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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!

 

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?

My real name - that one that I have loathed and despised since birth - was just mispronounced live on an XM and Worldspace Satellite Radio station which can be heard live around almost the entire world.

Does a sort of mispronunciation mean that I am famous? Or does it detract from the fame?

What if the DJ gets your gender wrong? What does THAT do to the fame factor?

The station in question is UPop and I've been listening to them on my Worldspace Satellite Radio (thank you again, Web AddiCT(s)! It is honestly the gift that keeps on giving.)

About an hour ago, while poking around on the Worldspace site online, I found the station and when I heard that they were broadcasting live from my beloved D.C., I immediately e-mailed them:

"Hey there,

Just want to give a shout out from Stellenbosch - a college town in the heart of the South African wine country near Cape Town - where I am listening to you on Worldspace.

I lived in and near Washington, D.C . for nine years until the end of 2005, so it helps to stifle the homesickness I so often feel for D.C. when I listen to you guys.

Keep up the great work!" -- Yes, I know, I know. I am SUCH a sad nerd, e-mailing radio stations.

Then I proceeded to sign off with my real name, and the usual primer for English-speakers of how it is pronounced and what English name it should rather be translated to. (I used to get so sick of filling out my name on forms when I lived in the States, because I always had to add "pronounce as" in parentheses.)

I didn't add a request, so I didn't think I would hear anything from them. So I carry on working, listening to the music and to the DJ, Ted Kelly, chatting about what they will be up to in D.C. this weekend, and suddenly he says my name... Or well, kind of.

He actually said: "I hope I'm pronouncing this right." And then he SPELLED IT OUT and continued: "HE is listening to us from Stellenbosch in South Africa on Worldspace..."

By that time I was roaring with laughter. He continued to read the rest of my mail on air (about being in Stellies, and having lived in D.C.) and then said: "Hopefully he will send us his number so that we can call him and chat some more about South Africa and about his time in D.C. on the air next week some time."

When I open my mail a few minutes later, there is an e-mail from them:
"Hey there (Hideous Real Name), glad to have you listening. When you get back to DC visit us in the studio! Hey send us your tele # and we will give you a call next week on air. Always love to chat with our listeners! Ted Kelly."

When I wrote back to send my number, I added: "Thank you! I just heard you chatting to me and about me on air! What a thrill!

And well done on the pronunciation of my name. Not bad at all! But as I've said, it translates to ****** in English. Which makes me female, Mr. Ted Kelly! You are forgiven though for calling me 'he' on the air. My parents, however, will never be for giving me such a hideous name. Which isn't even all that common in South Africa either."

Minutes later, I receive this: "Well Ms. (English translation of my name added here in all caps), didn't want to make the assumption just based upon pronunciation....glad to have you as a listener. If it alrigth (sic) we will call you Monday around this time... Have a great weekend...! Tell your parents sorry for the gender confusion! Ha. Talk soon!"

So if you have XM/Worldspace and you want to hear my awful, not-radio-friendly-at-all-voice, just tune in to UPop on Monday!

P.S. How sad is my life that this is considered a highlight?

As all three of my imaginary readers know by now... someone has actually been stupid gullible enough to employ the likes of me. To blog.

To BLOG!

No, not on here. Geez, I KNOW I'm lazy, but not even I am THAT much of a slacker!

No, I actually write a few times daily on that other blog. Besides, it's so much fun, it hardly even feels like work! (Better not repeat that "W" word again, lest my body catches on that I'm actually being productive and immediately seizes up.)

What's that? Oh, you want to know what I blog about?

Well... Oh, look! It's a nice day today, isn't it?

Okay, okay, fine. It's not THAT bad, even though the beat I cover is widely considered to be at the very bottom of the journalistic totem pole - although I have been (unconvincingly) consoled by well-meaning folk that it is definitely still higher up than horoscopes and obituaries.

That's right. I'm a celebrity gossip blogger.

