Also try Free Rice, which lets you donate rice to feed the hungry by simply playing the (addictive) vocabulary game.
Click here.
Monday, 31 March 2008
The Animal Rescue site
This is a website that I really enjoy - you just click on the purple button and you help to donate food for rescued animals. You can also send really cute free e-cards to friends, which also results in a donation.
It's one of the few ways you can help out in a few seconds without a chequebook. Try it.
Click here.
It's one of the few ways you can help out in a few seconds without a chequebook. Try it.
Click here.
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Random memory
I recently had to write a product story on a certain brand of deodorant. As I researched the product and its history, I was taken back to my childhood and the long-forgotten memory of purchasing my own first deodorant. More than my first bra or my first date, this event stands out to me as an important milestone in the process of growing up, yet until now it had remained buried at the edge of my memory.
I must have been about 11 years old, because we were living in the white cubic-style house in Edenvale. My family has moved so many times during my life that I define phases of our history and my growing up by which house we were in at the time. This particular house had a long panhandle driveway and was in a road called Soetdoring Crescent in a relatively new suburb. Soetdoring is an Afrikaans name, which, literally translated, means 'sweet thorn', and I remember being puzzled by the word. However, being an inventive child, I made up my own explanation as to its meaning.
In South Africa we have an indigenous family of trees called 'acacias'. Most varieties of this tree have long, white thorns that look like tiny elephant tusks. They also produce a clear, sticky gum with a bittersweet taste from their trunk. I'd often broken a thorn off of an acacia and, drawn to the tacky gum (as children are always attracted to sticky substances), would play with the tip of the thorn in the goo, usually managing to smear it on one or another item of clothing in the process. To me it was obvious that 'soetdoring' must refer to this practise.
But I digress... The eventful day when I purchased my first underarm deodorant was sunny and ordinary in most ways. At school we had just had our usual weekly swimming lesson (as a poor swimmer I feared and dreaded these). With wet hair and purple goosebumps, we returned to the changing room to dry off. It was at this point that Carla produced her new deodorant, a sickly sweet aerosol, light pink in colour, that immediately became the envy of the whole class. Lauren also had a spray. Hers was musky and came in a classy maroon cylinder. In fact, there were a few other girls that could boast they possessed this grand symbol of adulthood, but I was not one of them, and I knew that I had to remedy this situation.
For some reason, asking my mother to get me a deodorant was out of the question. It seemed somehow improper, as though my armpits were not bodyparts that could be openly discussed. Talking about wanting a deodorant was akin to asking about the mysterious 'f' word and its meaning. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.
In the car on the way home, I sat with my hands firmly squeezed in the hollows under my arms, thinking of how glamourous it would feel to lightly spritz them with womanly scent. All that afternoon I plotted, and eventually, fishing out the meagre handful of coins that represented a week and a half's pocket money (those were the days where R1 could still buy you 10 Chappies bubblegum pieces), I settled on a plan of action. It would be dangerous - I would have to cross the main road on my own - but it would be worth it.
Carefully tucking my coins into my little beaded purse, I pulled on my fashionable pink plastic sandals and set off on my adventure. Down the driveway, left into Soetdoring, and the first right into the road that would lead me to the busy main roadway that cut through the suburb. With two lanes in each direction, it was never quiet and I was under strict instructions not to cross it unsupervised. Nevertheless, I took up my courage and, seeing a gap, ran to the other side as fast as my legs would carry me.
Reaching the shopping centre on the other side, I cautiously made my way down the steep embankment at the back rather than following the path to the front of the centre, where I was sure I would have more chance of being spotted. Once inside the Spar (our local supermarket) I headed straight for the hair and body care section.
Despite knowing that the longer I lingered the more likely my mother was to notice my absence, I couldn't help but tarry, inhaling the heady, adult smell of every type of deodorant on the shelves. The whole time, I was sure that it I stayed too long, the manager or some authoritative grown-up would come and shoo me away and tell me I had no business there. Re-counting my cash, I realised that an aerosol spray was beyond my budget, and that a roll-on was my only option. Deciding on a powder-blue Mum brand that smelled of clean sheets, I hurried to the till, where I bashfully revealed my purchase to the cashier. To my surprise, she didn't even raise an eyebrow.
Elated and clutching my small plastic bag that concealed my treasure, I made it safely back to the house where I quickly stowed my deodorant deep in my gym bag, only to be produced with grea ceremony in the change rooms on swimming days.
Months later, when washing my tog bag, my mother discovered it, much to my acute embarrassment. She didn't seem at all perturbed, surprised or shocked, and simply placed it on my bedside table next to my Barbie nail polish and my mosquito repellent. For some reason, this made the powder-blue Mum a little less exciting. The next time we did the grocery shopping together, and my mother casually asked me if I still had enough deodorant, my heart hardly even skipped a beat.
I must have been about 11 years old, because we were living in the white cubic-style house in Edenvale. My family has moved so many times during my life that I define phases of our history and my growing up by which house we were in at the time. This particular house had a long panhandle driveway and was in a road called Soetdoring Crescent in a relatively new suburb. Soetdoring is an Afrikaans name, which, literally translated, means 'sweet thorn', and I remember being puzzled by the word. However, being an inventive child, I made up my own explanation as to its meaning.
In South Africa we have an indigenous family of trees called 'acacias'. Most varieties of this tree have long, white thorns that look like tiny elephant tusks. They also produce a clear, sticky gum with a bittersweet taste from their trunk. I'd often broken a thorn off of an acacia and, drawn to the tacky gum (as children are always attracted to sticky substances), would play with the tip of the thorn in the goo, usually managing to smear it on one or another item of clothing in the process. To me it was obvious that 'soetdoring' must refer to this practise.
But I digress... The eventful day when I purchased my first underarm deodorant was sunny and ordinary in most ways. At school we had just had our usual weekly swimming lesson (as a poor swimmer I feared and dreaded these). With wet hair and purple goosebumps, we returned to the changing room to dry off. It was at this point that Carla produced her new deodorant, a sickly sweet aerosol, light pink in colour, that immediately became the envy of the whole class. Lauren also had a spray. Hers was musky and came in a classy maroon cylinder. In fact, there were a few other girls that could boast they possessed this grand symbol of adulthood, but I was not one of them, and I knew that I had to remedy this situation.
For some reason, asking my mother to get me a deodorant was out of the question. It seemed somehow improper, as though my armpits were not bodyparts that could be openly discussed. Talking about wanting a deodorant was akin to asking about the mysterious 'f' word and its meaning. I just couldn't bring myself to do it.
In the car on the way home, I sat with my hands firmly squeezed in the hollows under my arms, thinking of how glamourous it would feel to lightly spritz them with womanly scent. All that afternoon I plotted, and eventually, fishing out the meagre handful of coins that represented a week and a half's pocket money (those were the days where R1 could still buy you 10 Chappies bubblegum pieces), I settled on a plan of action. It would be dangerous - I would have to cross the main road on my own - but it would be worth it.
