A few of my least favourite things

This is not a tribute to Maria von Trapp. It's the disgruntled groan from a severely irritated individual. For the purpose of keeping it simple, I'll list them as they come screaming into my head.

• Abled drivers parking in disabled parking bays - clearly these individuals in their big, fuck you luxury cars are under the impression that the 'd' in the disabled sign stands for 'dickhead'. I suppose they are disabled in the sense that they have no decency left and are just all round arseholes. Karma is a bitch boet, that's all I can say. Keep parking there and you may just find your crotch infested by the fleas of a thousand camels.
  

• Cellular network providers - not only does your sms messages not get delivered when they are supposed to. But your calls are constantly disconnected mid-conversation which forces you to phone again and pay the initial call charge all over again. If you want to see first hand how frustrating this is, rent Lethal Weapon 4 and see Joe Pesci lose it with his cellular provider. One of the funniest scenes ever but sadly, something more and more of us can identify with.

• The cinema outing - oh boy, I can go on forever about this one. Here's a few of the most irritating things associated with going to the cinema these days.

1. Arriving at the confectionery station, selecting what you want and then handing over your money. Only to be asked 'Don't you have any change?' NO, I DON'T HAVE ANY CHANGE! If I had change, I would've handed it over. And even if I didn't, your responsibilities among keeping the popcorn fresh and available include providing change to customers when they pay for it.
   
2. Going to the bathroom and finding it in a disgusting state. Forgive me for expecting it to be clean, the cleaning ladies leaning on their mops confused me for a minute.
3. Still in the bathroom - overhearing a mommy saying to her little one 'Do everything you need to do because we aren't coming here during the movie.' WHAT?? I'm sorry but surely that borders on child abuse. The little girl has barely stopped wearing diapers which enabled her to soil herself in any which way she wanted to and when. Now she has to force herself to go even if she doesn't feel like it. And keep quiet during the movie if she needs to go again because Mommy doesn't want to leave the cinema. Does this woman not realise that 40 years from now, she'll be the one suffering from incontinence? And will have to rely on her daughter to be sympathetic towards her. This is why we end up in diapers again - collective revenge from little tots all over the world fighting back 40 years later.
4. Finding your seat and enjoying the fact that the cinema is so empty. Lots of space for your handbag and shopping and mountains of change you eventually received at the confectionery station. But as the first previews start, fellow cinema goers show up and sit right next to you. Even though there are literally 80-100 seats open, they will come and sit next to you. Because the genius selling the tickets thought it would make sense to put people right next to you, in case you get lonely. And the cretins buying the tickets, thought it would be nice to keep a complete stranger company for the duration of the movie. If I was an inconsiderate person, I would get up and move. But by the time I've gathered all my parcels, my handbag and my mountains of change, I've effectively ruined it for somebody else already. Even I'm not that selfish.

• People with loaded trolleys using the checkout meant for baskets only - I really don't understand this. Either you are illiterate and cannot read which may explain why your trolley is so full or you like showing off the fact that you buy in bulk. Not like the rest of us individuals who buy a measly 10 items at a time. Yes, yes, I'm impressed that you buy a whole pocket of potatoes at a time instead of the 2 I buy in my little bread bag. But I've seen women assaulted by other shoppers for this very reason - keep doing this at your own peril.

There are so many more but my blood pressure has shot up to dangerous levels already. And Monday has barely started. Feel free to add what it is that drives you up the wall. Because the most irritating thing to me is that hardly anybody reads my rants.

Cameras Rolling - Annnddd, Action!

I love watching movies. I can stomach just about anything. But for somebody who works in an industry requiring some intelligent thought and perhaps a touch of sophistication, I have shockingly bad taste in movies. It’s not that I don’t enjoy art house films or world cinema as some retailers refer to it. But if I have to pick between renting Gone with the Wind or White Chicks by the Wayans Brothers, frankly I wouldn’t give a damn about Scarlett either.

Even though I have a friend who is a director and has two feature films under her belt, I’ve never managed to get myself cast in a film. Much to my dismay and intense disappointment of course. I know that I am no oil painting but if Roseanne Barr could get her own TV show, surely there must be room for other FFF’s (fat funny females). Rosie O’Donnell had her own talk show for crying in a bucket. And the last time I saw a photo of her it was a case of eat or be eaten.

But yesterday the moment finally arrived. The moment where I would look around and wait for the director to yell ‘action.’ Because so bizarre was my morning, that the only plausible explanation could’ve been that I was in a movie without knowing it and spotting any cameras. Confused? So am I and it’s the next day.

It started with me leaving Hyde Park shopping centre and waiting to pay for my parking. In front of one of the payment machines, a man was busy talking on his cell and at the same time trying tob pay his ticket. Not noticing that the electronic display clearly stated in English and German (ironically so) that it was out of order. It’s only ironic because the gentleman spoke with a rather heavy German accent. He eventually pushed the button which will allow him to speak to one of the parking assistants. Nothing unusual there other than being too stupid to notice the sign announcing the machine being out of order. In English and German. Not English and Afrikaans or Zulu or IsiXhosa. No, German – seemingly the 12th official language in South Africa. A parking assistant eventually answered his desperate call and the following conversation ensued.

