Redsaid

Disclaimer: Cue the melodramatic, wailing violins for this one...

After a fitful, restless night (nothing unusual there, actually) I woke up in a frenzy this morning.

The fact that I was awake way before the crack of noon was already alarming enough, and would normally be sufficient to shock me straight back into a comatose state.

But I remained awake. Not ALERT, mind you. For one, I weirdly thought that it was an hour later than it actually was.

So when I saw this, I rapidly shook my head (a la Loony Tunes character) and rubbed my eyes, blinked, and looked again. Certain that the cruel delusion would be gone and the true winner's name would be there.

Because what I was seeing couldn't be. In fact, I was SO sure that it WOULDN'T be, I had already written up a congratulatory post to any of the other five who I thought would surely win.

But no. It was still my name. The very same name that I have loathed and despised since birth. My hatred for it flared in the States, where everyone who read it from a form or from my passport pronounced it to rhyme with 'Bagel' while looking at me with bewilderment and pity. "Girl," I could almost see them think, "Your parents sure must not have liked you very much!"

Then I patiently explained that really, it's okay for them to say 'Rachel', because that's what it genuinely translates to in English.

Today I'm really grateful to be the owner of this despicable name.

In fact, I'm so happy, I've literally been sobbing for three hours straight.

(Yes, what can I say. I've always been a *tad* on the emotional side.) 

Before I launch into the inevitable thank you's, please allow me to tell you something. To some of you, this isn't exactly news, but please humour me (as always).

These past few years have been HARD on me. When my American Dream died, I thought my life was over. I really did. (Melodramatic, MOI?)

I felt like a failure when I was forced to return to South Africa, tail-between-the-legs, broke, broken-up-with and... well... considerably rounder than I was when I had left here nine years before. Let's just say that it was not exactly the triumphant homecoming I had always envisioned for myself.

It was humbling and humiliating and I thought that I would never recover from it. But my family and friends (both offline and on) have been AMAZING.

On days - and oh, there have been many - when I thought that I couldn't carry on anymore; when the amount in my bank account was so low that the fear would almost choke me; something miraculous would always happen. My sister would invite me to dinner (and I'd end up staying the week... but that's another story!), or my roommate would bring me fruit from their farm...

They have all encouraged me to continue chasing my dream of being a full-time writer. Bless 'em, for they've never told me to go out there and get a 'real job', even if it means that I'm still living like a student at the age of nearly 34, and that I have not been able to buy any of them any birthday or Christmas gifts in YEARS.

This past year I have come especially close to quitting this whole writing thing. It has just been an UNBELIEVABLE struggle. Jobs that didn't pan out. Jobs lost. At times it seemed that someone was trying to send me a message, saying: "Kiddo, you're way off track here. Leave it to the ones who are able/more capable. You're OBVIOUSLY not meant to do this."

These past few months have been particularly bad. My lack of finances have often left me panic-stricken. So I actually made up my mind that this contest would be the deciding factor. I thought: "When (being the operative word) I lose, I will get a day job. Surgically extract myself from the laptop for a while and then, after some time to rethink things, perhaps get back to it and just write for pleasure again."

I didn't even consider an alternative outcome, so I'm rather lost right now... However, any and all book deals would be immediately accepted thoughtfully entertained!

All right, now for the Most Important Part: Thank you, Jonathan Cherry and Heinrich Hattingh, the marketing geniuses behind this entire campaign-with-a-twist. Thank you VERY much for inviting me to be a part of it! It was amazing... Even though coming up with a plot twist involving those damn bubbles nearly caused my head to explode!

Thank you, to all three of my readers, for voting for me. (And you obviously managed to convince a few of your friends to vote for me as well!) Seriously though, so many of you have been egging me on, stubbornly continuing to believe in me, long after I had given up on myself... I especially need to single out campaign manager Aunty, Silver, Dee, Pylorns, Fin and Beerslinger, Kim, and the guys and gals at MyDigitalLife.  

Thank you, Woolworths, for the most money I have ever been paid for any of my writing!! EVER! That new clothing line is TSSSSSSSSS! (SO hot!)

