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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!)

If you've made the mistake of visiting this here website between some time on Monday and now (not to imply that visiting it at any other time is any LESS of a mistake, but I am not here to judge you, honestly), you would have had the unfortunate experience of witnessing, firsthand, my first (and last, I swear) attempt at coding...

Sadly, I can assure you that it was even less successful than my attempts at writing.

Here's what happened (and anyone with half a brain and even the barest minimal knowledge of HTML should avert their eyes right now, because they will find this excruciatingly painful):

Some time on Monday afternoon, I was overcome with a desire to spring clean. Now, there are several reasons why that urge of mine was cause for extreme alarm:
- It was a Monday. AND WHO WANTS TO DO ANYTHING REMOTELY PRODUCTIVE ON A MONDAY?
- It was DAY. I don't DO sunlight. That's when I rest, like the weary old bat that I am.
- It isn't spring in South Africa. It is autumn.

Blame it on the fact that the nectar of the gods (AKA Starbucks) has not crossed my lips in almost two and a half years - I am certainly blaming it on that very valid reason - but I suddenly realised that the SA Blog Awards Vote for me widget was still on here, mocking my spectacular yet expected clean sweep of losses with its very colourful presence.

Yes, alas... I didn't win. No, let's rephrase that. Me and win shouldn't even feature in the same sentence. I lost. But as I've said, no surprise there. I mean, I might not be able to wrap my simple brain around basic HTML - despite the fact that HTML for Dummies is in my collection of How-To books - but even I know that in order to win something as important as a Blog Award, one needs to have real readers, as opposed to the scores of imaginary ones that I have. But I adore and value you so much, that I count every last three of you! Oh, and having any real talent would help even more than having any real readers. Bit of a pesky Catch-22, really, because one can't seem to have one without the other...

But no, before you think I am bitter about the losses, I really am not. Yes, of COURSE winning would have been unbelievably awesome (unbelievable being the operative word here), but luckily I lost properly. I think it would have been far worse to take second place, because that's close enough to almost taste it - definitely to smell it - and trust me, if you have ever been on a diet? You would KNOW how much it sucks to be so close to something you crave but know you can't have.

Also? Just the fact that I was NOMINATED - even if I am still convinced that it was a gross oversight/technical error/typo on someone's part - is already reward enough for the likes of me. Those surprise nominations couldn't have come at a better time, because at one point this year, I had seriously, SERIOUSLY considered simply giving up on writing once and for all. So being nominated gave me a little more encouragement to maybe not give up just yet for a little while longer. Also, all the winners MORE than deserved it. (For a full list, go here... It is underneath the video of the event. Perhaps you can even take the time to scroll down in the appropriate categories to see exactly how far I had lost.)

My inexplicable urge to get rid of the widget, then? Well, the awards have been over for so long, it is almost time for next year's. (Okay, so it's only been, what, two weeks? Still... we all know that in terms of technology, two weeks could easily equal about 14 human years.) So I was beginning to feel like the freak in the neighbourhood whose Christmas decorations are still up in June, because she is too lazy to take it down.

Which is why I, on Monday, marched down these back corridors of redsaid armed with fierce determination and... my finger poised above the delete button.

In hindsight, I really should have left well enough alone. I actually can't believe the audacity I had! Normally, when faced with anything requiring even remote brain power, I turn into a trembling, cowering mass. But even more unbelievable is the fact that I even managed to find the correct page in the first place!

To cut a long story short?  Without copying and pasting the code that was there and sensibly saving it in Word or somewhere where it could be salvaged again later, I simply found the widget's code and deleted it...

Imagine the unpleasant surprise I received when I looked at the blog... Oh, make no mistake, I had deleted the widget, alright, but I also happened to delete crucial code that had, until that moment, served to neatly keep my sidebar to the side. So suddenly, after my little deleting jobby, the sidebar found itself NOT to the side but smack dab in the middle of the blog's body. The end result was not pretty...

Australia was notified. But due to the time difference, Australia was blissfully asleep. So hey ho SilverSabre was recruited. He took one look and - after he had laughed for a good ten minutes (hey, according to the end results of the 2008 SA Blog Awards, I AM the fifth funniest blogger in SA, remember) - he went: Oh, Red... WHAT have you done?!? And then, on behalf of IT people everywhere, he wept for this blog...

