But that's not what I want to write about right now. (Sorry. Promise to eventually disclose all the gory details.)

Instead, ladies and gents, be "treated" to the mock-worthiness of my hastily written actor's bio for the program. It's already overdue, so don't tell me that you hate it, please. Too late!

"After a lifetime of being called a drama queen by family and friends in her native South Africa, and despite her fragile nerves, Redsaid decided to brave the local audition circuit. Much to her surprise, it led to a one-night engagement in an obscure dinner theatre production and an eight month performance stint in an educational production at a museum. She thanks Al, Peg, Dan, and Joe for the opportunity; her cast mates for the laughs and support and the boy for his patience and great coffee."

And in the process of writing that, Redsaid has also discovered how odd it is to refer to herself in the third person.

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To a science fiction convention.

No, no. I’m not a geek. REALLY not. I mean, not that there is anything WRONG with being a geek. In fact, I have a rather soft spot for geeks myself. It’s just that in order to qualify for geekdom membership, I believe one has to possess some tech-related talent (like good, solid hacking abilities), a very high IQ, a MENSA membership, or a PhD in something astronomy-related. At least.

And since I can hardly even send and receive e-mail without releasing a thousand viruses onto the pc, and I don’t know what my IQ score is, and I belong to DENSA (a rival group which caters to the … well, let’s just say, the not too bright, started by a very witty South African reporter whom I adore) and not MENSA, and I don’t have a PhD, I think it’s safe to say that I’m certainly not a geek.

So how did I end up at the Shore Leave 26 that took place in Hunt Valley, Maryland on July 9, 2004?

It’s the boy’s fault (of course!). He figured I would feel at home there, since I’m a bit of an alien meself and all, you know? (Yeah, ha ha, he is verrrrry funny, isn’t he? Don’t answer that if you were going to say yes.)

Also though, his singing group performed there. And since more than half the group’s members are rocket scientists who possess most of the above qualities (talent for all things technical; very high IQs; I don’t know about MENSA, but all of them could be members if they wanted to be I’m sure; and they actually DO have PhDs in astronomy and physics related fields), they also fit right in.

Okay, so I’ve always known that Science Fiction Conventions (or Cons – see? I’ve even learned some of the jargon) take place. I’ve always known that there are some avid Star Trek fans out there. I even knew that they call themselves Trekkies. But, I never knew just HOW fanatic enthusiastic they really are!

So we enter the hotel lobby, lugging sound equipment and the like (being a groadie is hard work, man, hard work!) and then I happened to look up and nearly dropped a 30 pound speaker on my foot.

For there, right in front of my very eyes, were no less than five scary-looking cloaked creatures with funny hair and strange boils on their faces. Well, especially around their foreheads and hairlines.

“Wha..?!” I asked, all subtlety and composure, of course.

The boy smiled. “Come on sweetie. Haven’t you ever seen Star Trek before? Those are Klingons.”

It was clear that I was in dire need of a crash course in Sci-Fi when I told them that my only Sci-Fi experience thus far included watching Alf, The Bionic Man, and Knight Rider as a kid when all of it was dubbed into Afrikaans on South African TV.

“Oh, and those other aliens… Third Rock From the Sun,” I said, proud that my Sci-Fi knowledge is so surprisingly extensive.

So the members of the boy’s group intervened, and took it upon themselves to be responsible for my Sci-Fi for Dummies education. They gathered ‘round and began explaining that fans of all these shows (but none of the shows that I had mentioned!) and movies and comics and novels came together like this to dress up and mingle and listen to talks given by washed-up former actors and to watch movies and to get autographs from writers and actors and to buy stuff. And that everyone involved takes the process dead seriously.

When they saw me paying attention and nodding a lot and going “mmm,” “I see,” and “A-ha,” while they pounded me with words like “filk music,” “Trills,” “Valkans,” and “fan fiction”, they were confident that I knew enough to be safely left on my own (I wasn’t!) to sell their merchandise while they geared up for their performance.

But before he left, the boy had time to identify yet another creature dressed from head to toe in haggard garb and with strange goggles in the vicinity of the eyes.

“That is a Sand Person.” He whispered and then took off after the rest of the group.

And then I was on my own.

Despite my own alien status, I still felt very much like a fish out of water. So I sat behind the merchandise table, nervously fussing with the CD displays and folding and refolding the t-shirts.

Finally I remembered the goodie bag I had received upon admission. I remembered that it contained a complimentary copy of the Star Trek Deep Space Nine “The Lives of Dax” anthology and reached for it, grateful to have a distraction and determined to further my Sci Fi education.

Just as I was about to lose myself in the first story (since it required the utmost concentration in order for me to make any sense of it) a shadow fell across the page.

I was too afraid to look up, nervous at what alien being I might encounter.

So when I finally did look up, I was very relieved to find a perfectly normal looking guy dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and with no terrifying boils all over his face. He was … could it be? NORMAL! (At least as far as his looks was concerned.)

