The Anti-Advice Column

Where is Yoda when you need him?

2011-11-09T12:06:00.001-08:00

Since time began, it's been a battle of the sexes… There are two sides. In the blue corner, weighing in at 529 pounds (including ego): The Man, stalking prey in the jungles of history, competing to be the ultimate Hunter/Gatherers. What the hell are they hunting for? Quite simply, a larder full of provisions to trade for the precious currency of affection and heirs. It's the business of pursuit.

In the opposite pretty pink corner, weight undisclosed for obvious reasons: The Woman. In the economy of love, the reserve bank; the centre of currency production, financial policy summit meetings and committee decision-making on procedures and strategy. So really, the battle of the sexes is no battle at all, but an open economy of trade and negotiation. How can it go wrong?

At least in battle, there are rules of engagement. Both sides follow the Art of War, attacking, defending, counter-attacking and turning tail, running like mad in the other direction. It was a carefully choreographed dance of courting. In primitive times, the dance was simple yet aggressive. Man brings food, Woman accepts food, Man bonks woman on the noggin with big stick, Woman produces child, if you know what I mean. The semi-conscious disco could be danced as many times as required, with many partners, until the dinosaurs ate you for breakfast.

In medieval times, it was a decadent ball set in a soap opera. There was drama, jousting, to-ing and fro-ing. With the dawn of the stock market, the jiving ceased. The Providers of safety and stability laid down their swords and sequins, moving into an arena of buying and selling. A State of Mating where black market trading is totally unacceptable.

This shift in tactics has left a Yoda-less void. Rising to the top of the pile of applicants are the garishly front-covered, fast-paced media of fashion and lifestyle magazines. Bikini clad bodies giving the best advice on packaging, primping and people-screening. This is alright, any assistance in the navigating the stockmarket of relationships is appreciated. My "quibble" is with the quality of the advice. Men get good practical advice, for instance: 'How to stop dry eyes while working at the computer….. Blink.'. Women are given by their bibles: 101 ways to pleasure him, 50 ways to deceive him and 21 ways to knock him out and bury the body.

How useful is this information to finding your one true life partner? You definitely will be able to entice him, deceive him and surprise him by following the latest advice in Cosmo by pressing his 'perineum'. First you have to find it, by navigating some serious potholes, and then apply pressure. This will cause your man to jump up, hurdle over the bed and run screaming down the road. It would be far more constructive just to blink.

Terrible advice columns, however entertaining, undermine the very partnering that is required to ensure the continuation of the battle, dance or trade of the sexes. I am therefore, dedicating my blog to the Art of Trade. I have no idea what sage advice I can dice into the pork pot roast, but it's got to be better than: Find his G-spot, and he will love you FOREVER.

Jazz Hands and Garter Belts

2011-09-12T03:54:00.001-07:00

Whenever life gives you lemons and you're reaching for the tequila (I know I always do), there is a plethora of peanuts from the peanut gallery that would like to add to your fruit basket. This phenomenon truly floors me. We will call it Fool's Law. Fool's Law states that should you see someone going through something, it is your sworn duty as care-giver to take the situation, substitute yourself in and bore the person to death with the long and twirly tale of what you would do and how it would affect you… Almost as effective as the cure for the common cold (oh, wait).

It is as absurd, as it sounds. It's like going to a doctor and saying "Doc, I have a sore throat and can't stop sneezing?". To which the distinguished doctor would reply: "I had that once, kind of, but not the same, I found that by rubbing my throat and holding my nose whilst meditating on the benefits of Zen transcendental transformation, I was able to reach a higher state of consciousness.". Gee thanks, Doc, but can't I have a lozenge and a tissue?

So has been the story of my life in the last few months. Searching for the lozenges of life and ducking the ever more laborious twirly tales of Self and the Cabinet of My Life Factfile (I blame Facebook and other self-indulgent online scribe facilitators), I stumbled upon a Strepsil of truth that has gone a long way to fixing the things I have broken. "Shake your hands and let it go".