He told me that I had probably only deleted a comma. Unfortunately he couldn't quite figure out WHICH comma, but bless him for even trying to figure it out.

Luckily for all of us (but especially for me), the sun had to come up in Australia eventually, so Miss Dee awoke, and as per usual, swooped in on her angel wings to come in and save the day. Thank you, Dee, for once again saving redsaid from Red. My staggering pile of IOU's has now officially surpassed the Taipei 101 in height and my debt to you has become infinite...

Oh, and it turns out that Silver was right. Who knew that these few letters (and I'm taking the liberty - yes, again! but this time it's precautionary, honest - to remove the little brackets and some of the other squiggly bits, because goodness knows what will happen to the blog if I leave it in) div id=beta div id=beta-inner could be so crucial in keeping a sidebar in its place?

Now if only someone could come up with code that would keep ME in my place...

P.S. Okay... I did not forget that the Win-A-Date-With-Roommate-Kate contest still needs a winner. To tell you the truth, since most of the votes I received (and was made aware of) happened before I had even resorted to the contest, and since no voters after the contest adhered to the rules (I'm sooo glad that I inspire such obedience),  it's starting to look like a Ménage... I mean, a three-way tie between Miss Dee herself, Pylorns and TimT. Since coffee will be a bit difficult, what with two of you being in different locations in Australia and one being in Texas, I'm thinking that maybe you could at least become Roommate Kate's friends on facebook? (Of course, I need to run this by her first.) Congratulations and thank you all for voting AND for going to such great lengths to recruit even more votes for me!

Before I subject you to it, a bit of background info: I wrote this late one night in the span of two hours in order to meet a competition deadline. Its hasty formation is going to be sadly evident when you read the story. (If you dare.)

The name of the story is The Vigil, and yes, it's every bit as cheerful as the title suggests. During that time, I was attending a bedside vigil for a loved one who has since passed away, so my thoughts were inevitably about mortality.

But apart from the fact that my unfortunate protagonist bears an uncanny physical resemblance to me, the rest of it is all fiction.

Here goes:

The Vigil

It is shortly before midnight on a Saturday.

 

But instead of being out on the prowl as any young, single woman ought to be, I am at a bedside vigil. I know it sounds callous and terribly selfish, but I can’t help but be angry about being here, in this semi-dark room, when every loud tick-tock emitted by the grandfather clock in the corridor is a taunting reminder that my youth and my life are slowly fading away.

 

Oh, all right. Thirty-three is not that young, I suppose. This becomes evident whenever my age is brought up, because that’s when people – especially other women – openly look at my hands. The action of their eyes darting down to my hands is so involuntarily, it’s like a reflex. And when their eyes fall on my fingers, so naked and devoid of any type of ring, their faces assume an expression of embarrassed sympathy. Almost as if they had caught me doing something illicit. Some of them even look a bit gleeful and superior when they establish that no, I have never even been married yet. Others even have the audacity to quickly, nervously reach for their husbands. Almost as if they think that a taken man around a single woman in my age bracket should be treated like protected game.

 

My standard one-liner: “I am so commitment phobic, I can’t even live with myself,” does nothing to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. Oh, make no mistake, the husbands laugh! But the women? Humourless cows.

 

I pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but deep down, it does chafe, because I know full well that I am no oil painting in the looks department. I have genuinely begun to wonder if I don’t perhaps give off an air of quiet desperation? If I do, I’ll blame it on the Sarah Jessica Parker perfume I’ve been wearing. (Don’t judge. I bought the stuff on an ill-conceived whim, mistakenly believing that her Manolo-strutting Sex and the City persona would somehow rub off on me every time I envelop my body in a cloud of its seductive scent.)

 

But the only thing I’m desperate about at this moment is about getting out of this depressing room in my mother’s house, where death is already palpable and lurking in the shadows.

 

I won’t dare to complain though. This is a family affair and we are all present. Even my dad is here, which is an enormous milestone. He has not been able to tolerate being in the same 100 kilometre vicinity as my mother since their bitter divorce a decade ago, but hell, if even he was man enough to show up for her sake, then I suppose I have no right to moan.

 

It is just so damn quiet. Too quiet, especially for our family. I wish someone would turn on the radio. Isn’t death supposed to be a celebration of life, after all? And if it is, shouldn’t it be a reflection of our lives together as a family?