And then, to my other 'Twisted Sisters': Breathtaking Alice, Deliciously decadent Jeanne, Prosaic Bridget, Not-a-Chav-innit Laurian and succinctly hilarious Nikki... it was truly my honour and pleasure to have been included in your company. You are all incredibly talented and those few of you who were not on my feed reader before this were promptly added. I look forward to reading a LOT more of your writing! 

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I've appointed a campaign manager (well, 'appoint' would imply that she 1) is getting paid 2) had a choice in the matter - but let's not get bogged down by too many minor or major technicalities) to help take me through these final, bleak hours of my futile campaign.

So here, almost verbatim-ly (ED: Is that even a WORD? RED: If you MUST know, the -ly add-on is my attempt at doing an Irish lilt) in her words, is my final plea...

“If I win the Can You Twist competition I, Red, will ensure a brighter future for the world’s children. (RED: And dogs. ED: ... RED: Shut up!) Everyone who wants to work will have a job, and everyone that wants to lounge around and do nothing will get to do that as well, while getting paid.

I, Red, pledge to lower taxes, cholesterol, and the common denominator. They said it couldn’t get lower… I say THEY HAVEN’T TRIED HARD ENOUGH.

So vote for me, Red*, in the Can You Twist competition today, because if you don’t someone else might win and fuck** up your life completely.

Paid for by the People Who Loaned Money to Red and Now Need It Back, But Won’t Get It Unless She Wins Foundation."

*My real, and most unfortunate name, is the one that almost looks like 'bagel', but isn't pronounced even remotely the same as bagel. You need to know that for voting purposes. But just to be clear, my name is NOT Alice, Jeanne, Bridget, Laurian or Nikki...

**Apparently that word is Irish for muck. Because she is Irish. With 110% pure Guinness coursing through her veins to prove it.

WhadoyouMEAN: "YES!"?

The question was NOT whether I, Red, am twistED. It was whether or not I can create a plot... oh, never mind.

I will say this though, if you're referring to twisting of the dancing kind, the answer is a resounding no.

Okay, so what on earth am I on about now? My story! The one I had told you about over here. It's over there! With a good few more awkwardly placed commas in it than when I had written it, mind, but it's there. (A gross overuse of PARENTHESES is my thing. I'm not that fond of the comma, I assure you.)

What is also there (and even more cringe-worthy than odd punctuation and spelling/grammar errors) is my real name. Which does NOT, I assure you, rhyme with Bagel. Just say "Rah", and then make a sound as if you're about to cough up a hairball... No, never mind. Do not even attempt to pronounce it. You could forever scar the back of your throats with the guttural sound it requires.

Also contained on that site is a most unfortunate photograph of my mug. I really should have spared you all and submitted this mugshot instead...

P.S. My story concludes on Friday and then you'll be able to vote for (or against!) me. Fellow Twister, the lovely Cooksister, has kindly cleared up some confusion about the voting process. Voters can vote only once, but that is PER AUTHOR. So you can actually vote six times. You can vote that you liked all of us, or that you hated all of us. Or that you liked only half of us, or... okay, okay, you get the idea! 

Over the past month, I've received thousands of imaginary e-mails from my scores of imaginary readers, checking on my well-being.

In their phantom missives, they said they were alarmed because I've been a bit quiet, even for me, the official World's Laziest Blogger title-holder.

It's true. But this time, I assure you, my silence was not JUST due to the usual laziness required to retain my World's Laziest Blogger title.

Believe it or not, but I've actually been doing a lot of behind-the-scenes writing, because (and I KNOW you won't believe this) I have miraculously been asked to be a part of this, which is described as "South Africa's first online reality show featuring six of the country's hottest young female storytellers...and your votes. Six weeks, six women, six twists and one ultimate winner."

I am absolutely amazed and astounded and yes, very VERY honoured that the likes of me has been included in this group. Yes, just as with the Blog Awards, I'm convinced that I'm only there because of a tremendous oversight or some glitch in the time/space continuum. Proof? The words "hottest" and "young" put anywhere in a sentence near my name.

So here's how it works: We were each assigned a real-life, ambient element and asked to write a fictitious short story of five chapters long. Sounds easy enough, right? Well, not quite. You see, not only do our stories have to have a twist at the end, but our twists have to directly involve the assigned ambient element. Trust me, this caused me to resort to a lot of binge drinki... hyperventilate. And break out in hives, for good measure.