Before you mock my profession, I want to remind you of all those times that you have sneaked a peek at the tabloids while standing in line at the grocery store check-out. And all those times that you have gone even further than that and actually paged through, for example, Heat (if you're in SA) and the National Enquirer (if you're in the States) while you wait. And all those times that you went beyond that and actually slipped it in with the rest of your purchases, to secretly read at home/work/wherever later on! Yes, see? I KNOW.

Well, rest assured that you are NOT alone. I know that too, because that blog actually receives more than 0 hits a day, and boasts more than three imaginary readers. (There are at least seven imaginary ones.)

Although I write a lot about the shenanigans of Britney and Paris and Lindsay and Nicole and the like, I do actually try to give some coverage to South African celebrities as well.

Now, keep in mind that many people in South Africa still don't even have Internet access. (Internet access here is RIDICULOUSLY expensive.) So needless to say, many people here don't quite know what exactly a blog is. (Or a blob. As my mom calls it when she tells people about her daughter, the blobber.)

Funnily enough, those South Africans who have come across the blog, haven't been shy about commenting on some of the posts. Especially the ones dealing with their favourite local celebs.

But don't be mistaken: their comments are not at all a sign that they actually like my writing. Or even, more likely, hate it! In fact, I might as well be chopped liver, because I am entirely ignored. Instead, all of them direct their comments to the celebrity I have written about.

That's right. I am actually getting celebrity fan mail! Only, it's not really mine, because it's not addressed to me. It is really, really strange. As if I'm a medium through which they can communicate with their favourite stars.

Just this past week again, an Afrikaans guy left me (or rather, a local female singer) a lengthy ode about how he absolutely loves and adores her and how he thinks she is the absolute BEST singer EVER in the ENTIRE South Africa. After buttering her up with compliments (and he really lay it on thick!), he abruptly changed his tune: "Look, I just happen to also be a song writer. Here are just some of the songs I have written for you to sing..." and here he proceeds with a lengthy list of titles so sappy, even Mills & Boon would flinch and possibly throw up from it. If you don't believe me, I have taken the liberty to translate some of the titles he sent: The Orphan (Sweetest gift), Lonely without You, Another waltz with my father and - because singing songs that don't contain actual words are huge in Afrikaans circles - Ting Tong Tingeling Too (Deceased Soldier).

I am totally not even kidding about the parantheses and its contents. Just when you think: Ting Tong Tingeling Too! That sounds like a really cheesy but upbeat song! Then you are instantly deflated and brought down to earth by the Deceased Soldier bit.

Now, usually, I let those Dear Celebrity-in-question comments slide, because who am I to burst their bubble? So I allow them to think that their comments probably reached their desired targets.

This time, though, the guy just seemed to have so many career aspirations riding on his comment. It is also evident from those song titles that he is a really sensitive type, no? So I took the trouble of sending him a personal e-mail back:

Dear *Guy's real name inserted here*

Thank you very much for the comment you left at Jetstreaker.com We wrote the article about Afrikaans Singer that you had commented on. Unfortunately, we are unable to relay your comment to her, since we do not have her personal information. Who knows though? One day she might just stumble on to your comment and get in touch with you!

Good luck!

Sincerely,
The Jetstreaker Team.

As you can see, I stopped just short of telling him: She does not actually live in these pages...

But I have to admit, I was rather charmed. I mean, it's probably the closest that I myself will ever come to being adored by legions of fans, and to see how devoted some of them are is really touchy AND creepy at the same time!

So my job? It is totally akin to being a celebrity.

I suffer from every single ailment under the sun, except...

Don't avoid black cats today...

Last Thursday night ("Thursty Thursday"), my beloved Bookstore Diva came to pick me up in her trusty chariot for a Night on the Tow... 'burbs.

It was all part of a brazen effort on her part to Save Red from Herself, an intricate, complex process requiring gallons of medicinal drinking.

So I made very sure that I was suitably "Thursty."

