Thursday, 23 April 2009

Thumbs up to all voters!

Ally and I have voted together for the last couple of elections because we vote at the same spot. So this year, we agreed to meet at 7 at Vida for a takeaway latte and walk up to Laerskool Jan van Riebeeck. Voting stations opened at 7am so we thought we’d get there, get in, make our marks and be out of there in about 30 min!

So I woke up in the dark and debated whether to have a shower or just pull on my clothes there and then. Hey, I would have voted in my pjs if I could’ve. Propriety won and after my shower, I had a pre-election cuppa on my balcony. (Even though a cup of Vida was minutes away, two caffeine shots in 20mins, you can’t go wrong. In fact, we’re you’re the furthest thing from a morning person, it’s the only way to become remotely intelligible.) (PS Just ‘cos I’m taking photos doesn’t mean I’m awake.)

Then I scurried out the door, plugged in my sound and skipped down Kloof Street on my way to the best coffee in the world. As I past the primary school, I saw Ally waving at me from the queue. Schizer. Vida’s still closed. What was worse, it was 07h05 and the queue was easily 80 people long. Nuts! Everyone seemed to be in a pretty festive mood though, and it’s kinda contagious. We might be voting differently but we’re all there to vote and it felt good.

Ally and I caught up. Chatted about politics (she’s in the know as journalist for the Cape Times) (this is something I try not to do, I’m just not interested but I can get into on voting day), her 10-days-away wedding and other girly stuff. At 07h30, we’d shuffled a few meters forward and I tripped down to Vida again for our fix. Shitnuts! Still closed. Back up the hill. Sigh.

Then we got to talking to the couple standing behind us. They couldn’t stop kissing each other, which made me nauseous. (I’m not really into PDAs, other than holding hands and a greeting kiss.) The subject: a 21-month-old called Liam. The mother was doing her best look-at-me-I’m-a-cool-mom-and-my-adorable-son impression for the crowd. Adorable he was not. What gave it away? It had a mullet and no shoes. It shrieked and took great delight in throwing its soft toy at people in the line. Over-indulged brat. Every time it looked at me I glared and hissed. (Okay, I didn’t hiss out loud, the mom was much bigger than me.)

Half an hour later I was back at Vida, in another long queue that almost had me standing in their toilet. (I completely believe they missed a whopping sales opportunity here. Not only were they not open early, but they also had a captive audience, barely moving. They could have made thousands!)

Over 2 hours later and a cup of coffee down (one more and I would have needed to wazz) we were at least in the building. By now the brat was tired and acted out a clearly tried-and-tested routine that involved it: lying down on the floor, in a straight line, checking to see who was watching and then letting out a piercing scream. Mom or dad would pick it up, only to be kicked to be let down and it would start all over again.

All too soon, it was over. I’d made my X on two ballot sheets. Dropped them in the boxes. Waited for Ally and we were on our way. By now the queue was almost to end of the block. I felt sorry for the people standing at the end. But hey, I also felt sorry for myself when my alarm went off at 6am.

Today I’ve been checking out my colleagues’ left thumb for the mark of the voter. I’m horrified when people say they didn’t vote. I’m proud that I did and I’m crossing my fingers that the results will be, well, favourable. So far, so good!

Thursday, 16 April 2009

“Dissonance” Op. 503 Arranged for a Trio

ff

After a brief respite, 503 was at it again. And this time, they were not alone. As a rule, I don’t believe in god. But there are some nights where I’m convinced that the god-I-don’t-believe-in really does exist and is furiously conducting his latest work just to teach me a lesson.

So, I’m in bed. It’s 11pm. Wa-hay past my bedtime and as I nestle into the warmth of my duvet and hide my toes from my cat (this is a bitch, because I like to lie straight but he’s basically making that impossible – little bastard), I take a deep breath and savour the still of the night. And then, in some cruel twist of fate, the silence is shattered but none other than my fun-loving, laughing, singing, dancing, drinking, whine-o neighbours. I almost burst into tears. And tonight it’s the extended remix: 1+3+4 = straight to the top of the charts of royally pissing. me. off. And this time, they’ve included guest artists. Ladies and gentlemen, may I please present 503 featuring drunk girls in the street below and the chorus of night shift workers from the Mount Nelson Hotel. Fan-fucking-tastic.