Sheer genius, really. We are all carrying more than our two hands can handle. Keen juggling, becomes a symptom of this ridiculous occurrence. A management tool for all life's responsibilities. It causes us to hand off balls to inappropriate people. Inadvertently, the source of Fool's Law. How has no one ever thought to just shake their hands and let it go? Somehow our balls have become more important than our happiness.

Well, balls to that. I am grabbing my top hat, feather boa and pulling up my fishnets, over my Big Girl panties. And in full cabaret-regalia I'm going to shake my hands, with spirit fingers and let it go. Because this is who I am, and what I want… The theatre of life and jazz hands. For now, anyway.

Breakfast in Bed - The Ultimate Escape

2011-08-15T03:20:00.001-07:00

Sunday mornings may just be the worst thing the Romans invented, besides killing Catholics. Lets face it, waking up on a Sunday morning is hitting the ground after the glowing, free-falling freedom that is a Saturday night. You lie there with the sun taunting you through the curtain crack. Laughing at your semi-conscious body dealing with the reality of the situation you find yourself in by coiling bedding every-which-way any appendage can. Not even the comforting the bandages of a duvet can stop the internal bleeding that Sunday has caused.

We are all prisoners of time. Saturday is our walk in the yard, our taste of freedom. Sunday is the guard that stands by the cell door reminding you Monday will slam the bars shut and the four walls of your chosen life sentence will bind you again. We all despair as the weekend slips through our fingers faster than the proverbial sands of time. But deserts are infinite, bound only by horizons. Weekend sand is not even enough to sufficiently fill the leaky sand box we are all hell bent on playing in. As quickly as Friday fills it up, the box drains of all joy.

Makes you want to give up mud pies and sand castles forever. But life is full of Get Out of Jail Free cards, you just have to land on the right square (right after Lexington before Bond St). In last weekends game of Monopoly, I rolled a 6!

Sunday morning came, there was no sun, thanks to some handy clouds and the Enya soundtrack of rain falling kept all the morning time sounds hushed. I'm not ashamed to say that instead of the usual Sunday's vice grip of terror, I was only teetering on the verge of sheer panic and chaos. Then I got distracted by the smell of coffee being busily brewed by Russell (of the Hobbs family, a cunning bunch who are great in the kitchen). Next thing there was banging, sizzling, crashing, flipping, frying, toasting, popping and a cacophony of other -ing words that would make your hair stand on end.

Still, having not moved from my spot on the bed, nearest the window furthest from the door leading to the cave echoing with -ing words, my body was confused. Checking that it was, in fact, Sunday and life as we knew was, in fact, over, I sat waiting like a girl on the other end of a phone call with nothing but breathing sounds coming out of the receiver. Run up the stairs! Run out the door! Do something, you silly bitch! Frozen, I sat tangled in bedding.

Then, the unthinkable happened. I was presented with a plate of British Best: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee, the works. Although, I take issue with eating in bed, petitions and motions were passed to amend said act with a temporary interdict. And what should have been an invalid spilling food on sleepwear, was one of the most entertaining meals of my jail sentence. Chicken and pigs are to be congratulated on their tireless endeavours and commitment to the breakfast table. Champions of escapism, and the key to feeling the beams of freedom one more time before the week starts.

The Throne-less Town

2011-04-11T16:59:00.001-07:00

There are times in your life when nature taps you on the shoulder and says, "You evolved from an ape, never forget that". We are all subject to the laws of nature. Don't believe me? Have a swim in shark-infested waters and see how high up on the food chain you really are. My natural beating over the head, occurred on a December road-trip with Snobby {PhD - Pompous Gittery} to visit our loved ones. We were coming down the East Coast of South Africa, and passing the Drakensberg.

Long trips are a schlep for me, as I can't sit still on a sugar-less day, but in this case I was actually behaving myself... when nature called. One of the laws of physics (I forget which, and the never-ending debate has made me too stubborn to check) states that a body in motion will remain in motion and a body at rest will blah blah blah etc. The laws of nature, however, state: A rolling stone gathers no moss. This particular stone was just sitting, minding her own business, regarding the majesty of the mountains.

