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I’ve been so busy trying to master a bewildering array of skills – not the least of which includes the art of eating with chopsticks – in preparation of this upcoming journey, that I’ve not had the time or the fingers left to reach out to this keyboard and let you, my three loyal imaginary readers, know what is going on.

And I leave TOMORROW. EEEK!

Where did these past two and a half months go?! And why did I ever stupidly, naively think that it would be MORE than enough time to lose 15 kilos and finally realise my dreams of uncovering my cheekbones (long lost – since birth, actually); become fluent in Mandarin (HAHAHAHA! I can’t even say hello without putting the rising intonation on the wrong syllable and therefore changing what ought to be a safe pleasantry into a linguistic landmine of potential insult…); AND find the perfect wardrobe that would deceive everyone into believing that I DO have cheekbones. And hip bones. And collar bones.

On the upside: Thanks to inyourFacebook, I have already forged firm friendships with some of the other international delegates and cannot WAIT to finally meet them in person. AND I have gotten in touch with my host family! A process which makes me feel like an alien making contact with humans for the first time.

At first, I was informed that I had another host family in a different area. But then, just two weeks ago, before I had even said as much as a virtual hello to them, I was told that they withdrew. No reasons were given, but I suspect that they took one look at my awful photograph and the essays I had written, and were forever traumatised.

My new family is located in Taichung City, the third largest in Taiwan and, according to the Google oracle, about two hundred kilometres southwest of the capital Taipei. They consist of 21-year old Tanya and her younger sister Page, their mom and their dad. I’ve been in e-mail contact with the sisters, exchanging photos (yes, I figured to just get the harsh truth out of the way quickly) and they look and sound utterly adorable and so-so-sooo kind. They are ALREADY going out of their way to make me feel extremely welcome and I’ve already fallen for the lot of them. Their mom can’t speak English, so coupled with my lack of Mandarin, I’m bound to be a farcical picture of wild gesturing – which, really, is not too unlike my usual mode of communication. However, according to the research I’ve done, even such innocent charades could lead to plenty of unwitting insults and rudeness. Winking is considered vulgar and so is the way in which we use our finger to beckon someone towards us.

And speaking of hands and fingers, that reminds me: the training on the chopsticks… it is not going so well, I’m afraid. Then again, my crippling lack of dexterity even makes eating with the aid of pronged and bladed western utensils a right – forgive me – fork up most of the time, so it really isn't that surprising that my chopsticks-wielding chops aren't up to snuff. After all, I can't even play Chopsticks on the piano!

I could either starve, which is not too likely, since I have way too many fat reserves in my backside, front side and side sides to fall back on. If you think that this might just be the thing to make me lose all this excess weight I’ve been lugging around since birth (WhadoyouMEAN I can’t still call it baby fat at 36?!), my reserves will mean that even if I don’t manage to successfully transport a single grain of rice into my mouth for the next two weeks? I probably won’t even lose a gram…

(Blog post powered by this shiny new accessory I’ve been sporting…)

It all began about two months ago when I received an email from my gorgeous editor. "How would you like to go to Frightfully-Exotic-Destination-Far-Out-Of-The-Country?" (She actually called the place by its proper name, of course. This is just me, up to my usual amateurish writing tricks.)

My reply was probably half-incoherent as usual, but I DO recall that I said something along the lines of: "AREYOUKIDDINGME? Of COURSE I do! I want to go ANYWHERE!" (Yes, I always yell at her on email.)

Unfortunately my hysterical over-enthusiasm and willingness did not make it a done deal. Not by far. We had to actually enter a global competition first. This required us to complete a flurry of virtual application forms, answer almost 200 questions, write some essays, take pictures (UGH! WHY do people need to see what a writer looks like?!?), submitting all of it on time and crossing our fingers until they turned red then blue then black.