Carefully tucking my coins into my little beaded purse, I pulled on my fashionable pink plastic sandals and set off on my adventure. Down the driveway, left into Soetdoring, and the first right into the road that would lead me to the busy main roadway that cut through the suburb. With two lanes in each direction, it was never quiet and I was under strict instructions not to cross it unsupervised. Nevertheless, I took up my courage and, seeing a gap, ran to the other side as fast as my legs would carry me.
Reaching the shopping centre on the other side, I cautiously made my way down the steep embankment at the back rather than following the path to the front of the centre, where I was sure I would have more chance of being spotted. Once inside the Spar (our local supermarket) I headed straight for the hair and body care section.
Despite knowing that the longer I lingered the more likely my mother was to notice my absence, I couldn't help but tarry, inhaling the heady, adult smell of every type of deodorant on the shelves. The whole time, I was sure that it I stayed too long, the manager or some authoritative grown-up would come and shoo me away and tell me I had no business there. Re-counting my cash, I realised that an aerosol spray was beyond my budget, and that a roll-on was my only option. Deciding on a powder-blue Mum brand that smelled of clean sheets, I hurried to the till, where I bashfully revealed my purchase to the cashier. To my surprise, she didn't even raise an eyebrow.
Elated and clutching my small plastic bag that concealed my treasure, I made it safely back to the house where I quickly stowed my deodorant deep in my gym bag, only to be produced with grea ceremony in the change rooms on swimming days.
Months later, when washing my tog bag, my mother discovered it, much to my acute embarrassment. She didn't seem at all perturbed, surprised or shocked, and simply placed it on my bedside table next to my Barbie nail polish and my mosquito repellent. For some reason, this made the powder-blue Mum a little less exciting. The next time we did the grocery shopping together, and my mother casually asked me if I still had enough deodorant, my heart hardly even skipped a beat.
Monday, 10 March 2008
It's been awhile
I wish I had a fascinating excuse for why I haven't posted in two weeks, but I'm afraid it's the same old stuff - no time. In between working on a not-so-nice-in-fact-it's-really-awful project at work, hubby and I have been scrutinising our budget with a microscope to try and find a way to afford a trip to KwaZulu-Natal to visit my grandparents (well, grandfather and step-grandmother) for Easter.
I have this idea that I will spend the days taking down my grandfather's memoirs. As somebody who can honestly tell those "I used to walk miles to school barefoot" stories without lying, who came from absolute poverty, lived through a war or two and came out fit and fighting, I think his life story is fascinating. Especially seeing his first wife's (English) family disowned her for marrying him (an Afrikaner boxing champ). She, my grandmother, that is, did what the English do best - she colonised him completely. Yet, after she died a few years back, he met an Afrikaans lady, Lilly, and has gone back to his roots in a big way.
If you're bored by the storyline so far, consider that the two eloped when he was around 72, and that she's only 6 or 8 years (I can never remember) older than my dad, making him nearly the same age as his stepmother.
Yes, my family is a little bizarre. But I love them that way. And Lilly and Oupie (our name for my granddad) make a cute couple. He's nearly 82 now, and she's about 58, but you'd swear they were both 65. So I want to write Oupie's memoirs before he starts to show his age and forget things (other than what I do, which he forgets now anyway).
But rather than taking down notes, we're more likely to spend our time being fed by Lilly, who is an accomplished cook, taking a tour of their new home (Oupie has finally decided to retire and sell off his nursery) and trying to explain what it is that I do, seeing the only journalists they understand are those that work for a newspaper. They seem more interested in Josias's line of work (construction) than mine anyway. Not that I'm jealous. Well, not very.
I'm looking forward to escaping Gauteng for a few days and being back in the wonderfully verdant Natal province, where I spent most of my school years.
In the meanwhile, I need to get a grip on this nasty project, so let me leave the talk of holidays for the moment and return to the less-interesting reality.
I have this idea that I will spend the days taking down my grandfather's memoirs. As somebody who can honestly tell those "I used to walk miles to school barefoot" stories without lying, who came from absolute poverty, lived through a war or two and came out fit and fighting, I think his life story is fascinating. Especially seeing his first wife's (English) family disowned her for marrying him (an Afrikaner boxing champ). She, my grandmother, that is, did what the English do best - she colonised him completely. Yet, after she died a few years back, he met an Afrikaans lady, Lilly, and has gone back to his roots in a big way.
If you're bored by the storyline so far, consider that the two eloped when he was around 72, and that she's only 6 or 8 years (I can never remember) older than my dad, making him nearly the same age as his stepmother.
Yes, my family is a little bizarre. But I love them that way. And Lilly and Oupie (our name for my granddad) make a cute couple. He's nearly 82 now, and she's about 58, but you'd swear they were both 65. So I want to write Oupie's memoirs before he starts to show his age and forget things (other than what I do, which he forgets now anyway).
But rather than taking down notes, we're more likely to spend our time being fed by Lilly, who is an accomplished cook, taking a tour of their new home (Oupie has finally decided to retire and sell off his nursery) and trying to explain what it is that I do, seeing the only journalists they understand are those that work for a newspaper. They seem more interested in Josias's line of work (construction) than mine anyway. Not that I'm jealous. Well, not very.
I'm looking forward to escaping Gauteng for a few days and being back in the wonderfully verdant Natal province, where I spent most of my school years.
In the meanwhile, I need to get a grip on this nasty project, so let me leave the talk of holidays for the moment and return to the less-interesting reality.
Monday, 25 February 2008
50 things you didn't know about me
So I made the mistake of commenting on Caz's list, and now I apparently have to write my own. Not that I mind, actually. It means I don't have to think of something to post about and that I get to talk about me :) So here goes:
1. I am really bad at finishing things. I get all psyched to start a project, but lose momentum and motivation half way through (take my latest venture into making handbags out of plastic shopping bags as a prime example - I did the first half three weeks ago and haven't touched it since). I used to start writing novels. At around page 40 I'd lose all patience with my characters and kill them all off. I reckon I should stick to short stories.
2. My favourite drink is kola tonic and lemonade. And I'm a snob - I can tell if it's not the Roses brand or if the lemonade has been substituted with Sprite.
3. I am one of those customers that complains if something is not up to standard. I'm never rude (I've found that you get further with an attitude of disappointment than with one of anger), but I will speak to the manager, write a letter or visit hellopeter.com and post a complaint if there's a problem. And it works. I've had meals on the house, been reimbursed for faulty products and had personal phonecalls from top management. Besides, if I don't complain, it will just happen to the next person. I get this from my mother, although her angle is usually rage.
4. I love hot water. I could happily park a deckchair in the shower and chill there for ages. On my mission to be greener, this is the hardest thing to conquer.
5. One of my pet hates is the sound of someone sneezing. It infuriates me for no good reason. Even though I know the person sneezing is not doing it on purpose, it still drives me mad. And my husband suffers from hayfever, poor man. Not only does he have horrible allergies, but he has to deal with a cross wife too.
6. I studied film at varisty, so I'm supposed to have acquired some taste, but I can't stand a lot of the movies I'm supposed to admire (think Requiem for a Dream, which was hideously depressing; Thin Red Line; Badlands and Pulp Fiction).