Luckily, nestled into the mountain-side was an idyllic little town, right in my path to relief. The petrol pumps are powered by natives. Any road off the main drag is paved, not in yellow bricks, but in dust and stones. The hotel smells like ghosts. I know this for a fact, because we had stopped there on the way up to Grappa Mountain. I had made a dash down the The Shining-like corridor to use the bathroom. I can't recall if there was any electricity, but for argument's sake, the landlady lit up a candle and showed me the way. There were voices down that corridor.... But I get carried away.

I should have known the town was cursed. But was Dorothy suspicious of short people who were happy with their station in life? No, but she should've been. Idol worship is indicative of serious and deep-seated inadequacies as well as mommy-issues. Snobby executed a perfect hand-brake turn into the parking lot. I Dukes of Hazzarded it out the window and was halfway down the corridor when the landlady (retired from lighting candles and serving pink champagne on ice) peeped from behind her smug desk. "We're closed", she said. I stood in the open door, looking skeptical and NOT thinking about the Victoria Falls, for all I was worth.

The hiccup was that new plumbing was being dug and the whole town was decommissioned. The whole town?!? Is that even hygienic?

I will never again visit Underberg (the town that shares a single toilet). The 67km to Kokstad were a sheer test of will power and I am eternally grateful that I am distracted by colours and shiny things. Stones rolling at a gajillion kilometres an hour in passenger seats, going to their happy place in desperation, gather no moss. But Newton's Law holds true.

Life Hijacked the Train

2010-10-18T16:01:00.000-07:00

In the age old tradition of responsibility shirking: "I'm not making excuses... BUT". And its true. Life as it occurs, by whatever measurement you may subscribe to (sundial, watch or simple guess-work), seems to fight against routine. Should your life settle into a routine that is as predictable as a train journey, life will rally and rise-up against the tyranny of this occurence.

Life is the railway bandit that will always stop the train!

For instance, blogging tardiness is as a result of the following:

1. Quitting my job

2. Running round in a panic wondering why I quit my job

3. Getting 6 new jobs to replace the void created by the lack of first job

4. Nervous breakdown due to overworking

5. Sitting at the computer blogging about the last 6 months

6. Lather, rinse and repeat

In that time, life has been the opposite of a train... it has been a rollercoaster. Any twist and turn that came my way, seemed like part of the ride. And, oh what a ride. When I was younger, I remember riding a corkscrew ride at the biggest amusement park I'd ever seen in Malaysia. It went round and round and it felt like my senses were on fire. If I screamed anymore, endorphins would've blown out my ears.

When life is taking you on that sort of ride, it's not time to reflect. It is time to grab the bandit by the balls, possibly steal his horse and ride off into the sunset. I will, however, be at the next station to get back on the train because you can't chase the horizon forever.

Isn’t the English Language Great?

2010-05-14T05:39:00.000-07:00

This is a statement of fact not a query. This a love song to that all encompassing, trade-promoting code that enables communication, commerce and chagrin (when you say something really embarrassing and people just stare at you blankly, or worse, you say something stupid and people understand and think you’re as stupid as what you’ve just said).

English is a brand of the British Isle’s inadequacies and overcompensation for small parts, like the amount of land they got out of the deal when continental drift happened. Their raft kept getting smaller and smaller. And as they watched arable land drift toward America and Africa and the icy wastelands of Russia, the pale angry people with small genitals decided that they would get their own back.

Step 1, learn to share this slighted feeling (as just recently named at the time) through the spoken word. Step 2, refine previously aforementioned word into a language. Step 3, make said language one of the most difficult languages to learn. Make words have meaning depending on their position in a sentence, make up other sentences that have no relation to those meanings. Confused? So is a Czech-y when you’re trying to explain that cats and dogs are not actually precipitating. Step 4, take this farcical mess on the road. Superimpose it on the rhythmical tongue of the uneducated savage, thrust it upon the natives and reform them so that you can borrow bits of the land you formally had, or at least your homo-ancestor with knuckles dragging.