The contest kicked off two weeks ago and is playing out on the official website. Every week, a different writer's story is featured. It is pure, delicious torture for those reading along (and we weren't privy to each others' stories beforehand, so I can tell you, I've been getting so swept up in the amazing writing, at times I forget that they are my competitors! And actually, I'd rather not think about that aspect of it, because then I break into hives all over again!), because every day - beginning on a Monday - only one chapter is published. On the Friday, the final installment of a story is published, culminating in the real life event happening somewhere in the country. Cool, huh?

Readers get to vote for their favourite (only one vote per reader) and since the prize is a cool R10 000 (yes, THOUSAND) and since my story will only be featured during the final week and you'll therefore only have one day to vote for me, I'm hoping that you will have forgotten all the other amazing stories by that time and that you'll therefore only cast your precious votes in my favour, making me a winning, RICH author!

Ah, THAT is probably why I was approached to take part in this. Because my imagination is clearly infused with delusions of grandeur.

Our fathers who art on Earth

Varied be thy names: Pa, Paw, Papa, Pops,

Da, Dad, Daddy, Daddy-o, Old Man, Sir

Thy day has come

Therefore thy will shall be done at home as at thine office

We’ll cook thee today thine daily burnt toast

And give thee cheap socks and ties

As we give thee each and every Christmas

And thy will kiss us

And lead us to believe that thy love it

But deliver it to the back of thine sock drawers and closets

For, whether deadbeat, hands on, pushover, strict, wealthy, pauper,

CEO or stay-at-home

Thy art our kings

With the power

To change light-bulbs

Making thee forever more than mere men

All across the United States yesterday (and in one known case, Australia), deafening popping noises could be heard as people's eardrums raptured and began bleeding profusely.

Even animals were affected. Dogs as far as central Mongolia were spotted as they crouched down, howling and whimpering, and buried their heads between their front paws in a futile attempt to protect their sensitive, furry ears.

This painful outbreak was caused by a sound... nay, a NOISE... so awfully horrible and horribly awful, it has left sound analysts baffled as to its origins.

"It's definitely not a human voice. It can't possibly BE a human voice..." concluded Dr. Deci Bel after bravely exposing herself to the noise for an eardrum-splitting second.

Well, the good doctor was right, for the source of that painful sound? Was me... And I didn't even sing!

Yes, alas. I TOLD them. But no. My several thousands of warnings to them went blatantly unheeded.

My assurances that, despite having a face fit only for a career in radio, my voice (if that is what this screeching, high-pitched sound emitted by me on a daily basis can be called) certainly is NOT fit to be heard. At all.

Why else did they think I've been condemned to a fate of written communication? NOT because I have talent for it, but because it is the only career in which I never have to be heard!

And trust me, my despicable voice never being heard? That's a Very Good thing...

Perhaps they would've taken my warnings seriously had I told them about the time when my best friend was a DJ at a community radio station in Pretoria. One night, during one of her shows, one of her guests canceled at the last minute and I stood in... virtually shutting down the entire station with my awful voice!

Yet, I did not tell them that little anecdote. So in the wee hours of yesterday morning, these cowboys forever marred their website (and many unsuspecting ears) by interviewing me (ME!) for a podcast.

Now, I shall grudgingly admit: despite my hatred of the phone (which I have told you about recently), and despite the podcast being conducted via the phone, it was actually fun being interviewed. It made me feel Very Important. (Yeah, I know, it doesn't take much!)

Almost makes up for the fact that I've been stood up by Ted Kelly from UPop. (Although, people who have heard this unfortunate Wetwired podcast? Will realise that Ted Kelly had wisely dodged a bullet the day he 'forgot' to call me to chat to me on air.) 

Pylorns and Finley were extremely gracious hosts. They didn't even hang up on me or edit me out of the podcast, despite the fact that I:

1) Kept on accidentally interrupting them. 'Accidentally' because there was a bit of a time delay during the call (what with them being at the other end of the world in Austin, Texas and Baton Rouge, Louisiana respectively). So they would be having a perfectly intelligent and civilised conversation, when suddenly, this awful, high-pitched voice would interject and say random things or comment on a part of the conversation that had long since been forgotten. Or unladylike laughter (sounding more like a cross between a witch's cackle and a hyena) would suddenly boom down the line at totally inappropriate times, long after a punchline had been delivered. And honestly, I know I'm slow on the uptake, but not even I am THAT slow!