Being my usual 'optimistic' self, I decided not to get my hopes up at all. So I tried my best to forget about the contest (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Right, because I don't fixate. At all) and just carry on with my no-life life. Two weeks ago, Ms Gorgeous Editor and I both received emails informing us that we had made it through to the semi-finals. (I wasn't surprised about her success. I've been telling her all along to just pack her bags already.) One step closer to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I still didn't dare to think about it.

Thing is, as always when I forbid myself to do something, my lack of any self-discipline results in me hardly thinking about anything ELSE! I even went as far as joining the contest's Facebook page, Googling the amazing destination, reading travel articles about it and losing myself in the photographs. But then I'd crossly remind myself to yank my hopes back to earth in order to protect myself from sure, heart-shattering disappointment.

But yesterday morning really early, LONG before my usual wake-up time of round about the crack o' noonish, I got up and obsessively calmly checked the website to see who had been selected. The press release stated the usual "everyone was amazing, but sadly we couldn't pick you all" consolation. (Don't they KNOW that stroking your ego before brutally crushing it just makes the horrible news even WORSE?) Then they said that the chosen ones include the likes of Olympic medalists, beauty queens, Harvard grads... and that one guy even received a personal endorsement from his country's head of state, and I knew right then and there with such a crystal clear certainty that I was out. So I climbed back into bed, curled into a ball and told myself that not being picked isn't the end of the world.

I was just drifting back to sleep when a text message notification on my phone woke me up. It was Ms Gorgeous Editor and she told me that she has made it!!!!!

And... she told me... so have I.

SO HAVE I!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On August 12, her and I and two other Saffas will be jetted off to Taiwan for two glorious weeks to attend the Republic of China (Taiwan) International Youth (! According to the Taiwanese, I'm still youthful!)  Centennial Homestay celebrations with 246 other people from around the globe. We will be staying with host families and all we have to do in return for being handed this amazing adventure is to tell the world (or, in my case, my three imaginary readers) about our experiences on our blogs, on Twitter, on Facebook, or whatever other social media platforms we have available to us.

I honestly still can't believe it! I keep on staring at the list of names, expecting my (horrible) name to disappear from it when they realise their terrible mistake at including the likes of me. (I'm just kidding, judges! Please don't get any ideas?!?)

One thing is certain: I would NOT have this to look forward to had it not been for the help and encouragement of many people, from former and current employers, fellow bloggers and co-workers writing me the most lovely references, to family, to the few other people I had confided in about entering. My Gorgeous Editor has my eternal gratitude for telling me about it and inviting me to enter in the first place. I know she has told me to stop thanking her already, but wow... how can I ever thank her ENOUGH?

There is Elaine, the fabulous lady from the Taipei Liaison Office in South Africa who bent over backwards for me and graciously answered all my queries during the application process.

Then there is my darling friend Lemony, who patiently sat up with me until the wee hours (while she was ill, no less!) to listen to me stress and vent and moan and cry, making me cup after cup of coffee and just generally calming me down and jotting down my answers to the questionnaires faster than I could even dictate it! I guess you'll be getting that souvenir from Taiwan after all, Lemony!

And of course, none of this would be possible without Alice and the rest of the SayTaiwan Homestay organisers and judges.

Although I am definitely walking on clouds, my joy has been a tad subdued and bittersweet. As some of you know, this year has been particularly awful for my family. Three months later, we're still reeling from my brother-in-law's murder. I'd be lying if I said that I don't feel guilty for having this thrilling opportunity land in my lap at a time when my sister is hurting so deeply.

But bless her, for despite her grief, she is so genuinely, unselfishly happy for me...

My editor and I recently played a Google-your-own-name type of game. But unlike regular vanity Googling, the game requires you to type only your real first name (no surnames) into the Google search box and wait for a drop-down list to appear with Google’s suggestions of frequently searched for phrases or names that have to do with that particular name. And since I have, like, no life, I also played. My editor of course is SO famous; her surname coupled with her name appears as the very first option. I had no such great expectations.