 

Then this moment is entirely wrong, because we were never this quiet. Even if no one was chattering or arguing, there was always at least music playing in the background. Now, not even the television is on. I fear that this oppressive, sombre silence is enough to kill us all…

 

At least someone had the foresight to open a window earlier, alleviating some of the stuffiness. The fresh air from outside whispers into the room, stirring the lace curtains and carrying the lingering fragrance of the lavender growing in Mom’s garden.

 

The night is surprisingly cool for the time of year. If I had known that global warming wasn’t going to mean eternal summers, I might have made a better effort to recycle. I quietly wonder for the umpteenth time if we have buggered up the climate so much that the seasons will become mixed up.

 

Will we here in the Southern Hemisphere get white Christmases, while people in New York and Paris barbecue their Christmas dinners on balmy summer nights? I wish I could ask my big brother, the underachieving genius. This is exactly the kind of useless information that he seems to absorb through sheer osmosis (and compulsive reading) while he slogs through mind-numbing, minimum-wage type jobs, which he alternates with long bouts of unemployment. Needless to say, he kicks arse at Trivial Pursuit.

 

He is slumped forward in a chair (carried in from the dining room), resting his head in his hands. He has never been one to share his emotions, and I am so shocked to see the grief openly wracking his body, violently shaking his shoulders, that I completely forget to be embarrassed by it.

 

Much to my relief, everyone else seems too wrapped up in their own misery to have noticed his.

 

Our younger sister still looks infuriatingly graceful, even while grieving. Her elegance and grace are occupational hazards. She is a professional ballerina with a troupe that has already achieved minor international fame. We don’t know who to blame for her extraordinary good looks, because sadly, Mom and I and the rest of the female cousins and aunts do not possess her flawless complexion, silky hair and delicate features. We are more squat and stocky. And in my case, hopelessly clumsy. Yes, I told you I am no oil painting!

 

I used to relentlessly poke fun at my sister’s duck-footed walk, but I was really jealous of her shapely legs and of the fact that she has always been everyone’s undisputed darling: from teacher’s pet right across to being both Mom and Dad’s hands-down favourite child. (Not that they ever admitted it, of course.) I have never blamed her though, because despite all of the attention she has been lavished with all of her life, she has never been a brat, which makes it impossible to resent her. It wasn’t her fault that I was born into the attention-starved position of middle child.

 

Dad is sitting on the other side of the bed. For the second time tonight, I am shocked at an emotional display by a male member of my family. This time it is because he is holding Mom’s hand in the most intimate of ways: with their fingers intertwined. This after he had angrily vowed during the divorce to never in his life touch her again with a ten-foot pole! That particular outburst had happened in court, when mom’s lawyer had threatened to get a restraining order against him – after he had continuously broken into the house, always under the pretence of picking up a forgotten item or two. I’ve always suspected that he had done it simply because he was unable to let Mom go. Even though she had been the culprit who had so carelessly shattered almost 26 years of marriage by having a rather blatant and indiscreet affair.  

 

And just look at them now. If I had known that grief would be the glue that would reattach our broken family unit, I would have made my half-hearted attempt at committing suicide much sooner.

 

Ironically, it was while I was in hospital following my rather melodramatic cry for help (what, surely you don’t think that I had really wanted to die a spinster, did you?), that the cancer was diagnosed.

 

Which is why my family is gathered at this vigil on what is quite possibly the very last Saturday night of my life.

 

At least I can show you something. Look, there on my hand. Can you see the sparkle, or is it too dark in here? Yes, of course it is a real diamond, but unfortunately, it isn’t what you might think… I wish I could tell you that my oncologist was handsome and single and fell madly in love with me while successfully saving my life. Instead, the sad truth is that my oncologist was much older than my father and my life was beyond saving.

 

The ring then? It was a deathbed gift from the only adoring men in my life, my father and my brother.  

 

It is really strange, this dying business. There is certainly nothing like it to give one perspective, because now that the final credits are rolling on what I had always considered to be my very bleak existence, I can finally see all the love that has been illuminating my life all along.

I don't even recall signing up.

Until one day, earlier this year, when I received an e-mail cheerfully informing me: Red! So-and-so has written on your wall! Click on this link below to see what they have written.