7. Equally hard to admit is the fact that I love movies that serious cinophiles (cinema obsessives) deem pathetic... Michael Bay movies, for example (The Island and Transformers).
8. I have secret fantasies about taking on our office fax machine, which is 11 years old and held together with a clamp, with a baseball bat (a la the copy machine in Office Space).
9. I shop by texture. I walk through clothing stores fingering fabric until I find something that feels good. If it happens to look good too, I consider trying it on.
10. Until I got to varsity, I honestly believed that the phrase inter alia was the name of the Italian national airline. For someone who studied English, that's a bit of a shocker.
11. I love dressing up in costume. Give me a themed birthday party any day!
12. Another of of my pet peeves is things that rhyme. I hate it when companies have rhyming slogans (read the 'Wimpy promise' and weep) or when pastors try to fit as much rhyme into a sermon as possible. I like the word orange, which doesn't truly rhyme with anything.
13. I get severe Sunday-night blues. Much as I enjoy my job (usually), I still hate having to ackowledge that the weekend is over.
14. I love yellow flowers - sunflowers, daffodils, yellow roses and day lilies. They're just so happy.
15. I prefer cooking to baking. This is probably because I absolutely cannot stick to a recipe, and this tends to matter more when it comes to baking that it does with cooking. You can always add something to a stew to make it tastier, but once your muffins are in the oven, there's nothing you can do.
16. I love libraries. There's something magical about the quietness and the smell of so many books read by so many people all in one place.
17. On that note, I notice smell a lot. I won't eat something new unless I've smelled it first, and I buy hair products based on their smell.
18. I hate talking on the phone. The only people that I don't get nervous with on the phone are my folks and hubby. As a journalist who needs to conduct telephonic interviews, this is often a problem.
19. I have just exchanged my first car (Ziggy, a gorgeous little Ford Fiesta 1.6i Sport) for my second (Ella, a Honda Jazz, named after jazz legend Ella Fitsgerald). I have loved Ziggy with my whole heart for the past four and a half years, and I find myself feeling guilty and traitorous for enjoying Ella's power steering so much.
20. I suffer from accute post-interview paranoia. No matter how well my interview went and whether the person I've interviewed was a famous musician or sweet little old lady, give me 20min and I'll have convinced myself that I came across like a complete idiot and that he/she/they hated my style.
21. The smell of hospitals makes me ill.
22. I am terrified of ants. Not ants singular, but ants en masse. I believe this is due to an unfortunate childhood experience that involved two-year old me discovering an anthill full of those mean red biters.
23. I am not scared of heights. I love heights. I've done the whole abseiling/rap-jumping/bridge-swinging/rock climbing thing, but...
24. ... I won't bungee jump. The thought of falling is great; it's that bounce-back, neck-snapping bit that I'm scared of.
25. I'm worried that I may not want to have kids. I know I'm only 23 and that if you give me five years I might say otherwise, but right now the thought of that responsibility terrifies me (almost as much as the thought of pregnancy and having something/someone else controlling my body).
26. I miss studying and worry that I'l forget everything I learnt. My French is almost gone, my maths went a long time ago, and I really worry that my English will soon desert me too as I fall into the evils of SMS abbreviations.
27. Nevertheless, I remain obessive when it comes to correct punctuation and spelling in the public domain. I have to hold myself back from carrying a permanet marker in my handbag to correct billboards and the like. I find this ironic, seeing my pathetic typing means that I often inadvertently miss-spell words in my posts.
28. I am the ultimate bleeding heart. Beggars, strays and lost causes flock to me in droves because I cannot say no. This means that I have been conned on numerous occasions. Yet I still firmly believe that "It is better to be occasionally conned that permanently suspicious". I don't know who said that, but I believe it.
29. I adore my cats, Marble (because he's two colours) and Sapphire (who came with the name Sapphus, which we didn't like). I love them more than I thought it would be possible to love two little furry creatures that seem intent on eating me out of house and home.
30. I don't like hamburgers. Never have, never will.
31. I am a die-hard Formula One fan. But those of yuo who know me prbably knew that. McLaren forever!
32. I am also a die-hard (cheesy joke I know) Bruce Willis fan. Well, I don't really like him, but I like a lot of the movies he's been in, especially 12 Monkeys and The Fifth Element. Crazy stuff.
33. I love going to theatre, even if it's just the Barnyard. I often wish that life was a musical where people would randomly start singing and dancing in the street (and everyone else would know the words and steps and join in).
34. I miss acting. When I was at school, I was part of a drama academy for seven years. I still think that being in the wings, about to come on stage, is one of the best feelings in the world.
35. One of the worst feelings in the world is needing to sneeze and not being able to. I have issues around sneezing (see no. 5).
36. I hate shoe shopping. You would too if you wore a size three shoe.
37. I don't show my stress. It manifests in my body - I'll get back pain, headaches and come down with the 'flu.
38. Being late stresses me out, yet I am always late. I blame this on spending four years in Cape Town, where if you were on time, you would be the only one around.
39. I am the black sheep in my family. My dad's an engineer, my brother's studying to be an engineer, and my mother is a doctor. They are all left-brained, analytical, scientific people, who can't understand where this right-brained, creative, (and I quote) "arty-farty, bohemian" person came from. Which explains why...
40. ... As a child, I was absolutely convinced that I was adopted. I read and reread orphan tales like Anne of Green Gables, The Little Princess and Daddy Longlegs, feeling grateful that I'd been chosen by such a nic efamly, but wondering whether my real parents had been famous movie stars or royalty. Such are the fantasies of a nine-year old.
41. I love my family, and find that I get along far better with them now that I'm married. Weird, but true.
42. I don't believe that every person only has one soulmate. What if yours gets hit by a bus? I've seen my grandfather, married to his first wife for over 40 years, find a new love a few years after her death, and remarry at age 73. He and his second wife have now been happily married for nearly eight years.
43. One of the things that I love most about my husband is that he is willing to stand up for me and be my protector. He lets me know that he thinks I'm worth fighting for.
44. One of the things that I have had to get used to is letting hubby help me. I'm incredibly independent and always feel the need to prove that I can do things myself. It took me ages to realise that helping me and doing things for me is one of his ways of loving me, and that by not letting him do it, I am rejecting that love. Deep, hey? This and lots of other insights from one of my best-ever books, Five Love Languages by Dr. Gary Chapman.
45. I love taking photos. Photos capture memories. When I have my own house, it will be filled with photos.
46. I really want my own house. I am tired of renting other people's houses. I would love to be able to paint the walls whatever colour I like and put nails in them for hanging pictures, without having to worry about filling the holes when we leave. We're working towards buying a place, but it is a lengthy process or saving and (arguing about the best neighbourhood).
47. I really want my own garden. There's nothing quite as satisfying as getting your hands into the soil and watching your plants grow.
48. I have a thing about people's accents. If I'm talking to someone with an accent, I start to pick up on it and speak like him or her. It's really embarrassing, because people tend to think I'm mocking them. I can't help it though. My favourite accent must be Irish.