My own name, a horrible, utterly despicable affair which I have yet to forgive my parents for (and which I have riled against before a bit over here), is not, thank goodness, bestowed on many other people. If only my parents had changed the spelling of my name slightly, it would have spared me an endless amount of embarrassment, and of a lifetime supply of letters and – more recently – e-mails, erroneously addressing me as “Mister”.

Not to mention the lengthy speeches I was forced to give when I lived in the States, while explaining to people how to correctly pronounce it and trying to convince the Yanks that no, it does NOT in fact rhyme with ‘bagel’ (despite my own rotund shape and my body’s uncanny resemblance to an actual bagel). Adding one measly letter to my name and changing another would have altered my name into the far more palatable and globally pronounceable ‘Rachel’.

But moan aside… (for the moment): So I also decided to give the Google Name Game a go, wondering what on earth I would encounter, but not really expecting anything interesting when I typed in my awful first name.

Only to be met with this:

 

The “Ragel State Machine” led me to another site where I made the astonishing discovery that I have an actual namesake! Okay, so it’s not exactly a person (and really, I’m relieved about this – no one else should be saddled with a name this awful), but it is a computer program/software development tool!! Which is commonly used! And which was created by a rather handsome, surprisingly ungeeky-looking (bio pics don’t lie!) AND tremendously clever (he has a Ph.D in Computer Science) Canadian guy named Adrian Thurston.

At the risk of seeming downright insane, I immediately e-mailed him to find out why on EARTH he chose the name ‘Ragel’ for it. Told him that it’s my first name and asked him if it’s an acronym for anything? Not wanting to be mistakenly ‘mistered’ by such a dashing male speciman, I told him that I am indeed a girl. And then I cheekily suggested that maybe he had met ANOTHER living girl burdened with this name, and perhaps he had fallen madly in love with her and THAT’s how and why he decided to name his Magnum Opus after her?

I then asked whether he pronounces his version as if it rhymes with ‘bagel’ and then I gave him a quick primer on the horrid Afrikaans pronunciation of mine:  “I'm not sure if you're familiar with Afrikaans, but it is quite a guttural language, so the "g" in my name basically sounds like a cat coughing up an enormous hairball. So if you want to say my name in Afrikaans, simply go: Rah-*andthenmakesound likeacatcoughingupanastyhairball*-el, with the 'el' sounding ‘flat’ like the "ill" in Will and not like the “ill” in kill.”

I never in a million years expected to hear back from him (or anyone else, for that matter), so imagine my total astonishment and delight when I received an e-mail back from the man HIMSELF less than 24 hours later!

Here’s what he wrote: “I've heard from people with the last name Ragel (Me: He HAS? Well, I suppose it could have been worse then. I could’ve been Ragel Ragel…), but never anyone with the first name Ragel. (Me again: Tell me about it, buddy.) When I named it the Internet was a much smaller place. All I found in my searches was some Arabic text using the word.”(And me AGAIN: Go figure. Arabic is one of the few other languages in which speakers constantly sound as if they’re coughing up hairballs.)

Then he wrote: “I picked it by putting the R and L of regular languages around my nickname Age. I haven't had any romantic encounters with anyone named Ragel! Or Colm! (Me: At first I didn’t get the Colm joke, until consulting his bio again and seeing that Colm is the name of the “new source transformation system” that he is working on.)

So then I simply HAD to e-mail him back. You know. To stal… I mean… THANK him, for so graciously taking the time to write to me. I asked his permission to please blog about it and then asked for clarification on his pronunciation of Ragel and, since I do not speak much ‘computer’, what exactly the Ragel program does?

A few hours later, my inbox lit up with this response:

“Hey Ragel (still seems weird writing that),

I started out thinking I would pronounce it like bagel (how Canadians say it at least)” (Me: Yes, those Canucks do have some rather strange pronunciations, such as saying aboot instead of about, and punctuating the end of every sentence with an ‘eh?’, whether they’re asking a question or not. But it’s utterly charming when you hear Canadians speaking alood like that eh.)

