Category Archives: feelings

Rapunzel I ain’t

People, I have a HUGE problem. It’s my hair. It’s in a dire state. It has reached that point where comparing it to straw would be a compliment. It’s so coarse and dry that I am too ashamed to leave the house without the cold comfort of a cap, or a wig. Yes, I’ve reached the point where synthetic fibres are preferable to my locks.

But don’t worry I’ve called in the experts. I have an appointment with the hairdresser tomorrow, for a cut and blow. I have a feeling that she will need way more than conditioner to turn me into Rapunzel. A wand, perhaps?

And in other unrelated hair news …

Langebaan

My friends and I will be heading to Langebaan for the weekend. Where some of us will be running the Weskus half marathon and others will be doing things that don’t end in tears or regret.

Scholarship and Argus Cycle Tour

This weekend was rather boring, and most of it was spent in front of the computer filling in an application form for a grant. If successful the grant will cover some of my expenses to attend a conference in California. The application form asked such relevant questions as, “What is your GIS expertise?” and “Are you willing to sleep in a tent.” I kid you not!

Unfortunately my dedication meant that I missed out on Juan’s participation in the Argus Cycle Tour. Sad face. Apparently the girls had gone to great lengths to support him. Special cheerleader outfits were created and trains were taken on the day.

Sandboarding

I will also be going sandboarding later this month. I’d promise to upload lots of pics and provide a full detailed report. But considering that I have yet to report back on my shark cage diving, stand-up paddle boarding and ziplining adventures, maybe it is best if I don’t make any promises?

 

That’s about all folks! What’s been happening with you?

The friendship audit

It is 15:24 and I haven’t received a single email from Dizzy*, screaming, “Look at these shoes!” I can only assume she’s dead.

The lack of emails and IMs from Ms Dizzy* has meant that I’ve been particularly productive today – performing environmental impact assessments for lazy consultants, drafting a programme for my next GIS training session and wondering how many M&Ms I can shove into my mouth at once. Not one to be an obedient corporate slave, I have decided that I have to entertain you! So here goes my second blog post for the day. Can you say woohoo?

Saturday night finds me sprawled on a couch with the girls, eating pizza from Primi Express, waffles and drinking bubbly*. What did we have to celebrate? Nothing! That’s just how we roll.

Anyway, while stuffing myself, I told my friends that I really couldn’t afford to be eating this junk.

Me: My brother already told me that I have let myself go. He said, “That stomach … Sit-ups. We can do it together.”

This admission was followed by … laughter. This was totally not the type of reaction I was expecting from my “friends”. I WAS expecting a chorus of, “Girl, he is crazy. You’re still as skinny as the day I met you in high school.” Sure, none of them actually met me in high school, but it never hurts to tell a white lie to boost my self-esteem.

What I certainly wasn’t expecting, was for Dizzy* to pipe up with, “What is it with brothers? They’re always so honest.”

WTF??? It’s like Dizzy* hasn’t even read the friendship manual I emailed to everyone. Clause 34b clearly states that when faced with the “am I fat” question, all friends should willingly lie to ensure that I, Sid Kane always have the self-esteem of a megalomaniac. Individuals who do not abide by this rule will be kicked out of the circle of trust.    

* Actually they were drinking bubbly, I had spring water.

Something I started

Thirty seconds was all it took for me to fall in love. And just as suddenly, I fell right back out.

My friends, the people who love and know me, wouldn’t be surprised by this admission at all. I use the word “love” without caution or restraint. Where others would put a modicum of thought into its use, I pepper my sentences with it, the way others would spice up a bland dish.

…

I started writing the piece above but can’t (or maybe I’m unwilling to) find the words to finish the tale.

*

Scuba diving & prison break (lemurs and a mongoose)

More photos from the Karoo Wildlife Ranch. Mongoose.

Lemurs keen on escaping. Pictures taken by the Malaysian girls.

*

A few weeks ago, I won a free scuba diving lesson for myself and a friend, with Tony Lindeque from Learn to Dive. This is not the first thing I’ve won this year, and little did I know it would not be the last. (On Thursday night I learnt that I was one of the runner-ups for the young science writer’s competition. I’ll tell you more about that some other time.)

 

Now for most of humanity, the choice of who to take along would have been a difficult one. Not for me. The choice was easy. Of all my friends, Fahiema seemed like the person most likely to enjoy an hour of two, wrapped up in latex. Hahaha, I totally kid. I just figured that anyone who voluntarily puts up with my ass for more than a decade DESERVES a present. Plus I figure, come my birthday she’ll probably get me a kick-ass pressie.

Upon arrival at our scuba diving destination, we were greeted by the friendly faces of Tony and his fiancée, Clare. Tony gave us a quick theoretical lesson on scuba diving and then provided us each with a wetsuit and booties. Climbing into a wetsuit is NOT an easy task. It takes a lot of tagging and swearing before you’ve even managed to pull the damn thing over your feet. Thirty minutes later and we were looking like the female versions of Batman and Robin. (I was Batman.)