503 adds to their latest opus, sneezing loudly enough to rock the block. And playing speed-bowler with something heavy. And of course there’s the usual whooping, laughing, and shouting. Oh, and clapping.

Cue the drunk chicks: They’re sitting in a car, one is getting dropped off. (How do I know this? Because I’m an unashamed curtain-twitcher, and I’m so furious at being kept awake that I’m standing on my balcony smoking.) The one in the passenger seat has a white poodle on her lap. Where were they that allowed dogs? The passenger gets out, with a helmet and (pr)(l)oudly shows her scooter to her friend, who’s still in the drivers seat of the car. They’ve left the door open. Of course, that means the poodle escapes, and they start shrieking. And then singing. Drunkenly. I accept that nothing is rational when you’ve had a few toots, but I still want to slap them silly.

Enter the Mount Nelson end-of-shift staff. There are about 30 of them. No hope at all that they’re going to be considerate. (Even though I’ve phoned their HR department and I know I’m not the only one. “Thank you for being so calm, Susan in HR said. “I wasn’t so calm at 2am this morning.” I counter.)

Lord? Have mercy! And just in case there is no god (er), I pop a couple of horse tranquillizers (I’ll deal with the sleeping pill hangover tomorrow) and try and settle my rattled soul. From there, sleep is swift. I’m considering ear plugs or asking one of my really tall guy friends to help with some intimidation tactics. Then of course, there’s always an envelope of Oscar’s pooh in their postbox.

Thursday, 09 April 2009

No man is an island...

But shitnuts, I wish I was sometimes. It helps that I live alone so I can go home and not have to talk to anyone. This week has been exceptionally crazy. Working late. Full-focus mode at work. Not enough hours in the day. Playing Creative Director-Creative Director. Did I really sign up for this? The only thing that's holding me together is the long weekend ahead and getting away to Yzerfontein.

So when I can't curl up in the fetal position on the studio floor. (Yes, I've done this and it makes me feel better.) I go to my happy place. My island.

It's a tropical island (where mozzis and Dengue Fever don't feature). I live there in a little one bedroomed wooden hut. I have my books, my music, my surfboard, my kitty and a bicycle. I'm the only Western Girl on the island and I work in a local plastic-chair restaurant, can speak a smattering of the language and know all the locals. They love me so much, they've given me a pet name in the local language. I eat mostly peanut butter sandwiches - Black Cat crunchy, which gets sent to me by my family. And I have a basket on my bicycle so that I can carry watermelons home for dessert.

There's never any drama on my island. Except when there's a huge tropical thunderstorm and the electricity goes down for a couple of days and we laugh over candle-lit dinners of noodles and tofu. And I don't really have to worry about anything except when the postman comes and the stock in the restaurant that I work in.

Ah, life is good on my island. All naysayers will be ignored. Of course. And visitors welcomed!

Tuesday, 07 April 2009

Haiku for last-minute lane changers

Cars that cut me off
In morning rush hour traffic
Make me want to kill

Monday, 06 April 2009

Take a tampon but...

I'm fascinated by signage in public toilets. I'm not talking about advertising on the back of toilet doors, I'm talking about signs that the establishment types up in word, prints and prestics to the back of the door. I'm horrified that people need to be reminded to flush! There's a certain amount of irony that this is needed in a Ladies loo!

This one I found in the Ladies toilet at Oblivion, a wine bar in Kennilworth.

(For those of you [men] wondering what the green things are, they're tampons. The kind with applicators.)

For emergency only? Oh, so I can't take these back with me to the bar to whirl around, lasso-style to the beat of "She's a man eater"? Or drop into my date's beer, for a laugh. You're no fun!

Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that they've got free tampons in the ladies loo. I mean, what else do you get for free these days? (This weekend I bought nail polish that came with a "free" top coat. When she swiped the top coat it cost 5c. I don't mind paying 5c. But it's not really free is it?)

Of course tampons are also great for blood noses (I think I saw it on a movie once) does that qualify for an emergency? I wonder.