49. I hate being cynical and wish that I could return to the way I viewed the world as a child. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could all believe that anything was possible and that good would beat evil every time?
50. I loathe political speech... round and round in circles, taking 20 minutes to say nothing. I must go an do one of those interviews now. Joy.
1. I am really bad at finishing things. I get all psyched to start a project, but lose momentum and motivation half way through (take my latest venture into making handbags out of plastic shopping bags as a prime example - I did the first half three weeks ago and haven't touched it since). I used to start writing novels. At around page 40 I'd lose all patience with my characters and kill them all off. I reckon I should stick to short stories.
2. My favourite drink is kola tonic and lemonade. And I'm a snob - I can tell if it's not the Roses brand or if the lemonade has been substituted with Sprite.
3. I am one of those customers that complains if something is not up to standard. I'm never rude (I've found that you get further with an attitude of disappointment than with one of anger), but I will speak to the manager, write a letter or visit hellopeter.com and post a complaint if there's a problem. And it works. I've had meals on the house, been reimbursed for faulty products and had personal phonecalls from top management. Besides, if I don't complain, it will just happen to the next person. I get this from my mother, although her angle is usually rage.
4. I love hot water. I could happily park a deckchair in the shower and chill there for ages. On my mission to be greener, this is the hardest thing to conquer.
5. One of my pet hates is the sound of someone sneezing. It infuriates me for no good reason. Even though I know the person sneezing is not doing it on purpose, it still drives me mad. And my husband suffers from hayfever, poor man. Not only does he have horrible allergies, but he has to deal with a cross wife too.
6. I studied film at varisty, so I'm supposed to have acquired some taste, but I can't stand a lot of the movies I'm supposed to admire (think Requiem for a Dream, which was hideously depressing; Thin Red Line; Badlands and Pulp Fiction).
7. Equally hard to admit is the fact that I love movies that serious cinophiles (cinema obsessives) deem pathetic... Michael Bay movies, for example (The Island and Transformers).
8. I have secret fantasies about taking on our office fax machine, which is 11 years old and held together with a clamp, with a baseball bat (a la the copy machine in Office Space).
9. I shop by texture. I walk through clothing stores fingering fabric until I find something that feels good. If it happens to look good too, I consider trying it on.
10. Until I got to varsity, I honestly believed that the phrase inter alia was the name of the Italian national airline. For someone who studied English, that's a bit of a shocker.
11. I love dressing up in costume. Give me a themed birthday party any day!
12. Another of of my pet peeves is things that rhyme. I hate it when companies have rhyming slogans (read the 'Wimpy promise' and weep) or when pastors try to fit as much rhyme into a sermon as possible. I like the word orange, which doesn't truly rhyme with anything.
13. I get severe Sunday-night blues. Much as I enjoy my job (usually), I still hate having to ackowledge that the weekend is over.
14. I love yellow flowers - sunflowers, daffodils, yellow roses and day lilies. They're just so happy.
15. I prefer cooking to baking. This is probably because I absolutely cannot stick to a recipe, and this tends to matter more when it comes to baking that it does with cooking. You can always add something to a stew to make it tastier, but once your muffins are in the oven, there's nothing you can do.
16. I love libraries. There's something magical about the quietness and the smell of so many books read by so many people all in one place.
17. On that note, I notice smell a lot. I won't eat something new unless I've smelled it first, and I buy hair products based on their smell.
18. I hate talking on the phone. The only people that I don't get nervous with on the phone are my folks and hubby. As a journalist who needs to conduct telephonic interviews, this is often a problem.
19. I have just exchanged my first car (Ziggy, a gorgeous little Ford Fiesta 1.6i Sport) for my second (Ella, a Honda Jazz, named after jazz legend Ella Fitsgerald). I have loved Ziggy with my whole heart for the past four and a half years, and I find myself feeling guilty and traitorous for enjoying Ella's power steering so much.
20. I suffer from accute post-interview paranoia. No matter how well my interview went and whether the person I've interviewed was a famous musician or sweet little old lady, give me 20min and I'll have convinced myself that I came across like a complete idiot and that he/she/they hated my style.
21. The smell of hospitals makes me ill.
22. I am terrified of ants. Not ants singular, but ants en masse. I believe this is due to an unfortunate childhood experience that involved two-year old me discovering an anthill full of those mean red biters.
23. I am not scared of heights. I love heights. I've done the whole abseiling/rap-jumping/bridge-swinging/rock climbing thing, but...
24. ... I won't bungee jump. The thought of falling is great; it's that bounce-back, neck-snapping bit that I'm scared of.
25. I'm worried that I may not want to have kids. I know I'm only 23 and that if you give me five years I might say otherwise, but right now the thought of that responsibility terrifies me (almost as much as the thought of pregnancy and having something/someone else controlling my body).
26. I miss studying and worry that I'l forget everything I learnt. My French is almost gone, my maths went a long time ago, and I really worry that my English will soon desert me too as I fall into the evils of SMS abbreviations.
27. Nevertheless, I remain obessive when it comes to correct punctuation and spelling in the public domain. I have to hold myself back from carrying a permanet marker in my handbag to correct billboards and the like. I find this ironic, seeing my pathetic typing means that I often inadvertently miss-spell words in my posts.
28. I am the ultimate bleeding heart. Beggars, strays and lost causes flock to me in droves because I cannot say no. This means that I have been conned on numerous occasions. Yet I still firmly believe that "It is better to be occasionally conned that permanently suspicious". I don't know who said that, but I believe it.
29. I adore my cats, Marble (because he's two colours) and Sapphire (who came with the name Sapphus, which we didn't like). I love them more than I thought it would be possible to love two little furry creatures that seem intent on eating me out of house and home.
30. I don't like hamburgers. Never have, never will.
31. I am a die-hard Formula One fan. But those of yuo who know me prbably knew that. McLaren forever!
32. I am also a die-hard (cheesy joke I know) Bruce Willis fan. Well, I don't really like him, but I like a lot of the movies he's been in, especially 12 Monkeys and The Fifth Element. Crazy stuff.
33. I love going to theatre, even if it's just the Barnyard. I often wish that life was a musical where people would randomly start singing and dancing in the street (and everyone else would know the words and steps and join in).
34. I miss acting. When I was at school, I was part of a drama academy for seven years. I still think that being in the wings, about to come on stage, is one of the best feelings in the world.
35. One of the worst feelings in the world is needing to sneeze and not being able to. I have issues around sneezing (see no. 5).
36. I hate shoe shopping. You would too if you wore a size three shoe.
37. I don't show my stress. It manifests in my body - I'll get back pain, headaches and come down with the 'flu.
38. Being late stresses me out, yet I am always late. I blame this on spending four years in Cape Town, where if you were on time, you would be the only one around.
39. I am the black sheep in my family. My dad's an engineer, my brother's studying to be an engineer, and my mother is a doctor. They are all left-brained, analytical, scientific people, who can't understand where this right-brained, creative, (and I quote) "arty-farty, bohemian" person came from. Which explains why...