2) The phrase Ménage à Trois (oooh, this is going to misdirect a lot of Internet traffic to this here blog - I apologise in advance for the disappointment) actually left my mouth. I meant to say Three Peas in a Podcast, but thought, since Fin was in Cajun country and all, that I would be polite and give the native language a whirl...

3) And speaking of reverting to native language: I actually rolled my 'ahs' (rrrrr's, to the Yankees) a few times!! I swear I never spoke English with an American accent, not even while I was living in the States. I mean, come on, having an accent was the only thing about me that the Americans found even remotely interesting!  And despite managing almost a decade over there without ONCE saying 'tomayto'; these Yankees get me on the phone and I get so sentimental, I 'todally draaawled'.

4) I sounded like a dork. Oh, wait... I AM a dork!

5) I laughed and talked at the same time. Often. (Yes, I am THAT sad. I laugh at my own unfunny jokes.) Which means that the already little sense I made to begin with? Abruptly disappeared.

6) I also sounded like Frankenstina... the long lost sister of Frankenstein.

If only voices could be Photoshopped!!! (And yeah, I know audio can be tweaked as well, but trust me. My Smurf-sound? Is completely beyond repair...)

Hi everybody.

I'm writing here today to tell you that I'm four today and my momma ith too thad and buthy to write here, tho here I am.

She doethn't know that I know she ith thad, but I know. Even if you are only four - ethpecially if you are only four - you can tell. She trieth to hide it from me. She thinkth I can't hear her crying thometimeth, late at night, but I can.

I might only be a four-year old blog, but I'm not thtupid. (Even if my lithping might make me thound that way. I know it ith annoying, but hey, I can't help it, okay? I'm only four! Oh, and by the way, ithn't it jutht downright cruel that the word lithp containth an eth?)

I thometimeth wish that she would trutht me and write it all out on here. But I don't think she hath the thtrength.

And we all know that she ith lazy and tho, jutht like the cobblerth kidth are never shod, the writer'th blog-baby will never be written on!

But don't worry. Dethpite her occasional dark and thad moodth, we're not doing too badly, her and I. Yeth, she ith thtill a neglectful blog momma - I'm not about to nominate her for Mother of the Year or anything - but at leatht we are okay.

We are thtill living in our little room. But at leatht it ith ourth, you know? And didn't that other writer woman, Virginia Jackal I think her name wath, thaid that every woman needth a room of her own?

Tho yeth. The plathe ith hardly a cathtle, but we aren't exactly living in complete thqualour either. 

Momma ith altho thtill, miraculouthly, paying our rent with money that she earnth from writing.

We've had a hard year, but thingth have been looking up and I have faith that it will continue to go even better.

Oh, who am I kidding? You all know that my mom didn't even GET a glath, let alone a half-full or half-empty one! And the apple, unfortunately, didn't fall all that far from the tree. To thay that Momma and I are a tad pethimithtic would be underthtating it. Not even our blood typeth are pothitive!

But I watch Oprah and I've theen thothe showth about The Thecret, tho I am going to try it.

Who knowth? Maybe I can Thecret my momma into becoming a good writer? Maybe I would even be able to Thecret another boy into her life? (She claimth she doethn't want 'a rat bathtard man' - yeah, that ith exactly how she thayth it (only without my lithp, of courthe) - in her life 'ever EVER again', but I'm sure she'll change her mind if a nithe one cometh along.) 

She needth a bit of exthitment in her life. Maybe THEN she'll have thomething to blog about! Thomething more riveting than my rethent abduction (well, thort of), or about how she hath almotht broken me a few timeth. (Thank you, Aunty Dee, for thaving me time and time again! May I pleathe come and live with you and the cat in Authtralia? No? Aunty Em, can I pleathe come back to the country of my birth and live with you in Houthton then? I promithe I won't mutter: "Houthton, we have a problem!" over and over. Well, maybe jutht for the firtht week, but then the novelty will wear off and I'll find other annoying mantrath.)