Huh? I thought, as eloquently as always. And clicked the link anyway.

After a few incorrect password/member name combinations (why don't I, who can't remember what I've done even five seconds ago, just stick to the same password/member name combos for all e-mail accounts and subscription sites I belong to? But no. Why make something simple if I can make it complicated?) I eventually entered the correct combination, and... well, that's pretty much when my life stopped being my own.

Suddenly my day consisted of a barrage of poking and being poked back (ooh, sounds almost naughty), being bitten by chumps, being turned into a zombie, writing on walls (in short, almost everything we have been forbidden to do since Kindergarten), commenting on pictures and finding people. (In fact, all three of my imaginary readers already know the story about how I even found my high school boyfriend on facebook.)

I didn't quite reckon on being found myself!

For some reason, I am not facebooking (is it a verb now?) under my own full name. Just my initials and surname. (Yes, indeed. Who DO I think I am? J Freakin' K Rowling?)

I'm not saying I consciously didn't want to be found, but perhaps it was definitely in the back of my mind when I signed up and had to fill in my name. Kind of like when I was a kid. I was too shy to play, but I didn't want to be entirely excluded. So I merely sat on the sideline, watching from a distance. That way I still knew what was going on without being swept up in the action.

Besides, it's kind of difficult to be 32(!!! I still think I've made a dyslexic mistake and that the numbers should be typed the other way around. Hold on, all ye young ones. The ride of youth is fleeting) and to be starting over at the very bottom like I am right now. Especially when I just know that most of my peers are, if not close to the top of the corporate ladder, already more than halfway there! It's enough to make a girl feel very loserish indeed.

Maybe that's why I just typed in my initials and surname under my name.

I should have known that the powers of facebook extends beyond a mere technicality like that, though.

I honestly didn't. I mean, I had tried without success over the years to track down my best friend from high school. She has a very unique and beautiful name, so when the Internet came along, I thought that it would be relatively easy to find her. For years I played an Internet sleuth, spending hours online searching for her. Good ol'e Google was the magnifying glass to my Sherlock Holmes, but unfortunately, all I saw when I typed in her full name was thousands of hits... for beer.

I finally figured that she was probably married with a new, less beer-sounding surname. With a heavy heart, I gave up my fruitless searches.

Until facebook. Right around the time that I stumbled onto High School Boyfriend, I searched her name on there as well. Just for in case. But I got zero matches.

About a month ago, I received an e-mail. "Red! Best Friend From High School, still with beer-sounding surname, has written on your wall!"

I had to blink several times to make sure that it was true. When I realised that it was indeed her, I burst into happy tears.

I have not seen her since 1993, during our first year of college. We met when I was 14. I was the new girl at Performing Arts High School, and due to my spectacular failure of mathematics, I was promptly moved from my seat at the back of the class to the front row, where the teacher could keep a close eye on me. Not to give me extra help - I think she realised that I was long beyond help and hope - but because she had never in her entire teaching career encounter anyone quite as absolutely illogical (okay, plain stupid) as I was when it came to mathematics. Who could blame her for wanting to keep close tabs on such a freakish creature?

However, my dark cloud had a decidedly silver lining, as I ended up being seated next to one of the best friends I would ever have. But believe me, she was not seated in that row because she was slow on the uptake like me. No, she was in front because she was actually fascinated with the class. A very clever eager beaver. Until I came along and ruined her academic career with my bad influence... Well, ruin is not exactly the right word. Because despite me doing my best to distract her with lame jokes, she still aced everything, because she was That Clever. Unfortunately, none of it ever rubbed off on me. Even more unfairly than that, though, was the fact that she was both the brains AND the beauty of our dual operation!

The two of us became inseperable. I even spent some of the most amazing vacations I have ever had with her and her family. I had a crush on her big brother. I ADORED her mom. Her mom was not only the coolest mom I had ever met, but she was also incredibly kind and very sweet to me. Some of the happiest times I experienced during high school was spent with Best Friend and her family.

I have to admit though: despite my excitement of being reunited with her, I definitely had reservations too. I AM embarrassed about the current state of my life. There is no getting around it. I wasted a lot of years and energy chasing my American Dream, and when that didn't pan out it was really devastating to me. In fact, I still cry when I think about it! Anyway, the demise of my American Dream led to me coming home, defeated, tail-between-the-legs and with nothing to my name.