40. ... As a child, I was absolutely convinced that I was adopted. I read and reread orphan tales like Anne of Green Gables, The Little Princess and Daddy Longlegs, feeling grateful that I'd been chosen by such a nic efamly, but wondering whether my real parents had been famous movie stars or royalty. Such are the fantasies of a nine-year old.
41. I love my family, and find that I get along far better with them now that I'm married. Weird, but true.
42. I don't believe that every person only has one soulmate. What if yours gets hit by a bus? I've seen my grandfather, married to his first wife for over 40 years, find a new love a few years after her death, and remarry at age 73. He and his second wife have now been happily married for nearly eight years.
43. One of the things that I love most about my husband is that he is willing to stand up for me and be my protector. He lets me know that he thinks I'm worth fighting for.
44. One of the things that I have had to get used to is letting hubby help me. I'm incredibly independent and always feel the need to prove that I can do things myself. It took me ages to realise that helping me and doing things for me is one of his ways of loving me, and that by not letting him do it, I am rejecting that love. Deep, hey? This and lots of other insights from one of my best-ever books, Five Love Languages by Dr. Gary Chapman.
45. I love taking photos. Photos capture memories. When I have my own house, it will be filled with photos.
46. I really want my own house. I am tired of renting other people's houses. I would love to be able to paint the walls whatever colour I like and put nails in them for hanging pictures, without having to worry about filling the holes when we leave. We're working towards buying a place, but it is a lengthy process or saving and (arguing about the best neighbourhood).
47. I really want my own garden. There's nothing quite as satisfying as getting your hands into the soil and watching your plants grow.
48. I have a thing about people's accents. If I'm talking to someone with an accent, I start to pick up on it and speak like him or her. It's really embarrassing, because people tend to think I'm mocking them. I can't help it though. My favourite accent must be Irish.
49. I hate being cynical and wish that I could return to the way I viewed the world as a child. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could all believe that anything was possible and that good would beat evil every time?
50. I loathe political speech... round and round in circles, taking 20 minutes to say nothing. I must go an do one of those interviews now. Joy.
Monday, 18 February 2008
Friday, 15 February 2008
Post-valentine poem
On 14 Feb the world turns red
With hearts and ruby wine.
Come 15 Feb the rumpled bed
Bared of sweet Valentine.
One day a year the florists cheer,
The gift shops make their play,
So men can leer and shed no tear
As they have the girls their way.
Bought for a bit of heart-shaped sweet,
A candle or a frame,
The silly girls, like fresh-cut meat
Join in this silly game.
And when, at last, they wake to shame,
Conveniently they lay the blame.
This poem has absolutely nothing to do with my Valentine's Day. Hubby and I had a lovely champagne and sushi picnic, perfect and relaxed. But I do remember back to highschool days, when we'd send roses to the boys' school and vice versa. The boys just wanted to hook up and the girls just wanted to not be alone on Valentine's day. I wrote this poem thinking about how grateful I am that I'm not still in that cycle!
With hearts and ruby wine.
Come 15 Feb the rumpled bed
Bared of sweet Valentine.
One day a year the florists cheer,
The gift shops make their play,
So men can leer and shed no tear
As they have the girls their way.
Bought for a bit of heart-shaped sweet,
A candle or a frame,
The silly girls, like fresh-cut meat
Join in this silly game.
And when, at last, they wake to shame,
Conveniently they lay the blame.
This poem has absolutely nothing to do with my Valentine's Day. Hubby and I had a lovely champagne and sushi picnic, perfect and relaxed. But I do remember back to highschool days, when we'd send roses to the boys' school and vice versa. The boys just wanted to hook up and the girls just wanted to not be alone on Valentine's day. I wrote this poem thinking about how grateful I am that I'm not still in that cycle!
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
Global Warming in my back garden
The Commentator notes that I have more chance of fixing media bias than global warming. I wish I could argue this point, but alas, it is true.
I have been trying to 'do my bit' here in SA; recycling my glass bottles and paper, turning off the geyser when we're not home, unplugging cell phone chargers when they're not in use and so on. But my eco-friendly activities are quite limited.
I live in the country that holds the dubious honour of having the world's highest murder rate, so walking or cycling to work is not safe. Hubby works in the opposite direction, 45 minutes' drive away, so we can't even share a ride. I work in a three-person company that operates out of a home office, so my boss lives at work and my other colleague also lives in the opposite direction to me. My carbon footprint worries me as I climb in my car at least twice a day and hit the gas.
At least I can (safely) walk to the shops from my place, as well as the gym. I do as many of my interviews telephonically as possible to avoid belching carbon monoxide out my little car's exhaust pipes into the atmosphere, and I have replaced my light bulbs with more eco-friendly options. We try to but local, organic produce where possible, and I grow my own organic herbs. South Africa doesn't offer a huge range of 'green' products, and ethical trade is still a relatively unknown term here.
I feel like I need to do more! Does anyone have ideas or suggestions that are possible to implement in South Africa that will save energy and make our lives a little greener?
I know that Eskom is doing its bit by shutting off our power at every chance. If the state-owned entities are going green, the private sector should jack up and do so too!
I have been trying to 'do my bit' here in SA; recycling my glass bottles and paper, turning off the geyser when we're not home, unplugging cell phone chargers when they're not in use and so on. But my eco-friendly activities are quite limited.
I live in the country that holds the dubious honour of having the world's highest murder rate, so walking or cycling to work is not safe. Hubby works in the opposite direction, 45 minutes' drive away, so we can't even share a ride. I work in a three-person company that operates out of a home office, so my boss lives at work and my other colleague also lives in the opposite direction to me. My carbon footprint worries me as I climb in my car at least twice a day and hit the gas.
At least I can (safely) walk to the shops from my place, as well as the gym. I do as many of my interviews telephonically as possible to avoid belching carbon monoxide out my little car's exhaust pipes into the atmosphere, and I have replaced my light bulbs with more eco-friendly options. We try to but local, organic produce where possible, and I grow my own organic herbs. South Africa doesn't offer a huge range of 'green' products, and ethical trade is still a relatively unknown term here.
I feel like I need to do more! Does anyone have ideas or suggestions that are possible to implement in South Africa that will save energy and make our lives a little greener?
I know that Eskom is doing its bit by shutting off our power at every chance. If the state-owned entities are going green, the private sector should jack up and do so too!
Friday, 8 February 2008
Blame it on the media
Everything is the media's fault. This we all know. Whether it's biased pre-election reporting or driving celebs to suicide, making teenage boys into violent killers or just getting your name spelled wrong in an article, media are held accountable for all of society's ills.
I'm a journalist, which means I'm part of the media, and while I write mainly business and tourism stuff for small publishing houses that nobody much cares about, I still find myself playing the object of wrath in day-to-day situations.
Sometimes it's the frantic PA that snaps because the journo has called 20 million times to try to get an interview out of her useless boss that his company has paid for but he's not interested in. Usually, the bright marketing spark who booked the profile for the publication forgets to inform the interviewee that (s)he will need to be interviewed, which, of course, makes everything the journo's fault.