Once civilized, the world will bear the brand of the British inadequacies. We will dilute it and bring to it such words as: babbelas (hangover), howzit (hello), moegoe (George W Bush), redonkulous, bootylicious etc. These words are wonderful, a vast improvement and make our yoke easier to bear. Just ask the people of Jackson, NY, all 1700 of them have just declared English their official language. After this much time one would think that ship had sailed... AND we know the Americans don’t really speak English, but let sleeping dogs.

This feels a bit like intellectual masturbation, so I will take a coitus hiatus.

The Greeks know best... Clash of the Titans

2010-05-05T05:29:00.000-07:00

Everyone loves a hero… everyone except Hollywood. The insecurity of movie producers is starting to clash with the art of story telling. Thanks to focus groups and too little therapy to deal with issues with their parents, they manage to ruin one of the oldest stories told.

In 1981, it wasn’t enough that poor Perseus (and I say “poor” in a yes, fine, but not really because he’s a demi-god and all) should go face the unface-able Medusa but the producers and script writers of the original had to invent two new gods, Calibos and mommy/sister-dearest to meddle in his journey. What? Is there not enough hardship and struggle to face the Gorgons, monster siblings who included the three-headed Hydra (Medusa’s sister), the Chimera, and so on? This is obviously so concerning that present day, Perseus was hunted by Hades. I know Hades, and he isn’t concerned with a silly village or feeding off fear. Hades is happily sitting at home, lording it over the souls of the dead, with wife Persephone, who takes a holiday every year to bring us Spring. Bitter and grudging, I think not.

The tale of Perseus has been remixed with the attempted coup of the Titans, for no good reason and doesn’t do them justice. Originals gods should always be given their due respect, the Atlantians found out the hard way. The so-called Clash of the Titans, doesn’t even feature a single Titan, and the Kraken is Scandanavian.

During the latest version, gifts appear ubiquitously all over the show, which eventually aid Perseus in his quest (but its not actually a quest because focus groups must think that’s lame and they all have daddy issues, so let’s make it an act of revenge), and they couldn’t even get those right. The real Perseus never rode a Pegasus because he had winged sandals from Uncle Hermes. And Hollywood-Perseus would’ve been embarrassed should he have realized that he had been jipped. The shield is supposed to be a gift from Athena, not some crackly scorpion shell. Poor guy. To be fair though, Hollywood was too busy undermining the heathen panoply of Greek Gods to get their story straight.

Perseus, who actually dug being godly (and who wouldn’t) was actually taking the Medusa head back to the guy (Mommy’s new boyfriend who challenged him to bring the head) who had asked for it. Yes, Danae is actually alive and well in Greek mythology and not aiding Sam Worthington’s daddy issues. En route, he sees Andromeda tied to a rock, ready for sacrifice to Poseidon. And as one does when one sees a damsel in distress, takes up her cause. And they all lived happily ever after. So happily, in fact, that Heracles (better known as Hercules) is Perseus and Andromeda’s great-grandson.

I like to think that the film producers set out originally to climb a mountain of epic-ness, which went horribly awry. They had a training montage, with epic close-ups. They had an epic before shot with a mentor, followed by a crescendo in epic musical tones. Epic monsters and epic actors shielding a bastardisation of culture, story and daddy angst. I like to think this because if Clash of the Titans is actually a stab at cheap Christian propaganda, I would laugh at the irony of damning faith and belief at the altar of Dionysus.

If you’d like to know how wrong it went, click here or here for the facts.