Okay, back to Adrian’s reply: “That's roughly ray-gul. But that never stuck. Now I say rah-gul. A lot of people still pronounce it ray-gul though.

“Naming and choosing a pronunciation for programs is generally a task that's full of confusion. Us programmers are not the most social bunch, so you can go a long while never having to say your program out loud!

Aboslutely, feel free to blog about this!

-Adrian”

And then, while I was still bouncing around with joy aboot his e-mails, I received ANOTHER one from him, asking me on a virtual date.

Okay, just kidding! It was a real date, not a virtu… Okay! Joke! But he really DID e-mail me again soon after, to explain the intricate workings of my namesake in language that someone as dense as I am can actually grasp. Unlike most awesomely clever people who usually aren’t very good teachers, Adrian managed it really well, because after I had mentioned to him in my first e-mail that I’m a writer, he compared it to a tool that I use and can therefore relate to in order to explain it to me: “Ragel, in layman’s terms… is basically a software development tool for producing parsers.

“When you read and comprehend text, you need to parse it using the rules of the language. You look at the string of letters and punctuation and decide on its syntax. Once you’ve got the syntax nailed down, you can decide on the semantics. Computers need to do the same thing when they exchange text over the internet, or via files. Information is transmitted and stored in strings and must be parsed.

Then he explained how Ragel takes rules about a language as input and produces a program that parses. “One can always write programs that parse by hand, but Ragel simplifies menial tasks and provides an abstraction that people seem to like.” (Me: Modest he is, when he says ‘seem to like’. My research has revealed that PLENTY of people like Ragel the parsing program very, very much!)

Now, if only Ragel the unfortunately named human girl can be nearly as useful as her computer program namesake!

 

I saw this while I was dead tired, and - make no bones about it - I just about killed myself laughing. (And now I'll stop with the lame puns.) Thank you, News24, for making me giggle for a change.

(I should actually create a category called Extreme Puppy Love for this one. But before you roll your eyes and hiss at me, cat lovers; please retract those claws, because for once this is not about MY adoration for dogs. In fact, I have nothing on the person I’m about to tell you about.)

A distant relative of mine is a rocket scientist. Apart from the obvious brilliance his occupation requires, he also has a kind and gentle soul and a fondness for dogs.

His love for creatures of the canine persuasion is indiscriminate. He is not bogged down by technicalities such as pedigree or size. I found this out for myself a few years ago when he gave me a lift back from the town of By George! to Stellenbosch. His two dogs accompanied us on the trip, because the three of them had been on holiday together.

I remember the one dog in particular. His name was Jakkals (which is Afrikaans for ‘fox’), but Jakkals the dog did not resemble the sly and pointy-nosed species he was named after. Not even remotely. Maybe his name was ironic, or perhaps he had looked much different when he was a puppy. Doubtful, though. Like me, I suspect that Jakkals was also the runt of the litter, because the mature Jakkals that I got to meet had a perfectly rotund body that was precariously balancing on four disproportionately skinny legs. (Kind of like me! Except for the four  skinny legs part... I don't even have ONE skinny leg!)

Upon first glance, his lineage became perfectly clear: Jakkals was a purebred pavement special. It didn’t matter though, because one look into that odd-looking little mutt’s sweet brown eyes and my heart was stolen.

Throughout the four hour drive (which actually took longer due to bad weather), I reached back frequently and petted him and the other dog. When they finally dropped me off at my sister’s that night, I said my goodbyes, thanked him for the lift and went on my way.

A few weeks ago I ran into that very same relative at the grocery store. We had not seen each other in more than a year. “How are you? And how are the doggies?”

His expression immediately changed. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve both died.”

I felt so horrible for him. Those dogs were like children to him! I reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m SO sorry to hear that!”

“Yes, thanks,” he said. “They were both old, but still… I miss them terribly. Especially Jakkals.”