Editors get mad when you ask for extensions to your deadlines because of your sources' availability (or should I say lack thereof), then sources get mad when you try to explain your deadlines to them because as far as they're concerned, your job revolves around what they have to say (which truth be told it does).
I love to write. I love words and the ways they can fit together and how punctuation can totally alter meaning (Compare: A woman without her man is nothing. A woman: without her, man is nothing).
What I don't love is all the stuff that gets in the way of writing - the terse phonecalls, the unpleasant following up, the threatening letters, the lawsuits... you know, the norm.
As such, I think I'm going to start a petition calling for free therapy for all media. Think about it... job creation for shrinks, happier journos that write happier news, no more violent teenage boy killers... The world would be a smiling place. What do you think?
Now if we can just fix climate change and global warming, everything will be toasty. I mean... not.
I'm a journalist, which means I'm part of the media, and while I write mainly business and tourism stuff for small publishing houses that nobody much cares about, I still find myself playing the object of wrath in day-to-day situations.
Sometimes it's the frantic PA that snaps because the journo has called 20 million times to try to get an interview out of her useless boss that his company has paid for but he's not interested in. Usually, the bright marketing spark who booked the profile for the publication forgets to inform the interviewee that (s)he will need to be interviewed, which, of course, makes everything the journo's fault.
Editors get mad when you ask for extensions to your deadlines because of your sources' availability (or should I say lack thereof), then sources get mad when you try to explain your deadlines to them because as far as they're concerned, your job revolves around what they have to say (which truth be told it does).
I love to write. I love words and the ways they can fit together and how punctuation can totally alter meaning (Compare: A woman without her man is nothing. A woman: without her, man is nothing).
What I don't love is all the stuff that gets in the way of writing - the terse phonecalls, the unpleasant following up, the threatening letters, the lawsuits... you know, the norm.
As such, I think I'm going to start a petition calling for free therapy for all media. Think about it... job creation for shrinks, happier journos that write happier news, no more violent teenage boy killers... The world would be a smiling place. What do you think?
Now if we can just fix climate change and global warming, everything will be toasty. I mean... not.
Thursday, 31 January 2008
Writer's block & Eskom
All great writers suffer from writer's block at one point or another in their illustrious careers. I am no different (aside from not being a great writer, that is). My mental wheels have temporarily stopped turning, so I am stooping to posting other people's great work on my blog. This is one of my favourite South African cartoons, Madam & Eve. The authors have been one of the few groups of people managing to make money out of the powercuts (along with those selling generators, wood-fire pizza and gas cookers). Enjoy:
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Funny column
If you're South African or interested in SA affairs, you should check out David Mosely's ridiculously non-PC but hilarious column, here .
Wednesday, 23 January 2008
My Orlando photos
The horned chicken and the horned husband, as seen at Ripley's Believe it or Not
New York New York in Disney-MGM Studios
Waiting for the bus. We did lots of this.
Smoke from the fireworks on New Year's Eve at MGM.
Yours truly with the robotic 'mine! mine!' sea gulls at The Seas With Nemo entrance in Epcot.
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Power cuts boost productivity... by preventing procrastination
Yikes! It has been a long while since I last blogged. Why, you may ask (or not. i suppose it depends entirely on whether or not you actually care). Well, if you're in South Africa you probably know the answer... Eskom. And for those of you who are not from this glorious land of sunny days and dark, electricity-less nights, that is not a rude Afrikaans word. Although it should be.
Eskom is our national power supplier, but they're not doing a very good job of supplying electricity to us at the moment. Not that it's their fault - they have been warning our government for years that we needed to invest money in building new capacity. But, as President Mbeki has admitted, the top dogs did not listen, and so now we are stuck with rolling blackouts everyday, usually twice a day, around the country.
All of this rambling about the uselessness of politicians and utilities is merely background to explain my latest excuse for delayed blogging... "load shedding" as Eskom calls it. This annoying and highly disruptive policy of turning off our electricity at random intervals during the day does have its plus side though... It has put an end to my procrastination. See, to make my deadlines I am forced to sit down immediately as I get into the office and do as much as possible while the PC is still on, as well as copying everything onto a USB stick to use on the laptop while the power is down and drawing up very organised 'to do' lists of people I need to call and things I need to do that don't require electricity for those two-hour sessions. When the power is off and I have no internet or email access, I simply go through my lists and feel very good at being able to tick things off.
So while Eskom's little switch-flicking games may halt the work on the Gau-Train project, lose millions of Rands for the mining companies, and generally wreak havoc and mean that nobody can get a good cuppa, at least little old me is doing just fine.
The only down side (and some will debate that this is a negative at all) is that there are long gaps between blogs.
Eskom is our national power supplier, but they're not doing a very good job of supplying electricity to us at the moment. Not that it's their fault - they have been warning our government for years that we needed to invest money in building new capacity. But, as President Mbeki has admitted, the top dogs did not listen, and so now we are stuck with rolling blackouts everyday, usually twice a day, around the country.
All of this rambling about the uselessness of politicians and utilities is merely background to explain my latest excuse for delayed blogging... "load shedding" as Eskom calls it. This annoying and highly disruptive policy of turning off our electricity at random intervals during the day does have its plus side though... It has put an end to my procrastination. See, to make my deadlines I am forced to sit down immediately as I get into the office and do as much as possible while the PC is still on, as well as copying everything onto a USB stick to use on the laptop while the power is down and drawing up very organised 'to do' lists of people I need to call and things I need to do that don't require electricity for those two-hour sessions. When the power is off and I have no internet or email access, I simply go through my lists and feel very good at being able to tick things off.
So while Eskom's little switch-flicking games may halt the work on the Gau-Train project, lose millions of Rands for the mining companies, and generally wreak havoc and mean that nobody can get a good cuppa, at least little old me is doing just fine.
The only down side (and some will debate that this is a negative at all) is that there are long gaps between blogs.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
The first of the photos
There are many more to come (as soon as I figure out how my new camera's software works), but here is a single photo from each segment of my holiday in the meanwhile. To see all the rest, visit my Flickr page here.
The day of our first year anniversary - a "sunset" (we were around an hour early for that) horseride along Noordehoek beach. It was amazing - the day had been raining and miserable and the weather cleared to give us the perfect 2-hour window for our ride, which we followed up with dinner at the Mount Nelson Hotel (where TSC proposed to me). No photos of that as we're STILL too embarrassed to ask the waiter to take a photo of us. It's just not done at the Mt. N, dahling!
This is our nephew, Jeandre, at around 8 months. Poor boy's already had chicken pox and bronchitis, but he was all smiles when we saw him in Upington - we'd just given him the R400 teddy. He couldn't wait to unpack the bear so he could ignore it and try to climb inside its box.
Me, on the farm in Namibia, trying to look comfortable holding this little goat that was squirming like a worm on speed.
TSC and I on Christmas day, which we spent with my family near Hazyview in Mpumalanga. It was a stunning day of perfect weather, good food, lots of presents and interesting German priests.
Tamara and TSC do Disney. Dancing gingerbread men! Well, I thought it was cool.