(Love is) The Tender Trap

2010-03-09T02:21:00.000-08:00

How many times have you heard your mother say, “In my day...”. Yes, yes. In your day the world was a better place, pollen didn’t make you sneeze ‘cause the snuff was blocking your nose, one never got cold ‘cause we were drenched in fur and one never got sore ‘cause The Help did everything for you. Today, the world is a dreadful place. We suffer from black lung from fossil fuel (a modern invention of bad taste), your eyes and nose never stop running thanks to allergens such as bread, milk and other staples that keep the Third World alive, day to day. Is it true? Have we really gone backward?

You see a pair of laughing eyes, and suddenly you’re sighing sighs. Ah, the golden age of Crooners, the All American song book with black and white men illustrating every page, who weren’t exactly hot... but no lady could decline. We’d sip a Jack or a Johnnie out of a Stuart in a smoky leather lounge. Its a grayscale fairy-tale of Hollywood proportions.

Love today, its in full colour. I know what I want, when I want it. It has got so bad, that a friend of mine courting a psychedelic student was informed over their first acquaintance coffees together, the number of children, the size of the diamond and the year of the Wedding (which is not in the Chinese calendar, if you know what I mean). My mother was horrified. But this is the multi-hued romance of the 21st century. If you don’t want what I want, let’s not have a drink in a smoky bar and waste each others time. Women have lost the art of the tender trap.

We’re honest, brash and brazen. We don’t accept drinks for fear of spiking, we won’t accept rides cause we drive better than you do (my insurance quote says so) and I will not be wasting my time with you, unless you submit to my demands immediately after meeting me. We’re not dating, we’re taking hostages!

Did my grandmother have it right? I don’t think so, because even if she was right, I have the right to vote. I also have the right to earn more money than Dean, which is something Debbie Reynolds never achieved. And although Debbie got a kiss, a wink and a smooth smile, she never got her name above old blue-eyes and the boys. So no, we’ve come a long way. I for one am not going back, because although we could’ve smoked guilt-free with the Marlboro man, we would have died a painful mucus-y death alone, never knowing the joy of a Rat Pack Tribute concert with your true love by your side. We may not have romance, but we have Double Income No Kids.

South Africa's Extended Wine Route

2010-02-11T06:26:00.000-08:00

There is so much written about wine routes and the grape, as the vine comes out of its hiatus in the boxes of Mitchell’s Plain and Autumn Harvesting. The vino is definitely on the comeback trial. What started as a couple of kids on a roadtrip became an exciting and classy sojourn into the Extended Wine Route of South Africa.

*Please note: This article has been sanctioned and authorised by management (aka Snobby {Phd})

Day 1:
After 2 weeks of careful planning (and unplanning by my beloved who will always rail against the institution of order) and 3 days of insane rushing and purchasing of useless items all labelled Just In Case and Will We Need This?, we pulled out of PE, at 6pm. Suddenly this was all a bit much and we had to overnight, immediately.

Day 2:
Take 2, we moved away from the comfort and coolness of the coast and headed inland en route to Howick via Umtata. Bungee jumping fans, extreme ironing boarders, base jumpers, would have loved the road between Bisho and Kokstad. A treat, if you are inspired by bloodlust and road rage, not recommended if you are a vegetarian.

After Kokstad, the crazy Toyota drivers disappeared. Snobby’s blood pressure plummeted to a level that wasn’t going to blow blood out of his ears. And we made it safely to Howick, navigating through potholes that are more at home in the Grand Canyon then anywhere else, we made it to Cloud 12 (assuming there’s only up from Cloud 9).
Day 3 – 10:
BLANK

Kidding, family fun on the golf courses, in the area which are majestic and have a tendency to swallow balls whole, bush golf, fine dining and delicious breakfasts. Special mention goes to the Piggly Wiggly for one of the best breakfasts in the country. Their claim of the Best Cappucino, however overstated, and pretty vague as to how they won this title, on what criteria, and against whom, is fairly good and received the Snob Nod.

There were 3 very young vineyards that we visited. We were snooty and judgey and bought bottles of Beyerskloof, Fat Bastard and Chocolate Block, but to be fair the wine had floaty bits in it (the local brand not the Block). However, in a couple of years Lion’s River/Curry’s Post is going to be a gem for wine lovers and they are already making killer Grappa. Take that Platter.