Suddenly he smiled a bit. “But you know, after Jakkals died, I had to go overseas for a satellite launch.”

Aww, I thought to myself. So the poor, grieving man immediately and bravely plunged back into his work. “Good for you!” I said.

“Yes, I had saved some of his fur and took it along. And while putting the finishing touches on the satellite before the launch, I attached it to the satellite.”

"Wait... you attached the FUR?" I wasn't sure that I had heard him correctly.

He nodded, squinted up at the Stellenbosch sky and solemnly said: “So now, twice every day, a little piece of Jakkals orbits by here, looking down on us!”

I was immediately so overcome… with the giggles. In my mind's eye, I saw the satellite, completely covered in dog fur. Luckily I managed to scrounge together enough decency and self-control to at least hold my laughter until I was in my car.

 Bow-WOW! Jakkals had gone from being an underdog in life, to being a posthumous astrodog! I always knew that the pup had it in (or shall we rather say on?) him to end up among the stars…

And I don’t think too many other dog owners will ever be able to match – let alone top – such a send-off for their dogs!

 

I was outside, standing on a chair and fiddling with my satellite radio's antenna, when my new neighbour rounded the corner.

"Biscuit! Biiiscuuuuiiiit!" He called. When he saw me he stopped. "Hey there! Have you seen Biscuit?"

Since this was shortly after the Great Arachnid Slaying of 2009, I was still a tad jumpy. I warily looked at him. "What exactly IS this Biscuit you are looking for?" I stood on my toes, already imagining and dreading his answer. A venomous snake? A non-poisonous snake? (I don't care. My terror doesn't know the difference.) A rat? A mouse? Or by any hopeful yet unlikely chance... a Biscuit as in Sea Biscuit? (Not that I'm all that comfortable around horses either, mind. There was that frightening experience with that volatile little Shetland pony when I was about ten years old which had left me traumatised for life. No, I'm not going to talk about it. Let's just say that, just because it is small, it doesn't possess any less horse power than regular-sized horses! Nasty little bugger...)

I knew it wasn't a dog, because NO dog gets past me without being petted and belly rubbed to within an inch of its life. And at the time, he had already lived here long enough that I would have noticed/heard a dog or a cat.

He ignored me.

"BIIIIIISCUUUUU... Oh, THERE you are!" I whirled around to look in the same direction of the garden that he was walking towards, just in time to see a huge light brown blur out of the corner of my eye. I froze. "Oh, hell..." I thought. "It's one of those mutant-sized cane rats... the same ones they put on leashes and use in Angola to sniff out landmines!"

Imagine my absolute relief when the blur morphed into a harmless, hopping bunny! A BUNNY!

"Oh, CUTE man!" I said (perhaps a tad too loudly and enthusiastically) and jumped off the chair.

He scooped up the utterly charming Biscuit and brought him over to me. "Yes, he can even do tricks. Here, let me show you." He put Biscuit down at my feet and snapped his fingers, while I looked on with great skepticism. "Circle, Biscuit! Circle!"

Apart from twitching one of his long ears and his trembling whiskers, Biscuit remained utterly motionless. "Oh, Biscuit! Come ON!" For a dude with big ears, Biscuit sure did not listen! My neighbour looked at me. "I PROMISE you he can do tricks. But..." his face fell. "Usually he only listens to my ex-girlfriend."

I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "Ooooh, ouch! Shame! That's gotta hurt!"

He also laughed, but not QUITE as heartily as me. "Yeah. He really really loves her. And he's possessive! When she's holding him and anyone dares to come near her, he actually tries to nip them!"

I knelt down and petted Biscuit. "Oh, you good boy, you!" I said and wished I had a large carrot to give him for displaying such loyalty and devotion towards the ex-girlfriend.