“Hi!” I was so relieved at the sight of him, my greeting was probably a bit too “it’s-YOU-and-you-are-long-lost-family-ish.”

He looked through the CDs and I tried regaining my business-like composure and started explaining who the group is and talking about their repertoire, etc.

He quickly interrupted me. “Oh, I know.”

And then he started just babbling on and on about his extensive Sci-Fi collection of books. (“My house is filled to the brim with the thousands of books I own. I like to read. Do you like to read?” And not waiting for an answer, he launched straight into the next rhetorical question: “Who’s your favourite author? I love Author I’dneverheardof and so and so…”) He talked and talked until my head was spinning all over again, and the blank stare I’m certain I gave him didn’t deter him one bit. In fact, if anything, it probably served as further encouragement!

Later I told the boy that I must have that sort of face, because why else do people just approach me at random and start talking about all kinds of odd things?

Because Mr. Paperback Sci-Fi collector was certainly not the last person/alien/being to approach me that night.

A girl, dressed in a very sexy bustier and a long, flowing skirt (but other than the costume, very “normal” looking also, much to my relief) overheard a few of the incomprehensible words of his enthusiastic monologue and interrupted him with a monologue of her own.

This time at least I managed to catch a few familiar words, like “bookshelves” and “overflowing” and “autographed,” but frankly, I was too intrigued by the strange, manic glow in her eyes to pay much attention to what she was carrying on about.

Both of them disappeared just as swiftly as they had first materialized and so I settled back in with my book.

It wasn’t long before another silhouette fell across the page. This time, though, the shadow had tell-tale pointy ears.

As I slowly lifted my gaze, I remembered the Sci-Fi lesson inflicted upon me by the group earlier: “When you see people with pointy ears, they can either be Valkans or elves.”

This guy indeed had the pointy ears.

I almost expected him to say: “I come in peace, Earthling!” But nothing of the sort happened. In fact, I was sort of hoping he would say something first, but instead he just stood there, looking expectantly at ME!

“Nice ears?” I tried, not sure of the proper Valkan protocol. (Aha… I knew he was a Valkan see, because he had a spacey emblem on a silvery spacey-looking uniform.) Either he didn’t hear me or he chose not to acknowledge me at all.

So I ventured into familiar grounds and started singing the praises of the group, pointing out CDs and t-shirts and waiting for him to either buy something or leave.

He didn’t budge. So I think I asked something about if Klingons speak Klingon, what language do Valkans speak, instantly blowing my cover as an illiterate.

Luckily it seemed that he didn’t even notice this time. “Do you speak Klingon?” He asked, enthusiastically. Again, not really pausing long enough for an answer, he launched into a series of grunts.

I looked at him, my mouth agape. And then, realizing that I was on the verge of laughing, I resorted to the Plan B that I didn’t even know I had until that moment.

I answered him in my first language, Afrikaans (which is filled with charming, phlegm-inducing guttural sounds, much like Klingon!): “Goeiemôre. Hoe gaan dit met jou?”*

He actually gasped, and I don’t know if it was my imagination, but his already pointy ears seemed to perk up even more. Then he asked me, nearly beside himself: “A new dialect?”

I nodded, solemnly.

“Whoa, dude. That’s cool,” he muttered and walked away.

Only after my impromptu fib did it occur to me that he may have run off to round up his fellow Valkans and Klingons and goodness knows what other creatures and bring them to me for a lesson in this new Klingon Dialect.

Luckily, it didn’t happen. But you can believe that I ducked every time I saw a pointy ear amidst the crowd (and that happened a lot, because there were many. Probably served me right, though, for lying).

But I also saw many other um… space cadets that night. Storm Troopers; a very scary-looking Darth Vader, breathing very audibly through the speakers in his helmet; more of those Sandmen (why aren't they around when I’m trying to sleep, dammit!?); and tons of other characters that I can’t even remember.

(Oh, and a red-cloaked member of the Imperial Guard (I could see my own face reflected in his helmet, and I looked terrified!) asked me to the masquerade ball. I declined very politely.)

Much to my dismay though, Alf was nowhere to be seen…

* Translation of the Afrikaans: Good morning. How are you?

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Until that time, the closest I've ever come to a sailor was during Op Sail 2000, when a fleet of tall ships was also docked at the harbour here in my current hometown of Baltimore. The sailors aboard the ships were leaning over the rails and doing what sailors are supposed to do (at least in my humble opinion): whooping and wolf-whistling to the girls strolling by on the promenade.

"In that case," I thought, "There can't be all that much to the art of being a sailor."

It has to be said that I'm not exactly the sporty type, and that would still be a gross understatement. For one, I don't swim; I float (a la Ophelia). I love water, but frankly, I've always felt more at home with my feet planted firmly on Mother Earth.