And maybe, JUTHT maybe, I will then have a fighting chanthe of thurviving for at leatht four more yearth!

Well, wonders never cease.

With just days to go before this blog's fourth birthday, I have learned that it has actually fallen prey to a blog thief!

I know. I still can't quite believe it either.

At first I was rather amused that someone would voluntarily pretend to be me. I mean, REALLY. Out of all the millions of far superiour, less obscure, better written blogs out there; blogs that actually have more than three readers and more than three annual updates... why on earth would someone pick the likes of ME?

But I suppose there are just no accounting for taste nowadays. I DO wish my thief was a bit more discerning though. Perhaps I might even have felt a little flattered!

Then again, if my thief had taste, he/she/it (I'll explain later) never would have pilfered MY blog to pass off as his/her/its own to begin with!

Call me naive, but quite frankly, I never knew that blogs could be stolen. I mean, it's not as if someone has walked off with all of it (or even bits of it), because here it still is, very much still in tact.

Now that I know how it was done, it is actually so easy it is - forgive me - CRIMINAL! Really, the sheer audacity of it...

To add even more insult to injury, my particular blog burglar wasn't even very clever.

Allow me to present proof of my blog thief's clear lack of intelligence:

Exhibit A: It bears repeating... out of ALL THE AMAZING BLOGS ON THE ENTIRE WORLDWIDE WEB, THIS ONE - a blog SO obscure, it isn't even part of the worldwide web, but of the worldwide cobweb (the murky, damp, dark depths where forgotten/ignored websites go to wither away and die) - was selected for the taking.

Now look, I agree. Stealing my blog COULD have been a genius move. I mean, if you want to be clandestine and not get caught, steal something no one would miss, right?

But here's where I, with a smug flourish, present to you Exhibit B: The thief might very well have gotten away with it, had he/she/it not decided to DRAW ATTENTION to him-/her-/itself by LEAVING ME A COMMENT!

Actually, this is going to show you exactly just how daft I am as well, because despite the general incoherence of said comment, upon retrospection and just a bit of deciphering, it becomes rather evident that the person/spambot (because it hasn't yet been established whether our criminal is indeed female as she claims, or male, or not quite human... which, if the latter, would actually explain everything then, wouldn't it?)  was pretending to be me right there in that comment!

But of course, I was so happy that I had another sucker... I mean... reader, I probably promptly went into denial and chose to turn a blind eye. After all, readers are precious commodities. And readers who actually comment? Why, for an obscure blogger like me, they are about as scarce as democracy in Zimbabwe! So once you manage to bag one or two of those, you immediately knock them down, cuff them, lock them up and never EVER set them free again!

Since my Sherlock skills were clearly so dormant that I didn't even notice the thievery going on right in front of me, how did I find out about it then?

Well, one of these cowboys came to my rescue yet again. (Between Pylorns and Miss Dee, I'm wracking up an infinite amount of debt!) He grasped the meaning of the close-to-incoherent message, and actually followed the homepage link that was left by the commenter, leading him straight to the incriminating, visually assaulting MySpace page where my blog was cited (MORE THAN ONCE) as the site to get more information on the criminal owner's autobiographical details.

That to me is even more proof that the thief didn't even deign to actually read the stolen site, because if - and from here on out, I'll just refer to the thief as it - it had, it would've known that I don't even HAVE a life. And really, selecting someone with a life (doesn't even have to be an exciting one, although that would certainly help) would've been far more effective for a stolen autobiography.

So what happens now?

I'm not quite sure, since this has never happened to me before. I followed Pylorns' advice and reported the blogger to MySpace for passing my blog off as its own.

I've yet to hear back from MySpace. So either they have taken one glance beyond my blog's gorgeous design (which I had nothing to do with, of course) and actually paused to read the unfortunate words (which I had everything to do with, of course) and immediately decided that the likes of me isn't worth the effort; OR I will only hear from them on Tuesday, since it is the Memorial Day long weekend in the States.

In the meantime, I'm recognising that being stolen is a huge milestone for this here blog. Now, admittedly, it's not quite as good as that time when I was Googlewhacked! by an American dude named Josh, but hey, I'll take whatever comes my way.