A few weeks later, I saw a gorgeous girl with long, blonde hair outside. She was sitting in our shared courtyard, a content Biscuit cradled in her arms. Seriously, that bunny was SWOONING. "You must be the ex-girlfriend!" I said, and promptly told her the story. Turns out that they now have joint custody, because Biscuit was pining for her too much. (I strongly suspect that he was not the only one, though! And what better ploy to keep on seeing her than to get the bunny involved... sneaky guy!)

Oh, and Biscuit can indeed do tricks. She showed me!  And boy, did that bunny ever show off...

 

Since returning to South Africa two and a half years ago, I have been spending most of my Saturday nights exclusively with one guy.

WhadoyouMEAN "poor guy"?!?

The lucky (LUCKY, I tell you!) guy is my now 5-year old nephew.

One Saturday night last year, just before he turned four, I went over to my sister's to babysit him.

My brother-in-law and sister had taken to sneaking out of the house, because sitting him down and explaining to him why he couldn't go along to eat at the grown-up, boring restaurant where they serve the EXTREMELY gross food, simply turned into infinite and exhaustive debates. ("But you make me eat the gross food here." "No, but it is SO gross there at the restaurant, only the daddies eat it." Etc.) Which usually ended in tears. (Mostly my sister's. Yes, the mommies always seem to crack first!)

They quietly left while I distracted him with a toy. As soon as he heard the garage door open, he realised what was happening and began screaming his head off.

"WHERE ARE THEY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOING?" He angrily sobbed while flinging his tiny body against my legs.

Tears spilled from his big brown eyes and formed slick, jagged paths down his chubby cheeks. Dressed in his pajamas and clutching his raggedy toy lion, he was a heart-wrenching sight. I bent down and hugged him to my chest. Within seconds, my shoulder was soaked with his tears. "Shhhh, sweetie! It's okay, I'm here with you and I'm not going anywhere!" I tried to soothe him as I stroked the soft, baby curls on his head.

"Yes, I know," he said through his sobs, and just as I was smiling smugly at my super-human ability to comfort him, he wailed: "SO HOW COULD THEY LEAVE US KIDS HERE AT HOME ALL ALOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE?"

Of course, I'd like to think of that incident as a reflection of my youthful appearance and NOT my level of (im?)maturity.

And come tomorrow, I will proudly put the four in thirty-four!

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 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 , 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.

Thatinitial seek-the-stylus frustration should have served as an omen for the humiliating thingsthat were to come. Because right off the bat, that phone also went all erraticand stubborn on me - after having performed flawlessly for my sister, ofcourse! To this day, I’m still convinced that the woman in the shop had placeda curse on me when she waved the stylus around like that!

After ashort-lived but intensely frustrating relationship, that phone also came to amysterious demise. I swear it had nothing to do with the fact that it hadaccidentally slipped from my clumsy hands so many times… Surely it couldn’thave been that? It had seemed so sturdy!

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

When itdied, I didn’t shed a tear, but I have to confess that I really do miss thatphone’s ability to take pictures of dogs. (And here I would have linked to myfacebook page, but I couldn’t do that to you. Also? I really shouldn’t insultcanines 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 mypresence, I have sadly NOT been banned from owning one.

In fact, mylandlady was even brave enough to loan me hers. And that’s the one I stillhave. A vintage old Nokia. No bells and whistles. (Although it does make awhistling sound when I sometimes try to hear the countless exasperated voicemails my friends have left me, pleading with me to PLEASE, since I’m NEVERgoing to call them, at least have the decency to answer my own phone then!

I swearthough, sometimes, after I had spent hours staring at that very silent phone, Iget 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!)

Recentlythough, it actually RANG! And I must’ve gotten such a fright from the unusualnoise of it RINGING IN MY PRESENCE, that I actually ANSWERED it!

Mysalutation must’ve conveyed my surprise, because a very apprehensive voicesaid: “Miss Redsaid?”

My heartsank. And then began beating furiously. I sensed that this person's tone was way too formal for this to bea social call.

“This isMr. K calling from ***** Bank.”

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

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

Mr. K’sstartled silence was almost audible.