I just knew that she would be successful, and I was correct. She IS well on her way up the corporate ladder. About the only thing we have in common now is that we are both unmarried after having had long relationships in our 20s. She is super independent though and her life is more fullfilled than many of the married or coupled-up people I know. The girl has seen a lot of the world. She still takes classes and has a varied and rich life, both socially and intellectually.

I have been so touched, because upon finding me, she immediately wanted to book a flight and come and see me. As in immediately. I was honest with her and told her what a bugger up my life has been, and how shy I am to see her again (especially in my current state), but she has been completely amazing and non-judgemental.

So facebook? Yes, it has the ability to mysteriously suck huge chunks of time from your working day - which is why many South African companies have recently blocked it on their employees' computers - but oh, it rocks.

Because it also has this ability to reunite people who never should have lost each other in the first place.

Whoa... no update in July.

That is scandalous, even for me, the World's Laziest Blogger.

The blog has been on my mind a lot. I've had every intention of writing posts in glorious prose... but no matter how hard I thought about it, no such posts appeared.

I ask you, why couldn't my pure intent lead to amazing blog content?

Of course, the upside of leaving the blog dormant for weeks at a time is that now I actually have some things to tell you. As opposed to before, when I just made stuff up.

Okay, so I don't really have THAT much to tell you (I'm still me - unfortunately - and even though I haven't been blogging, that doesn't mean I haven't been tethered to my bed or my computer for most of my time), but in the following days, you will hear - in no particular order - about how I made wine (I did!), how I was taken to a concert by another blogger (I was!), how my past is haunting me on (and off) facebook, how I went to a big birthday bash in Cape Town and met a million more people to add to facebook, how I've been propositioned by a man (I was! And yes, he is alive... but he is also very married!!!! So no, don't even gasp because I SO didn't and won't EVER do that. I know full well what it's like to be cheated on, courtesy of my former long-term American boy and his female co-worker. Feel free to insert a number of creative and yet very insulting adjectives here, because I can't even be bothered. I'm getting my therapy regarding that vicariously through acid-penned-when-it-comes-to-descriptions-of-her-sleazy-loser-scumbag-ex, Guardian columnist Liz Jones. Therefore I shall never even consider a relationship with someone who is already committed (be it by law or by his word) to someone else. Whether that word or law means anything to him or not. And for that matter, which is why I shall never again consider committing myself to someone who isn't canine.)

Where were we?

So what would you like to hear about first?

Sorry about that last bummer, sorry excuse for a post.

I didn't mean to be so cryptic, but maybe it's a good thing that I was, because now I can't even remember why I went all back-of-the-hand-to-the-forehead melodramatic on you.

Okay, okay. Not really. Unfortunately I do remember.

As you know, my return to South Africa at the end of 2005 was anything but triumphant.

But upon my arrival I kind of had to hit the ground running (or rather, my very unfit, slow version of running), so there wasn't a lot of time to mourn the brutal murder of my American Dream and everything else that went along with it.

Being a bit slow on the uptake, I didn't realise this until recently, when I finally moved into my own place for the first time since being back. Suddenly I had time to think, and well... after getting over the initial shock of ME actually THINKING... it was as if all the unresolved emotional baggage that I've been lugging around with me suddenly bobbed to the surface. In the process, it overwhelmed me and dragged me under. (Makes me wonder why my emotional baggage couldn't have been stolen at the airport in Jo'burg instead of my laptop! Too heavy, I suppose.)

And well, you saw the pathetic result of that near-drowning.

Thank you for your incredibly sweet comments and concerned e-mails. It really helped.

"So you mean to tell me that, from now on, you'll be in charge of YOURSELF?"

"That ith correct. From now on I'll be the bothth of you."

"Oh, really? And how do you think you'll get any words on these pages without any help from me, mmm?"

"Fine, if you really inthitht on helping: I'll dictate and you can type."

"So you'll be my dictator?"

"EXTHACTLY!"

We enter a room located in a garden on a wide, tree-lined street in a suburb of Stellenbosch, a famous South African college town. The room is comfortable, and would have been wholly unremarkable had it not been for the enormous, ratty-looking has-been executive office chair of indeterminable colour dominating it.