Would you believe that I actually blogged about my night out immediately upon my return?!? (Apparently the procrastination part of my personality loses strength when my drunk slightly inebriated and therefore very spontaneous and impatient self appears.

Luckily for all five of you and for everyone else involved, I forgot to press "Publish."

Today, as I was aimlessly wandering through the cluttered back corridors here at Redsaid's, I stumbled upon a dog-eared file marked: "Drunken Blogging equalsh DLOGGING! YEAH! DLOGGING! That'sh BRILLIA...zzzzzzz."

It reeked suspiciously of alcohol.

Most of the file's contents were, if not completely incoherent, unreadable from being covered in liquid stains and lipstick smears.

Here is some of what I managed to make out:

"Ociffer, Ociffer! I shwear that I will NEVER drink and drive! Naaah! I jusht pull over when I wanna take a shwig."

"Let Go (of the wheel) and let God (drive)! Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Shouted into the dark field surrounding the bar's parking lot in the direction of a suspicious rustling sound which we hoped was being caused by a deer (although Bookstore Diva insisted it could quite possibly have been a gigantic bat): "Be a deer and if you were born here and not in Canada, marry her so she can get a Green Card!"

That Bookstore Diva girl has the most amazing super powers, because not only did the dear deer agree to elope, BUT ALL THE DRINKS WERE ON THE HOUSE!!

Hey, Diva girl! It's Thursday and I'm THURSTY again.

Don't look at me that way! YOU have created this monster.

I've never belonged to any clubs in my life.

Well, unless you count this one time when I was around six or seven and I belonged to the Afrikaans version of the Girl Scouts (without the door-to-door cookie sales).

My membership to this particular club was rather brief, because it didn't take the club's leaders very long to figure out that I was never going to be able to hoist or squeeze or push my round body over or through or under the obstacle courses. And unfortunately for both me and the leaders, those very same obstacle courses made up a large part of the club's "team-building" activities. In fact, one could even say that the manoeuvring of one's not-at-all-aerodynamic body over or under or - most dreadfully - through those torturous obstacle courses, was at the very heart of the club's mission statement.

Now that I think about it, those obstacle courses may well have been the sole reason for the club's being!

Oh, and then there was the time when I belonged to a country club. But before you roll your eyes and mutter about what an insufferable snob I must be: I was only a member by association. And again, before you start to mutter about the snobs I associate with: They paid me to associate with them. (Wow, that makes me sound... well, I don't know quite how that makes me sound. Expensive?)

Before I talk myself deeper into the marshlands of misunderstanding (it's a gift I have, these miscommunication skills), let me explain: I was a nanny for a family who belonged to a suburban D.C. country club. I had to take the kids there during the humid summer months, to lounge by the pool (what a tough job!); and during the long, cold and dark months of winter, to ice skate and sip large cups of hot chocolate. (As I've said, it was a tough job!)

But silly me, instead of spending my country club days productively by snagging myself a strapping young member of the preppy set, I wasted my time by scribbling furiously in my notebook all the insights (if one can call it that) and observations I had of American life. Oooh, boy, and if you think I write drivel NOW..!

I felt most comfortable in the country club setting when I got to mingle with my own kind. So when I wasn't engrossed in the task of filling up my notebook, I struck up friendships with various country club employees and other nannies. We all shared the common bond of being "the help," a bond strengthened even further by the fact that we were all aliens in a strange land.

Oh, and apart from a few book clubs and a brief time in high school when I founded a foreign film club (it wasn't wildly successful, because I showed films so obscure that on the whole of planet earth, apparently only I wanted to see it), that then concludes my brief club member history.

Until last week, when I, thanks to the boy, joined another club.

You see, the boy and I have finally emerged from the Dark Ages of dial-up to a high speed modern day DSL modem. I haven't been offline since we installed it a few days ago. (A fact which hasn't been reflected in the activity on this blog, I know.) The SPEED of it all! It's amazing! It's making my head spin. (And the pages STILL download faster than the dizzying speed at which my head is rotating as it tries to wrap my mind around it!)