“Um…” he said.

“Sorry,” Imanaged through the laughter. “I’m sure this isn’t the reaction you arenormally met with.”

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

“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 STAYALIVE.”

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

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

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

“NO!” Hesaid.

“YES!” SaidI.

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

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

“What isthat?”

“I write.”

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

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

“Right, haha!”

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

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

“NO! Irefuse!” 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, afterI’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 foryou!”

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

“Sorry?”

“That’s allright, 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-upbefore 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 myheart, its blade piercing the last bit of life out of me?”

“Correct!”

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

“Indeed, wewill.”

“Even forpoverty-stricken writers who starve to death?” (Had it been video-calling, hewould’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, hesaid: “Please let me purchase this on your behalf?”

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

“NO, Ms.Red! Please don’t!”

“Why shouldit make any difference to you whether I live or die, Mr. K? You don’t even knowme?”

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

Indeed…

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

(All together now!)

Thatone-time only, exclusive, funeral coverage plan!

*As much asI would have liked for this rather lengthy discussion with Mr. K to have beenmy 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 thelikes of me!!! To actually put on their site!

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

Good heavens. Is someone trying to tell me something? Because as a human (well... most of the time I pretend to be one anyway) of, I suspect (hope?), average intelligence, I am starting to develop an inferiority complex.

First I had computers outsmarting me. Then smart phones came along. Suddenly, that little device that I can hold in the palm of my hand has more marketable skills than I have!

And now, according to a recent article I've read, we are about to get smart clothes too!

By smart, they don't mean 'fancy' either.

Apparently some chemical engineers are figuring out how to combine their calculations or formulas (or whatever it is that chemical engineers make/do) with textiles to make fibres and material "that can genuinely act in an intelligent manner."

Does this mean that my shirt sleeve will be able to snatch the pen from my hand and complete the newspaper crossword puzzle if I'm taking too long for its liking to fill out the clues?

Or will we be able to have intellectually stimulating conversations with our Levi's?

Will future mini skirts have the ability to be sexy AND wax lyrical about philosophy and religion? Or will a piece of clothing's intelligence be determined by its length and size? (Actually, that might not be a bad idea. Plus sizes have suffered from discrimination for so long, a bit of respect might be long overdue.)

Or what about those trench coats always favoured by dirty old flashers in the park... will the coat take over and provide the unfortunate viewer with an informative news flash instead of... well, you know.

Could that funny jersey knitted by your aunt Martha have you in stitches with its off-beat, off-colour sense of humour?

Well... no. Not quite. Apparently the boring engineers want their potential smart fabrics be put to use "in the likes of healthcare applications, security, and display of helpful data."

Mmm. Helpful to whom, we wonder? *Cough* Big Brother *Cough.*

So much for relying on clothes to modestly cover up our flaws. Apparently our future wardrobes will be filled with Prêt-à-Porter traitors forcing us to literally wear our hearts on our sleeves.

Well, micro-chipped moccasins or not, we don't expect that too many things will change. Decked out in their green I.D. broek, women will probably still fret in front of the mirror and ask: "Does this bar code make my butt look big?"

The only difference is that it will probably be her ID broek giving her a reply and not her boyfriend/husband/partner.

Kind of gives new meaning to the term smarty pants, doesn't it?

As long as it can iron itself. THEN I will be impressed.

(For some mysterious reason I thought about you when I wrote this. No, I've no idea either.)

A friend e-mailed me this article.

Wondering if he was trying to give me a message?

Well, at least a lot of things make sense now, doesn't it? Like at least half of my ex-boyfriends... and the way my hair looks before I put a brush to it in the mornings... although sometimes it looks even more barbaric and untamed after having been brushed!

On the other hand, the article also states: "The study, published in the journal Science, comes a week after another set of researchers looking at a different gene said Neanderthals may have been capable of sophisticated speech."

That definitely rules mumbling me out as a descendant then. Unless the eloquence merely skips a generation now and again?