Subject: RE: Desperate for Help: Handling Post-Covid Social Struggles in Kindergarten

Dear Emma (and the ever-vigilant Emotional Support Goat Team),

First of all, thank you for your response. It was exactly what I needed to keep from eating my own hair in frustration. The humor—spot on. The goats—10/10 would recommend. After reading your reply, I realized I might be doing this whole "teaching" thing wrong, because frankly, I've spent the last few weeks looking like the human embodiment of the "Why did I become a teacher?" meme. I don't want to be a meme anymore and I don't want to be alone in the dark, hiding in my classroom. I want to be brave.

I have to admit, I'm starting to suspect that my students could probably use a goat, too. Let me paint you a picture of my current reality:

• The Runner (a.k.a. "The Future Olympic Sprinter") has apparently made it his life mission to make me chase him around the classroom at least three times before 9:30 AM. He's so fast that I'm beginning to think the school is secretly offering him track and field scholarships. (I'd be jealous, but frankly, I'm too out of breath to care.). My fellow staff members have been so amazing being able to build an obstacle course to keep him in place. Bless them. It takes a village.
• The Screamer is convinced that every moment spent away from her mom is a fate worse than death. She screams so loudly, I'm pretty sure the neighbors think I'm holding a hostage negotiation every day at 11 AM. This is, of course, followed by a dramatic collapse on the floor, because apparently, being 5 years old is more stressful than running a Fortune 500 company.
• Then there's Green Day, who has some serious authority issues. Not in the "I don't want to follow directions" way, but more of a "I WILL STAB YOU WITH SAFETY SCISSORS IF YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO" vibe. I don't know what he's planning to do with the scissors, but frankly, I'd rather not find out.
• The Dinosaur Kid—he insists he is, in fact, a velociraptor. This is fine, except for the fact that his "bite" is extremely realistic, and he seems to think it's my job to play along. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to teach him how to "roar" or "hunt," but I know my arm feels like it's been gnawed on for a full hour every time he gently "bites" me.
• Oh, and let's not forget The Spitfire, who demonstrated some amazing gross motor skills recently when she sat on a classmate and then proceeded to spit on her. I mean, it takes a lot of coordination to pull that off, so honestly, I was almost considering giving her a 10 for her technique.

I have diligently followed all the required reporting structures but, quite frankly, I do not think the principal is equipped to escalate to the Olympic Development Agency, Jurassic Park, or Rock Camp. The parents seem to know less than I, how to successfully navigate these children to inevitable future stardom and G.O.A.T.ness. And this has inevitably resulted in the complaints. Because, naturally, every single one of these perfect little cherubs has a parent who is shocked—shocked, I tell you—that their child would ever exhibit such behaviors. They're absolutely certain their angel would never bite, run, scream, or try to stab anyone with safety scissors. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if I'm teaching in an alternate universe where I'm the problem and these kids are actually perfect.

At this point, I'm just hoping to survive until summer, preferably with my sanity intact. So I'll admit, I pressed 3 for the Exorcism because at this point, I'm ready to try anything. Especially for The Jennifer, I feel like this is 'low-hanging fruit' and will help me assist the rest of my class. I will feel much better and enhance the room calmness ambience if she would stop with the weird voices and 360 head spin. I imagine they'd be more effective than my current attempts to create "safe spaces" in the corner (which The Runner usually uses as a launchpad for his next sprint).

In all seriousness, though, I'd love to hear any more specific strategies you have for managing these types of behaviors—especially the biting, running, screaming, and occasional impromptu wrestling matches. I'm also open to any advice on how to not lose it when parents continue to tell me how perfect their children are while I'm over here on the verge of staging a dramatic resignation (or nap, depending on the day).

And if you could get back to me before I go full "I am the teacher, and also the snack monitor, bouncer, and mediator," that'd be great. At this point, I just need you to un-judge me for binge-eating crackers in the supply closet and calling it "self-care."

Looking forward to hearing from you,
A Sane Teacher Who's Considering Turning Her Classroom into a Petting Zoo 

Welcome to the Teacher Helpdesk

Thank you for calling the "Why Are You Still Teaching?" Teacher Helpdesk! Your call is important to us... and we promise to answer as soon as we're done re-evaluating our life choices. Please hold for the next available Emotional Support Goat. (Yes, we have goats. They're surprisingly calming.) or remain on the line for soothing whale noises.

If you know your party's extension, please dial it now. If you're in a crisis involving glitter glue, unsupervised children, or too much coffee, press 1 for "I'm at my breaking point".

For a mood enhancer or to speak with a pharmacist: Press 2 – Our pharmacists will either provide helpful suggestions, referrals or just offer you a glass of wine. Your choice.

