is cookie dough with the mangoes in my fruit bowl...

..yet I can safely say I have just added Almond Butter Cookies to my baking repertoire*. I am enjoying this cooking thing. It all started with a craving for oxtail last year. My mum makes me oxtail and when I lamented her absence, she scolded me and she told me I was old enough to make it myself. The craving didn't go away. She and three other aunts tried to talk me through the recipe over the phone. It didn't work. While waiting in a queue at the till in Pick n' Pay I lazily picked up a R29 Ina Parmaan cookbook that - lo and behold - had an oxtail recipe on the first page I opened! It was fate. I turned my cart around and shopped for all the ingredients. I found them all (including the red wine - the recipe so titillated me I almost peed my pants just reading it) but the oxtail!! They told me I had to order it. I drove to a different Pick n' Pay. I found it.

We ate at 10 that night (oxtail needs at least 4 hours to cook) but that day began my lusty affair with cooking. If cooking is my lover then baking is certainly a kinky move that I was initially reluctant to try and now can't get enough off. Maybe I'll get even kinkier and try my hand at macaroons**... okay even I raised an eyebrow at myself for that one. Baby steps Becks. Baby steps...

For now I get to fill my Christmas-present cookie jar with almond biscuits.

*In all honesty this only included chocolate brownies.
**If baking was sex, I suspect macaroons would be the chandelier position - tricky, a lot of effort to get right but down-right awesome when done right...