After presenting our new alter egos to Tony, he helped me put on the tank, weight belt, flippers and mask. He also gently coaxed me into the water before teaching me how to breathe. And that my friends, is as far as MY training went. Turns out I’m claustrophobic as fuck. I’ve always known this. I’ve always known that I have a tendency to freak out when in closed spaces but I had no idea that scuba diving would bring out this phobia.

Tony was very sweet about the whole thing. He kept asking if I was sure about THIS, if I didn’t want to give it another chance. In fact, he recently emailed me to ask if he should bring his scuba diving equipment to my house and I can practise in my pool. But there was no changing my mind. Not then. Right then, all I kept thinking is, “If this guy makes me put my face in water once more, I’m gonna punch him.” What? It’s called the fight or flight instinct. Look it up!

Fahiema however took to it like a frigging fish in water. (Fucking show off! That’s totally the last time I take that skank along.)

Anyway, I’ve given this who scuba diving fiasco a LOT of thought. And I realise that one of the reasons I haven’t written about this before is because I’m ashamed. I’ve modelled myself on being this adventure freak, that doesn’t let something like fear stop her from doing anything and then I unravel at the sight of a mask. Yes, I know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone gets scared, blah blah blah [insert relevant Oprah words of wisdom here]. I get that but … that’s just how I feel.

A simple kind of life – No doubt

On Sunday I was looking at babies.

In the whole history of Sid Kane, this is an unprecedented event. My usual stance of “Oh holy mother of fuck, why would anyone do THAT to their vagina” was replaced by looks of yearning, looks that has heretofore been reserved for hooker heels and men with really broad shoulders.

I’m talking about desire. For a baby. I Sid Kane, who previously duct taped a nappy to a kid’s ass and has often referred to kids as “rugrats”, am overcome with the sudden desire to have a little one.

 And all I wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

And all I needed was a simple man

So I could be a wife

It got so bad that while lounging at La Perla, I ignored any hot men in the near vicinity. Noting my fascination with the little buggers, Cazz finally commented, “You want a life altering experience? How about having one of those?”

Me: I did think about it but to be honest with you Cazz, I don’t think the parents would be too happy with me abducting their kids. Parents are kinda touchy that way.

I always thought I’d be a mom

Sometimes I wish for a mistake

The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get

You seem like you’d be a good dad

*Sigh*

I’m not quite sure what else to tell you guys. I guess I just don’t really want to tell you guys that for the longest time ever I’ve had this image in my head of me standing in front of my bedroom window, watching my husband and kids play soccer. Of course as the years have passed this vision has evolved to include me holding a camera, which has now become as much a part of me as my appendages.

Now all those simple things are simply too complicated for my life

How’d I get so faithful to my freedom?

A selfish kind of life

When all I ever wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

(Just reread this and can’t believe how girly and honest I am. And on a public forum no less. God I want to puke.)

Homosexuality – the white man’s disease

Never too soon
Oh reckless abandon,
Like no one’s watching you

Sweet Disposition – The Temper Trap

Let’s go back in time when I was a freshman* at university and Britney Spears bothered to put on panties before leaving the house. Yes, the early 2000s was a time of innocence. Back then I still believed in soul mates, the healing power of chocolate and that a good job was all that was needed to OWN a house. Now the only thing I swear by is the healing power of chocolate – unless of course you’re diabetic, then you’re screwed.

Comic from Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal.

Anyway, the following story takes places a few months into my first year at uni. I’m in the Bolus Herbarium (Botany Library) searching for my BFFs (En-dee!, Fahiema and Goldilocks**). Not finding them I decide to share a table with a group of black students, one of whom I recognize from one of my classes.

So they’re sitting there having an interesting conversation, none of which I can understand because they were speaking in Xhosa. Of course I wasn’t going to let something as silly as the language barrier stop me from participating in a conversation that appeared to shock the audience.  

Me: Wait? What? I don’t understand you guys. Please repeat in English.

Girl: I was just telling them that I watched this series where a black mother caught her gay son having sex with a guy. She them poured boiling water onto them while they were still busy in the act.

Everyone shakes their heads and mutter something or other. And then the boy said something that shocked me.

Boy: Homosexuality – the white man’s disease.

And I just sat there, wide-eyed and disbelieving as everyone else seemed to agree with him. Until that day I’d always assumed that it was only the uneducated that thought this way – now I know better.  

*South Africans don’t use the term freshman so I have no idea if I’m using the term correctly.

**Goldilocks would later stop speaking to us after we screw her over but that’s a story for a whole different blog post. Actually I think I already blogged this story.

Estate Agency & dark coloured babies

Two blog posts in a day. Damn, I’m on fire!