Now, if only someone would be kind enough to send me some much coveted hate mail, my blogging life would REALLY be utterly complete...

Those who have had the great misfortune of knowing me in ‘real’ life (I wanted to write “in person”, but the jury is still out on that one…) subsequently also know about my many strange hang-ups some of the very few quirks I possess.

 

I am, for example, rather notorious for not answering my telephone. At first, new acquaintances find this odd; even funny or charming. Then - as their futile calls to me remain unanswered and unreturned -  their sentiments quickly change from being amused to mildly irritated to all-out infuriated. (This poor guy, for one, can attest to that!)

 

Yes, alas… now you know that I never write, or call...

 

What can I say? No offense, Mr. Alexander G. Bell, but I for one really could have lived without your invention. (Well, yours or Philipp Reis’s. The jury is apparently still out on that one as well.)

 

It’s not that I despise the device per se. Besides, these days, phones are so sophisticated, some of the high-end, pricier ones, I’ve heard, can even make, pour and bring you coffee!

 

So why do I almost go out of my way to avoid its intended use of spoken communication then?

 

There really is no simple answer to this, except… well… let’s put it this way: if you think my WRITING is bad? I am utterly HOPELESS when it comes to the spoken side of things. My speech is filled with fumbling mumbling and ums and downright huhs?  (All of which, I suppose, are basically the verbal equivalents of parentheses.)

 

Throw into the equation that I am a little hard of hearing (remember, it’s unheard of to refer to people as ‘deaf’ nowadays), and then you might have a somewhat better understanding of why I am hung up about speaking on the phone.

 

Turns out the phone has picked up on my feelings towards it. And apparently it doesn’t like me much either.

 

The first time I ever owned a cell phone was at the youthful age of 31. (And no, cheeky bastards, that wasn’t 700 years ago.) It was in 2006 and I had just returned to South Africa after spending (or wasting… the jury is pathetically indecisive) almost a decade in the United States.

 

Yes, I never had a cell phone while I resided in the wired/wireless/gadget-filled first world. The US, you see, isn’t just the home of the brave, it’s also the land of the free local calls from landlines.

 

Not that I made much use of that perk. The boy was assigned phone duty and picked up a lot of Afrikaans swear words from our home answering machine courtesy of all the furious fellow South African expats who called, and called, and called me to no avail.

Upon my return to South Africa, I became the very reluctant recipient of a mobile. I really didn’t want one, but everyone assured me that I had little choice in the matter.

 

That phone and I despised each other from the get-go. It used to belong to my mom and to call it a vintage would be way too kind. It was an ancient, brick of a thing. According to my mom, it worked brilliantly, so no one was more puzzled than her when the battery promptly died on me and half the buttons simply refused to work!

 

This led my sister to bestow unto me a VERY nice phone. A phone the price of a small second hand car. So fancy, it didn’t even HAVE buttons. Oh, no, daahlings. So stylish was that phone, it had a STYLUS.

 

Of course, for the longest time, I couldn’t quite figure out where exactly said stylus was located!

 

I had my mother use her phone to call my sister. "Where is the stylist?"

"..!?"

“The phone's little stick?”

 

After a moment she finally realised what I was on about: “Oh, ha ha! The STYLUS!"

"Right, that's what I said."

She sighed. "It’s there, in the phone.”

 

“No, it isn’t.”

 

“Maybe it fell out. Check the box.”

 

“I have. Nothing.”

 

“No, it’s there. Really.”

 

I finally had to go to a cellular shop in the mall. I’m very relieved to say that none of the employees in the first two stores knew how to locate the mysterious stylus. I’d like to believe that it was a sign that I’m not quite as dumb as I look, but it’s more likely that those employees and I enjoy the same superior level of idiocy.

 

Finally, a woman at the third store made the stylus appear as if by magic. In fact, I could have sworn that she even waved it around smugly, like a wand, for a split second!

 

I’m sure she was highly annoyed at the injustice that such a luxurious device could be wasted on the likes of me! I could almost TELL that she thought I was way too inferior to have such a sophisticated, sleek phone in my possession.

 

That initial seek-the-stylus frustration should have served as an omen for the humiliating things that were to come. Because right off the bat, that phone also went all erratic and stubborn on me - after having performed flawlessly for my sister, of course! To this day, I’m still convinced that the woman in the shop had placed a curse on me when she waved the stylus around like that!