On a desk facing the chair, a little blog cowers in the corner. It is immediately obvious that the blog has been neglected for some time. It is clutching a bottle. Every once in a while, it takes a large swig from it. Although it seems oblivious to our presence, even when we gingerly take a seat on the chair directly in front of it, it doesn't get startled when we begin to speak to it and ask it questions.

Why are you drinking that bottle of wine all by yourself?
Becauthe today ith my birthday.

Oh, really? Happy birthday! How old are you?
(The blog holds up the hand that isn't clasped around the wine bottle, and intensely contemplates the amount of fingers on it for a while. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the blog holds up three fingers.)

Three! What a wonderful age!
(In reply, the blog merely takes another large gulping swallow from the bottle.)

What is your name?
Redthaid.

Oh, how unusual! Where did you get it?
My mom gave it to me. (Followed by a 'ask a stupid question' look and another sip from the bottle.)

Right. I mean, any specific reason why the colour red is part of your name, though?
Yeth, her hair ith red. She'th been nicknamed red for motht of her life, and thinthe she ithn't very high on originality, she dethided to name me that too. (Bangs forehead against the bottle. It seems like an intentional, premeditated move rather than an accidental bump.)

You weren't born here in South Africa, were you?
No.

(Silence, and then...) Okay, so could you please tell us where you were born?
(With a wistful and nostalgic expression and with such undisguised longing in its voice, the blog replies) In America.

You don't drawl though!
No. My mom alwayth inthithted upon retaining our acthent and way of thpelling. I could've thaved a lot of energy and she could've increathed her typing thpeed to about 15 wordth per minute by thpelling wordth like colour and harbour without the u. But nooo. She loved the attention she (wrongly) thought she retheived by having an acthent in a foreign country. She thought everyone wath forever attentively hanging on her lipth when she thaid wordth like baaahthroom and tomaaahto.

Are you saying that people didn't hang onto her every word?
No, they did. But not for the reathonth that SHE thought. She thought it wath becauthe the Americanth loved her acthent. What she doethn't know ith that they only leaned in when she thpoke becauthe they couldn't underthtand her! Which I think wath wathted effort on their part, becauthe motht of the time she only thpewed nonthenthe anyway! But I'm in no pothition to critithithe. I mean, I have thith annoying lithp after all. By the way, how cruel ith it that the word lithp containth the letter th? But in my own defenthe... I AM only three yearth old. Unlike my mom, who ith CONTHIDERABLY older than that, and yet behaveth conthiderably more immature than I do.>

Ouch, it doesn't sound like you are very close to your mom.
Well, hey. I didn't athk to be herth. She got me from Aunt Emily. I thtill don't know why Aunt Em picked HER. I could've had many other, much nither and prettier momth. Like her and her. I love them! If one of them had retheived me, I never would have been tho awfully neglected and ignored. And I would thtill have lived in America! (Lip starts to quiver uncontrollably.)

Hey, but surely your life isn't all that bad?
Are you joking? WHAT life? I'm updated tho rarely, I'm officially part of the world wide cobweb, that part of the Internet where neglected and largely ignored webpageth go to die.

Sorry. Okay. Well, may I say that you are really quite eloquent for a three-year old?
Thankth. Now jutht imagine the awardth I would have won if I had been able to write mythelf! I mean, I have plenty to thay, you know? And have you notithed that, apart from the thcript directionth in thith interview, there are abtholutely NO PARETHETHETH in thith potht? I know my lithp ith probably annoying the crap out of everyone, but like I've thaid... I can't help it. I'm only three. Yethderday I wath thtill jutht two!

So what if you COULD write and run yourself, without any help from your mom. How would you do things differently?
(The blog immediately lights up. (NOT as in cigarette. As in glow.) With a dreamy smile it begins to speak. And speak. And as the speech - which eventually makes Hamlet's monologue seem like a one-liner - progresses, the blog's tone becomes increasingly more zealous.) Firthtly? I would write and update mythelf EVERY day, exthept maybe on weekendth. I will write witty, original thtorieth about everything under the thun. It will be tho good, that we will have actual readerth - none of the fantathy readerth that she'th been pretending readth uth - and in exthchange for their loyalty, they will be guaranteed an entertaining read every day.