For Catholic priests specializing in exorcisms: Press 3

For an Emotional Support Goat: Press 4 – Our goats are standing by. They'll listen, they won't judge, and they might nibble on your frustration (or your lunch). They're good at that.

For advice on how to survive the next PTA meeting: Press 5 – Our team of seasoned educators will provide you with coping mechanisms such as deep breathing, pretending you didn't hear anything, or accidentally spilling coffee on the principal's shoes. Should you need to deploy the TWAT team who will assist you in planning, coordination and tranquilizers for irate mothers not living in reality: Press and hold 5s and the team response time is 7 minutes.

For crisis support for the 100th "Why did I become a teacher?" moment: Press 6 – Our therapist bots will help you navigate these feelings by saying things like, "You've got this!" and "Maybe just take a nap under your desk.". Know that you are an incredible person, molding the future with sheer grit and spit and stick-to-it-iveness.

For questions about grading or lesson plans: Press 7 – If you are still doing this, we salute you. Someone will be with you shortly to help you, but not before they grab another coffee. Or five.

For technical support for your broken classroom tech: Press 8 – If your projector is still on the fritz after 15 Zoom meetings, we can offer some kind words, but no guarantees. Have you tried turning it off and back on again?

Emergency:
If you are experiencing an actual emergency, such as your students holding a full-blown revolt or your classroom suddenly filling with sticky notes, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.

For anything else, please hold. Your Emotional Support Goat will be with you shortly. Or maybe a glass of wine. We'll see how you're doing.

Ice to Inuits - Biltong to Americans

Six extremely contracted years ago (sleep deprivation truly demonstrates the relativity of time over the life-time of a child), my husband and I were searching for a name for our first-born.   I have no idea whether the Greek word for 'whirlwind' was a self-fulfilling prophecy or an ironic mad-lib, but so it came to be: born in Dubai, raised in South Africa and now in North Carolina over her lifetime.

Her dad is one job of a 60-job production plant that has been established by an international snack foods company, South African firm Stormberg Foods.   Stormberg Foods produces meat protein snacks, dubbed “Project Jerky” by economic developers.   Not to nitpick but I have come to learn that Biltong is NOT Jerky, the preparation is markedly different.   Google, which never lies says that Biltong is a dried and cured steak cutlet which is traditionally marinated in vinegar and spices that add extra flacor to the meat.   On the otherhand, jerky has an unspiced, dry and smoky taste because it is cooked at low temp on a rack. In review, Biltong well-hung and air-dried whilst Jerky is toasted. 

Crystal Gettys, president of the Wayne County Development Alliance, says conversations between economic developers and Stormberg have been ongoing for the past year.  Company representatives visited Goldsboro four times prior to making their decision. And they brought their families on one of those visits to scout “the quality of life” in North Carolina, she says.   

The product, called “biltong,” is similar to beef jerky and is described as an all-natural, gluten-free snack.   It’s distributed under several brand names targeted toward both pets and people, including “Free Range” and “Best Friend,” sold at Woolworth’s in South Africa. The company has an in-house “African Pride” brand, as well as another pet treat label, “Beg & Barkers.”

The company doesn’t currently distribute its products in the United States, but that’s likely to change
“They have been doing market analysis for over a year now, looking into different avenues in which they can market their product,” Gettys says. The plan is to set up shop in Goldsboro and distribute up and down the East Coast, aided by North Carolina’s highway system, which also factored into the decision, says Gettys.

In a prepared statement about the expansion decision, CEO Gary Moorcroft said the state’s central location on the East Coast was driving factor, as was the low cost of establishing facilities.
“Add a stable labor force, with agricultural processing experience too,” he stated. “The support from the state, city, county and other agencies has been very impressive,” he says.

Stormberg was also lured by a performance-based grant of $125,000 from the One North Carolina Fund, which requires a local match.Wayne County had a 5 percent unemployment rate in April, the most recently-available statistics put out by the North Carolina Department of Commerce. Statewide, the average was 4.3 percent.

Source: Biz Journals

Posted in Press ReleasesTagged Article, Featured Articles, News, Press Releases, Stormberg Foods

The Life Manual (batteries not included)

I asked my husband the other day, when I would grow up. At what moment, I would buzz, rattle and inflate, form a cocoon and emerge with all the secrets of life and all the knowledge required to raise children and appreciate the brussel sprout. He smiled at me, and chuckled in a way that lets me know that no matter how ridiculous I am, I am the most loved woman in the world. And with the look of a man who has all the answers, he said simply "Don't worry about it so much, the baby comes with a manual".