Day 11:
Looped the loop around Lesotho, phenomenal views and a great drive (pothole dodging breaks the monotony at times). Almost ran out of petrol, due to the lack of petrol availability, but that’s what happens in the 3rd World, I guess.
Day 13:
Into the Swartberg, at the beginning of Meiringspoort, we found the greatest camp site, which I will not name, otherwise you’re going to steal our spot. But I digress. No cell signal.

Day 16:
Calitzdorp! The Wine capital of the Karoo. Wine tasting available wherever you stop, with air conditioning (with 45°C in the shade) they really do trap you and funnel the stuff down your throat with their friendly service.

We made stops at Boplaas, De Kranz and The Calitzdorp Coop. And Platter’s got it spot on, the De Kranz Tawny and Vintage ports are fantastic and Boplaas’s Shiraz/Cab Sav blend is divine with olive notes but Platter missed the cheeky Merlot at CC which is tasty, dirt-cheap and a keeper (in the Sanan Random Ranking system, Killer is higher than Keeper).

We also spent New Year’s with Saarkie. An experience to say the least. Snobby got a cap signed by the band!

Day 19:
As we drove into Cape Town we realised, our car was full of some of the best wine our country has to offer, we were hungover and our wallets were tired. So we drank Marguerites, drove go-karts (Snobby got beaten), and turned tail and stumbled home.

Moral of the story:
We now have a wine rack!

The very best generation

2010-01-25T04:41:00.000-08:00

In the late 1900’s some of the greatest, gifted and most tormented souls of the world gave us music to rearrange our hearts and stomachs. We were all touched and scrambled. Year on year they defined their art, and when they were done, rehabbed or gone (RIP Lizard King), we drink nostalgia through “The Greatest Hits” series, generally released on birthdays, anniversaries and Jewish holidays. For instance, I have three Queen albums: The Great, Greater and Greatest Hits (The Platinum Collection). This implies two things: firstly, they were always great, but they got better with age and secondly, does it really matter? I mean, it’s Queen for heaven’s sake.

But along with the tragic death of the truly original is the dawn of the “The Very Greatest Hits”. We’ve added a “very” to emphatically point out to the buyer that this is it, this is the benchmark, after a long career spanning decades, the Hits have been refined to the crème de la crème of what is Musical History. Right? Wrong. We’re not talking about Clapton, remastered BB King or the Knopfler brothers, oh no. It’s “The Very Greatest Hits” of… Britney Spears.

What have we come to? Britney Spears is not even releasing the very average in music and yet she can make a profit on the very greatest of mediocre and trivial hits. At 28 years old, she’s been responsible enough to drive in the world for barely 10 years and she has a LONG way to go on the list of things to do before you turn thirty. To put it in perspective, this 28 year old is asking +/- 65% of the world which is older than her, to trust that she has made a serious contribution. I was brought up to respect my elders, and expecting the Pink Floyd generation to buy your drivel is a slap in the face of those who came before you.

Having thought about it, I’m not surprised. We let (and far worse, actually buy) 12 year olds chronicling their “lives” in autobiographies, Exhibit Miley Cyrus. It should be mandatory that any teen autobiography’s title is prefixed “The first chapter of”. We do give our top awards that recognise a life-time of achievement to a 19 year old, acknowledging her musical contribution as greater than Keith Urban or Kenny Chesney, who have spent nearly a combined 35 years honing their craft.

We’re awarding our acknowledgement, and our cash, not to the people who give us the very greatest contribution, but rather those that smack us in the face with lights, smoke and mirrors. The Very Greatest are turning in their pissed-on graves.