I know I promised random observations, the usual rants and more fine writing, so those will come. Well, the rants and observations at least. Two out of three is not bad. In the meantime, just pretend to be interested in my pics, k?
The day of our first year anniversary - a "sunset" (we were around an hour early for that) horseride along Noordehoek beach. It was amazing - the day had been raining and miserable and the weather cleared to give us the perfect 2-hour window for our ride, which we followed up with dinner at the Mount Nelson Hotel (where TSC proposed to me). No photos of that as we're STILL too embarrassed to ask the waiter to take a photo of us. It's just not done at the Mt. N, dahling!
This is our nephew, Jeandre, at around 8 months. Poor boy's already had chicken pox and bronchitis, but he was all smiles when we saw him in Upington - we'd just given him the R400 teddy. He couldn't wait to unpack the bear so he could ignore it and try to climb inside its box.
Me, on the farm in Namibia, trying to look comfortable holding this little goat that was squirming like a worm on speed.
TSC and I on Christmas day, which we spent with my family near Hazyview in Mpumalanga. It was a stunning day of perfect weather, good food, lots of presents and interesting German priests.
Tamara and TSC do Disney. Dancing gingerbread men! Well, I thought it was cool.
I know I promised random observations, the usual rants and more fine writing, so those will come. Well, the rants and observations at least. Two out of three is not bad. In the meantime, just pretend to be interested in my pics, k?
Tuesday, 8 January 2008
Back to business as usual
Hello infinite ether into which I cast my bitsy blogs!
I have returned. Yes, like a nasty case of the sniffles, I am unstoppable. No desert-heat Namibian farm excursion, post-holiday emptiness of pocket or bumbling US airline can keep me from bouncing back into blog-mode.
In other words, vaction's over, so it's back to work, which means it's back to procrastination. After three weeks of non-stop travelling that took me from the fairest Cape Town to most desolate Keetmanshoop in Namibia and from the luxurious Casa do Sol in Mpumalanga to the cockroach infested Howard Johnson Maingate West in Orlando, Florida, my adjective-addicted self is now plonked back in front of this unfriendly monitor... wiser, even more tired than before my holiday and ever-so-slightly less white than before.
Details, photos and meaningless observations to follow. Until then, adieu.
I have returned. Yes, like a nasty case of the sniffles, I am unstoppable. No desert-heat Namibian farm excursion, post-holiday emptiness of pocket or bumbling US airline can keep me from bouncing back into blog-mode.
In other words, vaction's over, so it's back to work, which means it's back to procrastination. After three weeks of non-stop travelling that took me from the fairest Cape Town to most desolate Keetmanshoop in Namibia and from the luxurious Casa do Sol in Mpumalanga to the cockroach infested Howard Johnson Maingate West in Orlando, Florida, my adjective-addicted self is now plonked back in front of this unfriendly monitor... wiser, even more tired than before my holiday and ever-so-slightly less white than before.
Details, photos and meaningless observations to follow. Until then, adieu.
Thursday, 13 December 2007
A new post for a new look (for the new year)
Ta-da! What do you think of the new look? They say that a change is as good as a holiday, and seeing my holiday only starts tomorrow, today was a day for change.
I'm quite chuffed with myself - made the new banner from a chopped up email advert for a restaurant, cut and paste and moved around on Paint (the only image editing software this useless PC has). No Photoshop, as you can tell. But still, I like it. And seeing its my blog, I guess that counts for something.
But I really would like your opinions (especially positive ones).
I know it's a little early for the new year, but your truly is leaving tomorrow and has no plans to touch a PC until she returns in early Jan, when she must also stop speaking and writing in the third person!
Well, my lovelies, if I don't blog soon, wishing you a lovely holiday, a blessed Christmas and lots of beautiful moments that will become cherished memories.
I'm quite chuffed with myself - made the new banner from a chopped up email advert for a restaurant, cut and paste and moved around on Paint (the only image editing software this useless PC has). No Photoshop, as you can tell. But still, I like it. And seeing its my blog, I guess that counts for something.
But I really would like your opinions (especially positive ones).
I know it's a little early for the new year, but your truly is leaving tomorrow and has no plans to touch a PC until she returns in early Jan, when she must also stop speaking and writing in the third person!
Well, my lovelies, if I don't blog soon, wishing you a lovely holiday, a blessed Christmas and lots of beautiful moments that will become cherished memories.
Monday, 10 December 2007
My pseudonym
I have a pseudonym! This is a pen name, for those who were unaware of the meaning of this interesting and intellectual sounding word.
As a journo, I kinda assumed I would need to write under another name at some point in time, but I must admit that I had hoped it would be for more noble reasons. I imagined needing to use a fake name to protect myself from the wrath of the government after exposing an enormous spy scandal, or from the Italian mafia for blowing the lid on their crime syndicate.
But alas, my alter ego, Justine White (the feminine version of my brother's name + my mother's maiden name) came about through rather boring means. We freelance to a lot of publications and we sometimes write entire magazines. As such, a reader might notice that ALL the copy has been written by no more than two or three people, which looks a little unprofessional. So, instead of hiring more writers, we just change some articles (usually those we wrote that we dislike) to somebody else's name. Dishonest? Maybe, but that's how the industry works. I know one political writer who has a different name for every party he write about!
I have to say that I findhaving a pseudonym quite exciting. When I have to write a sparkly article on the useless CEO of some giant corporate, I like to fantasise that Justine will write a scathing story of his incompetence for the front page of The Sunday Times. Alternatively, when I'm writing a piece that I'm just hating, it's quite nice to blame it on Justine.
On the other hand, it does mean that some things that I am proud of are published in the name of somebody who doesn't exist.
Nevertheless, Justine has her uses. Maybe I should start a blog in her name...
As a journo, I kinda assumed I would need to write under another name at some point in time, but I must admit that I had hoped it would be for more noble reasons. I imagined needing to use a fake name to protect myself from the wrath of the government after exposing an enormous spy scandal, or from the Italian mafia for blowing the lid on their crime syndicate.
But alas, my alter ego, Justine White (the feminine version of my brother's name + my mother's maiden name) came about through rather boring means. We freelance to a lot of publications and we sometimes write entire magazines. As such, a reader might notice that ALL the copy has been written by no more than two or three people, which looks a little unprofessional. So, instead of hiring more writers, we just change some articles (usually those we wrote that we dislike) to somebody else's name. Dishonest? Maybe, but that's how the industry works. I know one political writer who has a different name for every party he write about!
I have to say that I findhaving a pseudonym quite exciting. When I have to write a sparkly article on the useless CEO of some giant corporate, I like to fantasise that Justine will write a scathing story of his incompetence for the front page of The Sunday Times. Alternatively, when I'm writing a piece that I'm just hating, it's quite nice to blame it on Justine.
On the other hand, it does mean that some things that I am proud of are published in the name of somebody who doesn't exist.
Nevertheless, Justine has her uses. Maybe I should start a blog in her name...