Back when I was young and beautiful and had millions of suitors who loved me not for my body but for my intelligence, I worked as a receptionist at an Estate Agency. I hated that job. I hated every minute of it. And every time I consider leaving my current job I remind myself of how much worse life can be. That’s right bitches, fear is holding me back.

But THIS story isn’t about how much I hated my old job and former boss. What I’d like to talk about today is a conversation I overheard while working in THAT hellhole for R2 000 a month. That right, R2 000 a month! I had an honors degree in Science, no less, and I was working as a receptionist at a shitty ass agency for R2 000 a month. AND I worked Saturdays as well!!! Do you have any idea how little R2 000 is??? Fuck, my current monthly payments on my car is double that.

Struggling to find a job in the environmental field, I eventually settled for a job answering phones and contemplating suicide. This mind you, was not a permanent position. I was simply a stand-in for a woman who was on the verge of ejecting a kid from her vagina.

After two months of utter boredom, the new mother arrived back at work to show off her baby. Since I’ve never been the type of woman to fawn over another woman’s kid* I remained firmly behind my desk. All the other office women however scrambled towards the rugrat and cooed over it.

Female colleague: Oh your coloured baby is so dark.

Mother: Yes but it is okay. It’s a boy. Boys are allowed to be tall dark and handsome.

To me this remark sounded strange and I couldn’t help wonder if she had a dark, little girl would she love her less?

*The only kids I’m willing to dote over are my cousins and future nephews and nieces. Oh right and if I ever have my own kids, I’ll probably love them too. Probably.

From Russia with love – Part II (and then some)

It was yesterday while dreaming of the colourful domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral that I was reminded of the two Russian girls I’d met on the steps of a Venice train station.

Looking back I don’t quite remember what they looked like. This has always been a failing of mine.

What I do remember thinking was that they looked awfully young – not much more than 19. Their faces had the look of fresh innocence about it – as if they’d never had their collective hearts broken. Of course this probably says much more about me than it does about them.

I was 24 when I finally made my way to Italy. I’d spent years pouring over maps, tracing my stubby finger from one country to the next, dreaming of great adventures and muttering the mantra, “When I have money.” It’s a mantra that I STILL find myself repeating.

(To be continued.)

*

 

Things that made me smile:

  1. Hayibo’s satirical article on “Feefa” robbing South Africa blind.
  2. The Portugal versus North Korea match. (I was there!)
  3. Kulula’s adverts.

Future Harper Lee in the making?

Everything that you do is so amazing
I can’t believe what your body
Makes me wanna do
I’m having visions of me all over you
Falling for you – Tamia
My 500th post came and went without much funfair. I know you were expecting a procession with cymbals, trumpets and fire-dancers to commemorate this auspicious event. No such luck my popsicles. It’s not that I’d dismissed the event with a flick of a wrist. Trust me that I was all too acutely aware of the numbers ticking by. In fact if I were to be honest, I would admit that I was very idea of turning 500 had more me on edge than my upcoming birthday.

And as the numbers drew closer, I found that I was asking myself the requisite questions; the questions that every TRUE blogger SHOULD ask of themselves. Why do I blog? Do I do it in the hopes that one day I too will be able to convince thousands of Americans to boycott beef and that some quack like Dr Phil is the next big thing? Or I write simply to while away the hours at job I’m not entirely devoted to? Do a blog because I don’t have someone special to dole out fanciful phrases that were created solely for him? Would I give it up the minute Mr.-I-savour-every-word-of-your-tales-of-dipshittery, enters my life or would I continue to share it with all of YOU? Ultimately the question is, “Do I write because I enjoy writing?”

And the answer to that is a simple, “Yes”.

I’ve thought of stopping. I’ve thought of it often especially in the last few months. Somewhere, somehow I’ve lost my confidence; my stride; my swagger. I woke up one morning and suddenly I could no longer gauge my “talent”. I simply didn’t know if what I’d scribbled down was any good.

I just don’t know became a mantra, something I found myself howling out in the middle of the night – no reply ever forthcoming. I thought of various strategies to up my game. Maybe what I needed was new adventure overseas, maybe I needed a grand love affair or maybe I should consider becoming a drug mule – all this in an effort to feel alive ONCE again.

And even though stumbled and struggled to find my footing, I couldn’t give it up. Writing has transformed into an addiction. I write because I have a thousand thoughts crowding my head, each of them clamouring to be heard, to be let loose. To ignore their shouts of freedom would be a crime worth persecuting. (Oh God I’m sooooo pretentious).

And even though I might one day find someone who relishes my witticism and my body, chances are good that I won’t quit the blog. Because let’s face it, what I really want is some guy who says, “Yo, my dirty little monkey, what’s wrong? You haven’t entertained the masses in ages.”

* Other questions asked over the period were: Has my writing evolved? Have I gotten any better at it? Will I ever reach that point where I’m capable of writing a book that rivals that of Harper Lee’s?

Question: Why do you blog? What’s your inspiration for blogging? And if you don’t blog, what are you passionate about?