Now the physical logistics aside of how I would print a life manual, what if there was a manual? A set of rules and procedures that outlined how-to's on every conceivable situation. A hitchhiker's guide, if you will.  

If we look at the things that come with manuals: electronics, appliances and the wonderful world of Ikea. How useful do we find the manuals that are included? Written by illiterate gnomes who haven't ever heard English and who all have PHDs in health and safety, half of the story is 101 ways this television, bed or coffee table will kill you.  Fit stake A into death trap B until you hear a crack, find item C (not in the box) in order to make this item safe for consumption. Not that it will fulfil the purpose for which it was intended. Ever. 

Maybe all our cars are Transformers. We just don't know how to activate them, because the secret is written in the telephone directory in the glove box, which doesn't open. However, find and push that button at your own peril. As your car transforms into a super quantum mechanical alien who will save the world… You will be crushed. You will have a really cool car. But there will only be bits and pieces of you left to appreciate it.

Six months ago, this was a fair trade off. Your new life as a Thing from the Addams Family riding on your Popularis Prime would've been satisfying every evening when you got into your Transformer-themed bed. Now, as you become a Transformer: Emergency Air Bag Boobs, Floatation Device Ankles and a Blackhole in your mid section (let's face it, THAT is the only way all that stuff fits in there), the cost seems too great and the benefit way too low.

Do we want to know the dangers? My life mate has a heart attack, a nervous twitch and stress spasms every time I get near a road. Busy intersections have caused him to hiccup in seizures of health & safety. The last thing I need is for him to know, truly know how much can honestly go wrong and how quickly (please refer to Page xxxiiilv in Chapter iiixvy-3 of the Life Manual). My civil liberties and freedoms would be severely impaired, I'm sure.   

I know that I am slowly growing to be a parent. I have been censoring my blue verbs when stubbing my toe, which is f-ing f-unny and people look at you like, wtf a-hole? This is the first step in learning parent language, which includes such ground breaking techniques as S-P-E-L-L-I-N-G-I-T-O-U-T, Ear Muffs! and  Ons praat die taal, want hy kannie verstaan nie. I don't even know when I started doing this. So, happily and with confidence, I'm throwing out the manual or being struck by enlightningment. I don't even care if brussel sprouts are good for me. All I know is that I will find all this out, one thing at a time, learning with my precious family.

Lashings of WHIPPED cream

It's the new year, and we all know what that means: The New Year's Resolution. The single-most unbinding promise we make to ourselves. And we can make promises, we can break promises but the one thing we cannot get a handle on is control. There are just too many variables.

Standing at the airport with our family of friends, a close friend (let's call him Pauly D for the always-impeccable, orange physique and ever-present Essex-shades) said "I need to control myself". To which I answered, "How's that working for you?". Maybe what is required is a little less control and a little more going with it. When you are booked to go to a foreign country and the embassy won't grant your visa. Go with it. When your boobs start taking on a life of their own and double in size. Go with it. When you point at a friend and she bursts into tears. Go with it. What's the worst that can happen?

In the first case, you end up in a very foreign country, you never expected to, with so many opportunities. In the second, your little family is blessed with a little alien that has taken up residence somewhere between your ribs and your knees, still not quite sure. And in the final case, the universe drops a doll of perfect contours, sweet heart and fairytale personality into your lap. All because you went with it.

Now one might think, that having gone this far (with it). You could just gone with it some more. But somehow the human condition likes to interfere and strike down these things that we have stumbled upon. We begin to feel undeserving, like we should've or haven't worked for it. We begin to feel like there is no way that this will work out. Unless we intervene, regain control, quantify variables, think through every eventuality and outcome (the more pessimistic, the better). Because this will make us prepared. This will save us from... From what? The amazing things that are happening to us all the time.

To this I say: DON'T. Just DON'T. For every terrifying what-if that drags you into the grips of terror and despair, there is a what-if that can empower you and move you the other way. And when you begin to over think what is happening around you, follow these easy steps:

1. Go to the fridge
2. Open a Castle Lite (or favourite alcoholic beverage)
3. Drain the bottle
4. Beat yourself over the head with the empty bottle for not going with it and possibly missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime
   

Pauly D, do yourself and the world a big favour. Control less. Hell, think less. Go more. More going with it. Because you never, and I mean never, know where it will take you. We took a cab out to Dubai Sport City, had a beer (and a homemade Ice Tea) at the Ernie Els Golf Club. And once our courage was up we walked around. This place is absolutely amazing, we walked past Dave Richardson in the ICC building (I later found out Dave missed our meeting due to match-fixing in India, but I don't let details bother me), we saw the most amazing sporting facilities (you can only imagine), we literally wet our pants. Just when it couldn't get better, we got lost in the staff accommodations. Houses and cars that would take your and Lulu's breath away. Thank heavens a taxi accidentally came to rescue us, otherwise we'd be squatting in one of the beautiful parks.