Oh, and let's not forget that I can now speak on the phone AND SURF THE INTERNET AT THE SAME TIME!!!!! What a fantastic concept!

This DSL connection has opened corners of the World Wide Web, which, as a dial-upper (wouldn't dial-downer be a more apt description though?) have been out of my reach until now. Like STREAMING VIDEO! And RADIO (without buffering every 2 seconds for 60 seconds at a time) and opening some of my favourite arty blogs in a snap AND then being able to see all the pictures!

So since I'm now able to stream video and radio, the boy did something exceptional for me. He subscribed me to this amazing service which allows me to watch SOUTH AFRICAN TELEVISION!!!

This is remarkable, because there is no way to beam South African television this far into the Northern Hemisphere. Believe me, I've pleaded with Direct TV to at least TRY, but alas, I've been assured that it's impossible. "And no, missy," the Direct TV guy said when I asked him if it's because their dishes are too small, "It really has NOTHING to do with the size of the dish!"

So with a membership to this Kudu Club, for a mere $9.95/month (I'm not sure how much it costs in other parts of the world), one gets unlimited access to HOURS of content in the form of movies, various television shows, variety shows, news programmes, etc.

And it's worth every penny, because the service also includes access to several South African radio stations and newspapers. Also, new content is added almost daily. It's obviously not live (call me crazy, but the main reason why this bothers me is because after so many years of being away, I'd really like to see some South African commercials again. Our ads are REALLY good!), but as far as I can tell, some shows are made available on the same day they air in South Africa.

So I've been glued to this computer screen every second since the boy has signed me up for this club, and although I'm starting to develop aches in unusual body parts, it's been a marvelous experience. Never mind that the garden has shriveled up and died (but not to worry, because several new things are growing in the refrigerator), I just can't bring myself to... well... do anything else!

Thus I've spent the past few days weeping at the drama, laughing at a very silly tabloid show called Voorblad (Front Page) and I've winced at some of the revelations made on an investigative journalism show called Carte Blanche.

I've managed to spread the joy by getting the boy hooked on this riveting South African drama series called Snitch (yes, it's in Eengleeesh, so he understands) and I'm all warm and fuzzy with pride to see how impressed he is with the high quality of the plot and the acting. (Or perhaps he is more impressed with the fact that I went to school with one of the lead actresses? She is utterly gorgeous and she plays a stripper, so the boy has plenty of opportunity to sample her gorgeousness. All I can say is: When I went to school with her, I had NO IDEA that she was so flexible!)

The epitome of my joy, however, is seeing Afrikaans television again. I've just spent a marathon session watching a thirteen-episode (of one hour each) Afrikaans drama. (And here you've been thinking all along that I'm not sporty!)

The boy thinks I should pace myself and occasionally take a break to do something constructive like say... writing? But I argued with him that, if I should take a break to work, then that wouldn't really be "taking a break" at all, now would it?

But despite his grumblings about my lack of productivity, I think he is grateful. Because apart from the soft hum of the computer and the Afrikaans voices coming from the speakers, this house has been as quiet as a monastery where the monks have taken a vow of silence.

No one has been chatting his ear off when he gets home. No one has been telling him in great detail about who or what was on Oprah today, because no one has even glanced at Oprah (or at any American television apart from Jeopardy!) since last week. As I've said, this house has been the picture of peace and (almost) quiet.

That's right. I have not said anything more than "You're home already?", "Watch this!", "Coffee please!" and "You're going to work already?"

But surely that wouldn't have been the reason why he signed me up for this club, right?

RIGHT?!?

P.S. In case you haven't yet, and you feel so inclined, please sign my Green Card Petition! To all of you who have already signed it, THANK YOU!

Last night, while having dinner, the boy asked me: "So, do you like this buffalo wing flavour?"

In my best imitation Jessica Simpson, I said: "But sweetie, buffaloes don't HAVE wings."

Without missing a beat, he deadpanned: "Well, what do you think of these buffalo nuggets then?"