Feel Like a Natural Woman

2010-01-15T03:02:00.000-08:00

Ah, an eggcorn. One of those precious gifts given to us by the English language (for those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about an eggcorn is an idiosyncratic substitution of a word or phrase for a word or words that sound similar or identical in the speaker's dialect. The new phrase introduces a meaning that is different from the original, but plausible in the same context ("old-timers' disease" for "Alzheimer's disease"). Made popular by the porn industry of the 90s, with such horrific contributions as Weapons of Ass Destruction, Bend Over like Beckham, 28 Lays Later, Shaving Private Ryan, you get the picture. But I digress.

You’d think there are only so many flying eggcorns of musicals and show tunes that can be worked into a cabaret? This turns out to be one of those great misconceptions we labour under as proven by Mile High with Cathy Specific, a musical comedy that features the classics Strangers on a Flight, Singing on a Plane, sung by Queen of the Skies, South Africa’s favourite air hostie, Cathy Specific. A fantastic script and support team deliver irony, double entendres, puns and naughty words that leave your inner child blushing, but the adult you have become feels all the better for meeting this phenomenal woman… played by Brendan van Rhyn… which really got me thinking: Is the best woman I can be, a man?

I’ve long maintained some of the best women in the world are all drag queens and Barbra Streisand impersonators be damned my theory was confirmed. But I don’t think it has anything to do with that pesky y chromosome at all, cause its what’s on the inside that counts (of course). As Cathy showed me last night, if you look with an eye of appreciation at every detail of a woman’s movements, expressions and reactions we are all beautiful creatures. Our little physical imperfections, like Adam ’s apple, chiselled chin, a minus one rib and 5 o clock shadow really have no impact on our radiance as females.

The *ahum* larger issues, almost 2m in height, also seem completely irrelevant. Though, a very large woman, Cathy’s wardrobe is tailored to perfection, showcasing assets and cleverly diminishing blemishes (and stubble). Women have disregarded this classy option in favour of the let it all to hang out like we’ve never had a biology class approach. Not a one of us knows why we do this exactly. Some experts allege that we do it because we’re showcasing our unique selling points, which is really like judging the quality of milk by the top of the cow’s udder.

But the best thing about Cathy, is that in this world of ambition and the sidelining of generally feminine virtues in favour of stronger, firmer, more hard-lined qualities, she celebrated her womanhood without taking herself too seriously. I never thought a man would restore my feminine energy, but she has. She reminded me, that as a woman, I shouldn’t take myself so damn seriously. Its not a grave affliction to be woman, it’s a gift and a joy.

Thanks Cathy. Bravo

My First Blog Post!

2010-01-14T22:52:00.000-08:00

For some time, I have meant to do “the Blog thing”. Rama (South African margarine) mom’s are blogging their fave recipes and glorifying their position of Minister of Domestic Affairs by connecting with other equally bored unemployed women with active reproductive organs, we read about Pookie the Pugs newest trick: lying in the sun and sleeping (seriously, I own one, I know, ALL they do is sleep-eat-sleep-ablute-attempt to eat something inedible-doze-repeat), the hippies are even doing it (sorry, TreeHugger love it, but it must be said, you do have an overwhelming affection for hemp items), which brought me to the conclusion, I may not bake, but I’m online-addicted therefore I may as well give it a bash and in the now-immortal words of Jeremy Clarkson, “I mean, how hard can it be?!?”.

Uno problemo
Then came the biggest stumbling block of all... the First Post. What to do? Are you supposed to make a statement, aren’t you supposed to have a mission, or at least a general thrust? If you have answered YES to any of the above, I have failed dismally. I have gone with the “It’s not a NASA launch, it’s only your virginity” theory and am just getting this out the way.

What’s in store, then? Well, I’ll definitely plot the extended wine route of South Africa, as soon as I have consulted with my oh-so-posh-and-refined resident Snob on the hots and nots. This must be done, as we have just returned from 3 weeks of bliss and the draining of more grapes then Dionysus at his cousin’s wedding. And we swear, wine is making a comeback! Theatre updates, musical activities as well as oblique cinematic references, of course. So – a cultural nutshell for closet Liza Minnellis.