 

After a short-lived but intensely frustrating relationship, that phone also came to a mysterious demise. I swear it had nothing to do with the fact that it had accidentally slipped from my clumsy hands so many times… Surely it couldn’t have been that? It had seemed so sturdy!

 

Besides, I’m convinced it was suicide. I think it poked itself to death with its own stylus!

 

When it died, I didn’t shed a tear, but I have to confess that I really do miss that phone’s ability to take pictures of dogs. (And here I would have linked to my facebook page, but I couldn’t do that to you. Also? I really shouldn’t insult canines like that.)

 

After all, isn’t that what phones are for? To take pictures?

 

But despite all those cell phones shriveling up and spontaneously dying in my presence, I have sadly NOT been banned from owning one.

 

In fact, my landlady was even brave enough to loan me hers. And that’s the one I still have. A vintage old Nokia. No bells and whistles. (Although it does make a whistling sound when I sometimes try to hear the countless exasperated voice mails my friends have left me, pleading with me to PLEASE, since I’m NEVER going to call them, at least have the decency to answer my own phone then!

 

I swear though, sometimes, after I had spent hours staring at that very silent phone, I get a beep informing me that I have just missed a call! And no, of course no one believes me... (Oh, and one of my friends is unable to send me text messages, because I never receive them. Only from that particular friend. And no, of course she doesn't believe me. And yes, she has the correct number!)

 

Recently though, it actually RANG! And I must’ve gotten such a fright from the unusual noise of it RINGING IN MY PRESENCE, that I actually ANSWERED it!

 

My salutation must’ve conveyed my surprise, because a very apprehensive voice said: “Miss Redsaid?”

 

My heart sank. And then began beating furiously. I sensed that this person's tone was way too formal for this to be a social call.

 

“This is Mr. K calling from ***** Bank.”

 

Oh, no! The bank calling. That could NOT be good. I was suddenly very sure that he was calling to inform me that it was a criminal, account-closing offense to be as perpetually broke as I am.

 

So when he said: “I’m calling to ask if you would be interested to purchase our exclusive, one-time only, funeral policy”, I was SO relieved, I immediately burst out laughing.

 

Mr. K’s startled silence was almost audible.

 

“Um…” he said.

 

“Sorry,” I managed through the laughter. “I’m sure this isn’t the reaction you are normally met with.”

 

“No, indeed.” Mr. K, the bank’s funeral policy man, replied in a suitably solemn tone.

 

“Mr. K, it’s very kind of you to think of me for this exclusive, one-time-only offer, but you don’t understand. Right now? I need every single penny I have TO ACTUALLY STAY ALIVE.”

 

“But Ms. Red, we actually have various plans. And the most inexpensive one we have is so cheap, it works out to only xx cents per MONTH!”

 

He was working this sales call, so Mr. K was!

 

“Mr. K, I ASSURE you. That minuscule amount? I often don’t even have that much left at the end of the month.”

 

“NO!” He said.

 

“YES!” Said I.

 

“But, Ms. RED! What, if I may ask, is it that you DO for a living then?”

 

“Oh, I’m just a working stiff.” (Sadly, my little pun seemed to be utterly lost on Mr. K.)  “I put the ‘free’ in freelance.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“I write.”

 

“Wow. Really? Have you written anything I may have read?”

 

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve read, so I wouldn’t know...”

 

“Right, ha ha!”

 

“Actually, Mr. K. The fact that I’m as broke as I am should tell you exactly what a terrible and very obscure writer I am.”

 

“But Ms. Red, if you purchase this funeral coverage that amounts to the minuscule amount of xx cents per month, your family won’t have any worries about your funeral when you die. And Ms. Red? You DO realise that you ARE going to die, don’t you?” He added rather ominously.

 

“NO! I refuse!” I cried… Okay, I didn’t really. “Do you know something I don’t, Mr. K?” No, okay, I didn’t ask that either. But I did tell him that luckily, after I’m dead, I’m pretty sure that I won’t worry much about my own funeral either. Whether I have purchased the policy-for-mere-pennies or not!