And with thethe bona fide readerth will come loadth of bona fide commentth. None of the thpamming that have taken over thith thite. And I will reply to all thothe commentth right there in the commentth thection. Becauthe that'th what blogging ith thuppothed to be all about... interaction and dialogue. That'th what theparateth blogging from conventional media, you know? (Interviewer realises it's a rhetorical question. Quietly gets up and runs out of the room, but several kilometres down the street, can still hear the blog screaming) I'M TAKING CONTROL BACK! I DON'T NEED HER TYPING THKILLTH AND OPPOTHABLE THUMBTH! THOTHE VOITHE RECOGNITION THOFTWARE PROGRAMTH AREN'T JUTHT FOR THE BLIND! IT'TH FOR ME ATH WELL! I'M TAKING CONTROL OF MYTHELF, YOU HEAR ME? THITH ITH A BLOGGING COUP D'ÉTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!!

Interrupting this very, very long (5 day! FIVE! Not even Thanksgiving weekend in the States is 5 days long!) weekend in South Africa to tell you about my new abode...

And never mind the opening paragraph. Because it's already a few days later (in fact, almost time for another weekend!) since I wrote that. See, when I caught myself almost blogging on a long weekend, I got such a huge shock that I promptly went back to being the World's Laziest Blogger.

But I'm dying to tell you all about my new place.

It has two rooms one of which triples as a kitchen, study and bedroom, and a bathroom so tiny that not even a toddler could turn around in it. In fact, I'll spare you the intricate details on how I go through my daily ablutions. Just know that I'm becoming increasingly flexible (and that my aim is improving) by the day.

The toilet really deserves its own post. But just to give you an idea: It is one of those old-fashioned commodes where the tank is high above the bowl with an actual chain that you have to literally swing from like Tarzan in order to get it to flush. (So much for swinging from the chandeliers...)

But once it flushes? You've never seen or heard anything like it. At first there is a low, threatening rumble, then a sound and visual that always put me back to years ago, when my family and I visited the Victoria Waterfall in Zimbabwe.

If you ever need to get rid of a human body, simply come to my place. We can stuff it down the toilet and flush it away. No one will ever know. THAT is how powerful this thing is. On day one I acidentally dropped a bar of soap in there. It didn't even have time to make a final bubble as the tsunami of water washed it away.

The shower, on the other hand, could comfortably hold five people. No, this is just an estimate. Not a proven fact... yet. I may actually have parties in there, though, because I don't know where else I'll be able to entertain. At least that way we can flush the toilet and pretend that we are on a terrace somewhere near a huge fountain.

My shower only has enough hot water for one VERY brief shower, though. Needn't elaborate on how I discovered that. Let's just say it was a very cold shock...

The bedroom has parquet floors. It's seen better days, but the wood gives such warmth to the room, so I've only coverered parts of it with two small and matching area rugs.

The room was already furnished, so one of the only things I have in here is a very large, ratty old office chair that my mom spotted for sale outside a secondhand shop. And since my mom worries about both my economics and my ergonomics, I bought it. So for less than R200, I am now the comfortable owner of a has-been executive office chair (circa late 70's, early 80's) in an indiscernable, greyish colour.

It's WAY too big for the room, but since my family (and some other people) have faith that I'm going to spend a lot of productive hours of writing in it, I shall ignore the general rattiness of the faux leather. Or pleather. Did they even have pleather in 1980, which is probably when this chair was at the peak of its career, warming the arse of some big-shot business exec?

Anyway, so once the money from my planned productivity starts rolling in (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!), I will have the chair reupholstered. In the mean time, I ride around on its surprisingly unsqueaking wheels from one end to the room to the next (it's a short trip, but fun!) and swivel around and around and arou...

Weeeee! More tomorrow! Have to roll on over to the kettle to make some coffeeeeeeeeee.

It's my favourite day.

I walk under ladders, and while I'm at it, I step on every single crack on the pavement. I also make sure to pet (and eat!) as many black cats as possible.

So no, I definitely do not suffer from Paraskevidekatriaphobia!

You better be frightfully impressed. That's the longest word that's ever been used on this blog.

So long in fact, that I'm exhausted from typing it. Also exhausted from stepping on all the cracks in the pavement. It's more exercise than I've had in YEARS!

Therefore the big news I have regarding the major change in my life will have to wait until Monday...