Herr Dumm – ‘Ze machine won’t accept my ticket.’
Parking Assistant – ‘The machine is out of order sir’
Herr Dumm – ‘But I want to pay for ze parking’
Parking Assistant – ‘I’ll send someone to assist you sir’
Her Dumm – ‘Can’t you pleaze just come out of ze machine and help me’
Parking Assistant – stunned silence
Herr Dumm (pleading) – ‘Pleaze can you get out of ze machine and help’

At this point, everybody else waiting to pay their parking was red in the face. But still not openly laughing. Because Herr Dumm looked like he may burst into tears at any moment. A parking assistant eventually arrived and unlocked the machine, demonstrating that there really was nobody inside the machine. And that even in Africa you can find sophisticated, electronic payment machines. We don’t keep little men inside our parking machines, despite our track record of atrocities committed during apartheid.

Needless to say, I immediately started looking around me and towards the ceiling for possible hidden cameras. I was convinced I was part of one of those shows where you laugh at some idiot for being stupid only to find out that your reaction is what becomes the entertainment. I didn’t see any but I’m still not convinced it wasn’t a setup. Either that or there are men in white coats with a big, butterfly net looking for Herr Dumm.

I couldn’t stop thinking about this man. And what on earth was going on in his mind? It’s while I was lost in thought and driving on Jan Smuts Avenue past the very posh and pink Westcliffe Hotel, that I suddenly noticed a wheel rolling down the hill on the opposite side of the road. Bouncing high and rolling at great speed. With nothing attached to it. Traffic came to a virtual standstill due to spectator value. My mouth was hanging open at this point. Did I move from some slapstick comedy right into Die Hard 5? And if so, where was Bruce Willis? Hiding in some taxi, ready to jump out and save innocent pedestrians or a stray animal from the Jo’burg zoo from sure and certain bruising? With wide eyes and disbelief I kept driving up the steep hill until I saw the cause of the Great Escape. A Hyundai Getz had pulled over to the side of the road, now with only 3 wheels attached to the chassis. For those not familiar with this particular make of car, it is rather small. In spite of this, one of the biggest guys I had ever seen proceeded to climb out of this tiny car looking partially in shock and partially relieved to be out of the car. I felt rather sorry for him, he looked a bit helpless. But Bruce was going to help him, of that I was convinced.

My day could not get stranger at that point. I’m still convinced that a few months down the line, I may inadvertently make my big screen debut. If that is not the case then realizing how homesick I was, Jo’burg decided to pull out all the stops and cheer me up. And it worked.

Life is Hard

I should be working right now. It’s not as if I don’t have enough to keep me occupied. In fact, I have more than I can probably cope with at this point. Just like every other sucker around the globe. Not enough pay to get me through the day and so forth.

But I'm not feeling terribly motivated. Which made me wonder, how do you motivate yourself and those around you when you can’t offer big bonuses or huge salary increases? A quick visit to Google delivered the same old tired ‘creative’ suggestions to motivate without moola.

According to a Mr. Worman, whose wisdom was delivered to me courtesy of Google in 0.45372389475 seconds, you can do some of the following:

•Encourage Peer Recognition

Are we 12 years old? ‘Dear Johnnie, I really like how you effectively shredded your last sales report. Good job little buddy!’ If one of my peers said that to me, I would’ve told them to go shove the report where it won’t be shredded but embedded.

•Job Titles – come up with creative titles for all staff members so they can take pride in what they do.

Again, are we back in daycare? ‘Bridgette, you are in charge of filling the water cooler each day. Which makes you our Hydration Station Manager. Jack, you’ll be looking after stock levels of loo paper. I dub thee – Sanitation Salvation Manager.’

•Gags and Gimmicks – hand out the following to your staff:

1.A figurine of E.T. for out-of-this-world performance.
2.Special parking space for the person who drives the hardest
3.Plastic phonograph records for setting a new record

Honestly, if you have the time to think up this garbage, you as a manager aren’t pulling your weight and can start by doing some fucking work yourself for crying out loud. However, if you must engage in this sort of motivational activity, perhaps consider the following:

1.A special cubicle in the ladies or men’s bathroom for talking the biggest load of shit during a meeting.
2.A Creepy Crawly Pool Cleaner for sucking up to the boss
3.A tub of Vaseline for constantly bending over instead of taking a stand
4.An apron for cooking your expenses

The list goes on and on. In fact, feel fee to add your own suggestions. Considering that you are clearly not working either if you are reading this. Perhaps it is ok for people not to feel motivated at times; it’s cyclical like taxes and Jacob Zuma. One year you pay taxes and the next you don’t. One day you get fired and the next, you run Africa. One day you are on top of the world, the next you are holding it up. Here’s my advice, get used to it.