 

“Ms. Red! Listen, I feel so awful for you, I almost want to buy you this coverage for you!”

 

“I bet that’s what you say to all the girls.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“That’s all right, Mr. K. Really. Very generous of you, but I assure you it’s fine.”

 

“You know, Ms. Red, it doesn’t even matter HOW you die. There will be no medical check-up before or after the fact.”

 

“Wow, that’s reassuring. So you mean to tell me that I'd be able to get this insurance even with a knife stuck in my heart, its blade piercing the last bit of life out of me?”

 

“Correct!”

 

 “So you’ll pay out even for writers who have offed themselves by gnawing off their own wrists?”

 

“Indeed, we will.”

 

“Even for poverty-stricken writers who starve to death?” (Had it been video-calling, he would’ve seen how tragically unlikely it is that THAT would ever happen!)

 

“Hahahahahaha. Ms. Red, you are very funny.” And suddenly, in a pleading, panicky voice, he said: “Please let me purchase this on your behalf?”

 

“Mr. K, now you are making me feel so bad about not buying this coverage from you, I could just about die from the guilt!”

 

“NO, Ms. Red! Please don’t!”

 

“Why should it make any difference to you whether I live or die, Mr. K? You don’t even know me?”

 

“Because you don’t own our one-time only, exclusive funeral coverage plan!” 

 

Indeed…

 

And that’s also why I hate the phone. Because when I DO answer it, it reminds me of all the qualities that I lack/don’t possess. Like a pleasant speaking voice*. And yes, let’s not forget:

(All together now!)

 

That one-time only, exclusive, funeral coverage plan!

 

*As much as I would have liked for this rather lengthy discussion with Mr. K to have been my very last call ever? I’m afraid it might not be. You see, despite having been subjected to my hideous voice several times before, one of THESE cowboys still want to do a Podcast with the likes of me!!! To actually put on their site!

 

And no, of COURSE I will never link to it if it does end up happening!

 

Yes, indeed... your eyes are not deceiving you. The title of this blog post really DOES read "Pope Envy".

No, I'm not Catholic. Although in a previous life I might as well have been, because I am just always consumed with guilt, whether I have done something wrong or not!

Anyway, please forgive me, Catholics, for I am jealous of your earthly leader. (And yes, I realise the irony: the pontiff inspiring me to commit one of the seven deadly sins.)

Now, it's not what you think. I mean no disrespect, so please don't be incensed! (And please note that no one was more hopeful than me back when he was elected.)

My envy of Pope Benedict XVI extends far beyond the fact that he gets to live rent free in that amazing apartment at The Vatican with that splendid balcony overlooking the square. Or that he has access to a full wardrobe. Not, mind you, that I particularly want the mitres (those tall hats - even though the height will go a long way in helping to elongate a round face like mine) or the vintage vestments. Now understand, it's not that I have anything against Vatican couture. I just don't think the heavily embroidered smocks (or chasubles) will do a lot for my already odd body.

No, I am really, REALLY jealous of His Holiness because of where he is right now. In my beloved United States (O, say can you Holy See...). More specifically, because he happens to be in my siren city, the stately yet vibrant place that still makes my heart contract with longing on a daily basis: Washington, D.C.

After years of living there, I instinctively know that the cherry blossoms could possibly already be in full bloom around the Tidal Basin right now. I also know that in April, winter sometimes still stubbornly tries to claw its icy way back into the fold, causing the optimistically spring-like warm temperatures to plunge and to, on occasion, even make way for a last, spiteful snowfall!

I remember what it is like to be there during historic events: Presidential inaugurations (Clinton's second and Bush's unfortunate and undeserved first and second), an impeachment, presidential funerals (Reagan's), royal visits... Even if one isn't a direct part of the action - or even if one is almost indifferent to whomever the visiting VIP de jour is - one can't help but be swept up in the energy of it all. The air almost literally crackles with an electric anticipation.

Yes, celebrity is everywhere. Events of global importance happen daily in other cities around the world, but it somehow just feels different there...

Yes, alas, dearest D.C., I still have a total crush on you.

And actually, I totally covet the pope-mobile. (But before you think I've finally relaxed about driving? No, I have not. I want the pope's car as much for the chauffeur as for the car itself!)