Thursday, 6 December 2007
Beary unhappy
Sometimes being a journo is great - interviewing fascinating people and learning new stuff everyday, not to mention press trips, samples and other freebies.
At other times, it's not so great. In fact, today I feel like a squashed cabbage leaf.
My colleague and I were invited to a media event at a local shopping city, where we could create our own Christmas teddy bear. Thinking that it would be a nice excuse to escape the office December doldrums for an hour or two and do something fun, we went along. What wasn't stated in the invitation was the fact that the basic empty soft toy shell was the only bit that was free - all (ridiculously overpriced) accessories were for our own account.
After choosing a soundchip for our bears, and having them stuffed and fluffed, we were taken to the accessories shelves by over-enthusiastic helpers who urged us to pick shoes, sunglasses, cutesy outfits and any other bear-sized item we desired. "Oh no - you must take the raincoat too!" they'd gush, marvelling at our precious creations. "And what about a little backpack? It doesn't look complete without it."
It was only when we were directed to the front counter to pick up our bear's birth certificate that we found out we would be paying for these. My little bear, wearing a cricket uniform and sunglasses, plus the can't-do-without-them shoes, came to just over R400. For those of you who aren't from my part of the world, that's about US$60-odd, 40-something euros or 1,770,505 Zimbabwean dollars. In my books, that's an expensive outing!
And I'm not the only idiot that fell for it. We all left vowing not to ever write about the place (except bitching about it on our bogs, of course) and not to recommend it, which, I imagine, is not exactly the press impression a store wants, is it?
At other times, it's not so great. In fact, today I feel like a squashed cabbage leaf.
My colleague and I were invited to a media event at a local shopping city, where we could create our own Christmas teddy bear. Thinking that it would be a nice excuse to escape the office December doldrums for an hour or two and do something fun, we went along. What wasn't stated in the invitation was the fact that the basic empty soft toy shell was the only bit that was free - all (ridiculously overpriced) accessories were for our own account.
After choosing a soundchip for our bears, and having them stuffed and fluffed, we were taken to the accessories shelves by over-enthusiastic helpers who urged us to pick shoes, sunglasses, cutesy outfits and any other bear-sized item we desired. "Oh no - you must take the raincoat too!" they'd gush, marvelling at our precious creations. "And what about a little backpack? It doesn't look complete without it."
It was only when we were directed to the front counter to pick up our bear's birth certificate that we found out we would be paying for these. My little bear, wearing a cricket uniform and sunglasses, plus the can't-do-without-them shoes, came to just over R400. For those of you who aren't from my part of the world, that's about US$60-odd, 40-something euros or 1,770,505 Zimbabwean dollars. In my books, that's an expensive outing!
And I'm not the only idiot that fell for it. We all left vowing not to ever write about the place (except bitching about it on our bogs, of course) and not to recommend it, which, I imagine, is not exactly the press impression a store wants, is it?
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
South African Blogs - an endangered species
Oh dear... You know blogger has this cool links thing going so you can click on a word in someone's profile and be taken to a list of other people that have used that word? Well tough if you don't know.
I thought I'd check out some other SA or Jozi blogs, so I clicked on the words "South Africa" on my profile. Lo and behold... a list of 24 000-odd bloggers from sunny SA popped up and I happily started cruising through some of them.
I discovered:
There are lots of teeny blogs of bored highschoolers who think that the rest of the world cares who they kissed last night or what colour shoes they're going to wear to the Matric formal.
There are lots of bitchy blogs. For a nation of supposedly happy and good-natured people, there are a lot of bloggers out there who could do with a good dose of Prozac. Ok,I know that I'm not all sunshine and roses either, but man... there are some seriously nasty rants going down in the Southern Hemisphere!
There are lot and LOTS of failed blogs. Not failed as in I didn't like their look; failed as in the authors wrote one post saying how great it is to have a blog and then quit. So much for perseverence.
Please somebody direct me to an SA blog worth reading!
I thought I'd check out some other SA or Jozi blogs, so I clicked on the words "South Africa" on my profile. Lo and behold... a list of 24 000-odd bloggers from sunny SA popped up and I happily started cruising through some of them.
I discovered:
There are lots of teeny blogs of bored highschoolers who think that the rest of the world cares who they kissed last night or what colour shoes they're going to wear to the Matric formal.
There are lots of bitchy blogs. For a nation of supposedly happy and good-natured people, there are a lot of bloggers out there who could do with a good dose of Prozac. Ok,I know that I'm not all sunshine and roses either, but man... there are some seriously nasty rants going down in the Southern Hemisphere!
There are lot and LOTS of failed blogs. Not failed as in I didn't like their look; failed as in the authors wrote one post saying how great it is to have a blog and then quit. So much for perseverence.
Please somebody direct me to an SA blog worth reading!
Monday, 3 December 2007
First post of December
It's the third of December, which means that my holiday is only 11 days away! I can hardly wait. I've finished the December deadlines, and now I'm spending my days trying to convince uncooperative people to grant me interviews for my January stories before we close on 14 Dec. But, being uncooperative people, they are not cooperating in the slightest. Strange, that.
I have realised something about the general South African and blogs: most of them don't have one and few even enjoy reading other people's blogs. So imagine my excitement when I discovered that some of the poor people on my monthly communal email list have actually been following my blog!
This could of course be because I tell them to in every email I send, but seeing nobody usually follows my advice I doubt it. I'm left to assume then, that they either really like this blog or they have way too much time on their hands. It's probably the latter, being December, and my comments and number of visitors will almost certainly drop drastically come the new year, but for posterity's sake I am going to enjoy deluding myself that their reason is in actual fact the former. It's better for self-esteem, self-acceptance and all those psychological good things that motivational speakers always talk about.
Nationwide could do with some of those now. The airline has had its entire fleet grounded and is facing suspension. Don't get me wrong - I'm all for suspending unsafe airplanes, but I feel sorry for a) the 6 000 passengers that were stranded without an option of catching another flight and b) the Nationwide staff that have nothing to do with maintenance, but who are still being clobbered along with the rest.
So sympathy to Nationwide employees, and rude words to SAA.
I have realised something about the general South African and blogs: most of them don't have one and few even enjoy reading other people's blogs. So imagine my excitement when I discovered that some of the poor people on my monthly communal email list have actually been following my blog!
This could of course be because I tell them to in every email I send, but seeing nobody usually follows my advice I doubt it. I'm left to assume then, that they either really like this blog or they have way too much time on their hands. It's probably the latter, being December, and my comments and number of visitors will almost certainly drop drastically come the new year, but for posterity's sake I am going to enjoy deluding myself that their reason is in actual fact the former. It's better for self-esteem, self-acceptance and all those psychological good things that motivational speakers always talk about.
Nationwide could do with some of those now. The airline has had its entire fleet grounded and is facing suspension. Don't get me wrong - I'm all for suspending unsafe airplanes, but I feel sorry for a) the 6 000 passengers that were stranded without an option of catching another flight and b) the Nationwide staff that have nothing to do with maintenance, but who are still being clobbered along with the rest.
So sympathy to Nationwide employees, and rude words to SAA.
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