Life is hard.

Feeling the Recession

I’m starting to feel the recession. No, really I am. It has always been a puzzling expression to me – to feel a recession. But a recent outing to my outhouse which is in fact in house revealed all.

Being away from home for the last couple of weeks hampered my usual 24th of the month shopping for bathroom essentials. Yes, I am anal retentive (appropriate description given later ramblings) and go before payday and buy it on credit. God forbid you go on the 25th or the subsequent few days. The last time that happened, there was a much undignified moment fighting over the last of a limited range of feminine hygiene products. Just the mere thought of it makes my blood boil. You never see men fighting over the last bottle of shaving cream, there’s always more than enough stock. What’s the worst that will happen if they don’t shave for a couple of days? The streets of SA may very well be filled with what may be mistaken for a Wham Reunion. That to me is still tolerable. But consider this – from the age of around 12, girls and women need these products. We certainly don’t buy it as a luxury item. So if there is not enough to go around, it’s a serious problem. I’ll spare you the visual of what a world without FHP may be.

Back to the start and feeling the recession. I found myself without any toilet paper one evening and dashed out to go and buy some at a shop associated with this sort of product. Only to realize when I get there that I don’t have any of my flexible friends with me and will have to use cash. Shit. Enough to buy a few loose rolls of single ply paper. The kind that is so unforgiving on the tenderest parts of your anatomy, I would personally rather face licking the armpit of a hard working 2010 construction worker. If only I could find one. What to do? I bought said product, charged back home and considered drip drying for a while before I could bring myself to make use of the paper. At that point, I felt the recession.

This may have been the end of it. Not the case. I went back the next day and acquired my favourite double ply brand. Or intended to until I saw the price. And then just about needed the paper right there and then. With a lump in my throat, I paid it, consoling myself that it was worth looking after my tenderness. It meant however not being able to splurge on the bathroom freshener I normally acquire. The budget options left me nauseous. There were the options of Strawberries and Cream or Falling in Love. I couldn’t bring myself purchasing either. Who on earth develops these aroma’s and market it as such? Am I correct to assume that only the most ardent Wimbledon fan will be buying Strawberries and Cream? And surely the only consumers buying Falling in Love are those who have never experienced it in the first place. It’s not a subject I’m terribly experienced in but the vague memory I have certainly did not go hand in hand with the aroma of a recently relieved bowel combined with some sort of air freshener. Needless to say, I left without the room freshener. And now resort to lighting a match when necessary. Which have led to the odd scorched fingertip.

I’m really feeling the recession.

A Very Good Place To Start

So, I've finally managed to figure out:

A - what a blog is
B - how to register one
C - what to call it (thanks to my curry buddy for the suggestion)

One minor detail is still unclear to me though. What on earth am I going to write about? And would anybody even read it? More importantly, does it matter?

So, to quote Maria von Trapp, let's start at the very beginning - a very good place to start.

I'm an Afrikaner from Riebeek-Kasteel in the Western Cape. The same place Jan Smuts and D.F. Malan used to call home. A lot of history there but more importantly, the town outside which the Allesverloren farm is situated. Producers of the finest port in SA if not the world. I'm not going to get involved in the whole "If it's not from Portugal, it's not Port" debate. Who cares? It's good stuff. It's how I managed to get a decent increase for the last couple of years. A carton of reserve port makes its way to my boss' office in Johannesburg amazingly around the same time they start considering increases. Don't judge me - we all have done shameful things in the past. Some of us still do - at least I think so.

At this point I've now gone completely off the garden path. But hang in there; it should make sense at some point.

In May last year I decided to radically change my life - The Secret had nothing to do with it. Come to think of it, neither did the annual case of Port. I decided to say goodbye to Cape Town, my family and 1 friend and move to Jo'burg. Along with my newly acquired VW Polo and my 8 year old miniature Maltese poodle, Snuggles, we hit the road to Jozi. See, I've already picked up the lingo.

The next 11 months have been the most frightening of my life. But also the most exciting. I found a nice place to stay, the job is fairly ok and the people I've met have made things a lot easier. Some of them have even become friends. Including the golf manic Afro Welshman who has inspired the birth of this blog. And the "not a Kugel" from Primrose who along with her mom has become Snuggles' full time babysitters when I need to travel. The world is filled with good people indeed; a few of them actually live in Jo'burg. I thought they were all in Orania.

Jo'burg or Bust will follow an Afrikaner girl's adventures in the big, bad city. And if at some point it will get the better of me. Hopefully it will be funny at times; maybe at times you'll take pity on me and invite me to dinner again. For those not in Jo'burg, it will be a great way to stay in touch. Please share with your friends if you aren't embarrassed by the quality of the writing. More importantly, if you are a stranger who happened to come across this and live in Jo'burg - let's keep it that way. No offence but unless you can organise rugby and cricket tickets for me, I'm good on the friend front. Ok, I'm not. So post something, introduce me to your great city. Perhaps just not in person.