But I know, that this place is where I want to be. The Big C seems so at home here. I've never seen someone just fit. And if you argue with my Go With It plan for you, I will smack you (and get away with it "because of the hormones") and tell you this. The job The Big C wanted, that he thought he was too late to get, has just been advertised again. And I bet you anything, he's going to get it. Why? Because he just went with it.

Enjoy living in Cape Town! 

   

oh, Frack Off

I remember a wise man once told me about the mountains just outside the Karoo. I remember because it was not so long ago (only last year in fact) and the wise man was an American immigrant farm owner whose surname was decidedly Afrikaans. Not a yoda that you quickly forget. He spoke about the intense pockets of natural gas in the caverns and tunnels under the surface of his mountains. And how, if one could harness the pressure system to create power, we could rule the world. The earth would keep us rich and we would keep the lights on. This Yankee Mountain Guru may have had a point. But are we that desperate for power, that we must build mountain fart capturing turbines? I'm not so sure.

 

We are spending millions of Rands and oil tankers of water to recover gold dust from dump sites we threw away years ago. In Canada, the oil industry is booming thanks to oil extraction from the soil aka 'Oil Sands'. Oil sands are a mixture of sand or clays, bitumen and water. The bitumen is much heavier than other crude oils. Mining of the oil sands involves excavation of the bitumen-rich sand using open pit mining methods. The sub-title here is they have a scorched earth policy on forests, with special reference to carting off the top 5m of soil to processing plants. This is considered to be "the most efficient method of extraction when there are large deposits of bitumen".

 

If we are strip mining dumps for gold and ground for oil, isn't everyone getting a little touchy at harnessing the potential of an arid wasteland? Why are we not laughing at the potential industry of natural gas extraction? Well, while I was pondering popping the cork of the Swartberg mountains, Shell came up with a doosy. Hydraulic fracturing, or "fracking", for the exploration and production of shale gas (aka natural gas). The Karoo, an arid land of sheep and ostrich, would be an energy sector game changer.

 

Fracking, is not a swear word. It refers to a process whereby natural pockets of oil or gas are liberated from the earth by forcing a subterranean fracture, then the fracture is filled up with… and it gets a little hazy here, but pretty much anything will do, to force the desired commodity out of the earth and into the barrels. Then, to avoid a catastrophe, sand or ceramic dust is pumped into the fluid to stop the fracture from collapsing. Simple, nẽ?

 

Hydraulic fracturing has been used for decades to stimulate groundwater wells, underground exploration for mining or measuring the stress in the earth, burying waste and reducing the impact of toxic spills. Still, fracking raises some serious concerns. How does it affect water supply (the fractures could link into fresh water zones), air quality, and/or ground stability so far under the earth? Will our animals and children be safe and poison free? Who's to know?

 

The fracking companies are keeping mum on the subject, as full disclosure of their fracking methods, frack yields and frack fluid ingredients threaten their competitive advantage in a highly competitive market. The anti-frackers have jumped on the silence as confirmation of the presence of toxins and environmentally detrimental fractices (sorry, couldn't help myself). To date, no one has proven either way, beyond reasonable doubt. We want to protect the land and we want to ensure the longevity of earth, but without finding alternatives to oil and coal we are saving the Karoo at the expense of the world.

 

Did you know that South Africa is in the Top 5 Most Carbon Reliant Economies? We emit up to a ton of carbon per dollar GDP earned… Do the math. We are also in the Top 10 Most Energy Intensive Countries. Right behind Libya. Libya only gets on the list because it requires double the amount of energy in a barrel of oil to extract it. That is a massive cost. South Africa is in the same boat because of our coal mines. Fracking may have some serious implications, but studies have shown it is one of the few methods of energy extraction that the benefits far outweigh the costs. And a method of energy extraction that yields more resources than it costs may go a long way to balance the scales in the earth's favour.

 

I'm not saying give the frackers free reign. I'm saying that without serious interventions, South Africa is in serious trouble. Maybe the old ex-American boer in the mountains is less crazy than I thought he was over a Full English breakfast. Let's do the required research in cork popping and make sure it doesn't hit anyone in the eye. The cost is high, but what is the cost of forgoing? They don't want a wind farm in Sardinia Bay (not just there, there are objections everywhere), they don't want a nuclear plant near St Francis, they don't want fracking in the Karoo. What the frack do they want?

 

Where is Yoda when you need him?

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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.