The thought of being ON the water had never occurred to me before that summer, except during elaborate fantasies of spending a Mediterranean summer on a yacht (manned by others who are more muscular... eh, I mean capable.).

Actually, there was another time when I had too much Green Island Rum on Mauritius (that gorgeous island in the Indian Ocean) and I found myself hovering high above the clear blue sea in a tandem parasailing flight. But that's a story for another time...

Other than that, as far as I was concerned, boats were always just objects to complete the charming picture at the marinas and harbours of holiday towns, villages and port cities. Objects with names that I can read and laugh at - like the little dinghy of a thingy which I spotted in a small South African coastal town during a holiday one year. It was very wittily named "Indestructible... the third".

Other than that and as far as I was concerned, boats have always been nothing more than safely distant dots on the ocean's horizon.

Until that one fateful day during a weekend in Norfolk, when I came face to mast with a catamaran.

My host, a verrry handsome American boy, turned out to be an enthusiastic amateur sailor, a fact that he had wisely kept hidden from me until I was entirely at his mercy for the weekend.

This newly revealed facet to his personality would not have bothered me in the least, had it not been for his sly little plans to incorporate me in his crew.

"Aw, c'mon!" he begged, his grin revealing a set of teeth flashing white against his tanned complexion. "The wind is perfect, and just look at the bay!"

I looked at the bay. Threatening white caps marred the normal sheet of calm, brilliant blue. It was one of those days that you didn't need to lick your finger and stick it in the air to confirm the presence of a stirring breeze...

"What about sharks..?" I asked weakly in one last attempt at staying grounded.

I still don't know whether it was my politeness, embarrassment or sheer stupidity - possibly a combination of all three - but the next thing I was an official crewmember (and by 'crew' I mean him and I) ensconced in a bright orange (not my colour!) life preserver and a type of harness contraption, and hooked up to the mast.

He explained something about leaning backward off the boat for balance when we pick up speed, or something to that effect. (My attention span is remarkably short when I'm under pressure.)

"Aye, aye, Captain." (Despite my panic I did remember some of the jargon appropriate for the occasion, like "Captain", "Starboard", "Aft", "Bow", and "Drown.")

On that note, I was off on my maiden voyage. The further we advanced on the open water, the more the breeze felt like a gale force wind.

Soon we were going very fast indeed. I don't know exactly HOW fast we were going, but over the past years, the number has increased every time I've told the story. I've since settled on about 50 knots.

I must admit, something happens in the mind when you are let loose at such a manic speed; when the wind blowing in your face leaves you breathless. At some point, I even started to enjoy this new excursion. (But don't tell anyone.)

Suddenly I was fearless. When the Captain yelled "lean!", I kicked and leaned back so low over the water that my hair got drenched.

My imagination ran wild, and I pretended we were taking part in a world class regatta. Must've been too much fresh air, but in my crazy daydream, we were neck-in-neck with a pirate ship.

Suddenly I was jerked from the dream with a loud snap followed by a gigantic splash. It took me a while to realise that... I had fallen overboard!

The harness had broken, almost causing my premature expiration.

My Captain swore that it had never happened before. (Yeah, great consolation that, isn't it?) He soothed, pleaded again and reassured, but that was the end of any further sailing aspirations for me.

I'm secretly glad that I had that little adventure, though. Not only is it great dinner conversation or blog fodder (ah, yes, I might be a mere novice blogger, but I'm already thinking like a veteran) but now I regard sailors with more than just a passing interest and a lot of respect. In fact, when they wolf-whistle (even if it's usually at other girls and not at me) I wolf-whistle right back!

That newfound respect is probably why, a short time after my near catastrophic catamaran incident, a television segment about sailing caught my eyes and ears.

The story followed the adventures of a young British sailor, Ellen Macarthur, a brave chick in her late twenties, in her solo efforts during the grueling, three month long Vendee Globe race, during which teams (or, as in Ellen's case, individuals) sail from France, down the Eastern Atlantic, around Antarctica, up the Western Atlantic and back across the Northern Atlantic to finish back in France.

Ellen's story was remarkable, not only because of her age (she was a mere 25 at the time!!!), but because she was a considerable novice competing against far more experienced, and predominately male, crews.

She was also the only one who tackled the journey by herself.

Ellen surprised everyone by surviving almost insurmountable obstacles (her mast cracked while she was at sea, amongst other things). She endured though and finished in second place. By the time she docked her boat, Kingfisher, back in France, she was a celebrity all across Europe.

At the end of the television segment, the reporter announced that Ellen was racing again, taking part in the EDS Atlantic Challenge. When I heard that one of her ports during the race was going to be Baltimore, I decided that I had to stalk meet her.

Sadly, I didn't, but I did get to see her boat, the Kingfisher and I spoke to one of her shore crewmembers, a jovial fellow from New Zealand who willingly shared inside information about Ellen, the Kingfisher, and racing in general.

The next morning, I was at the harbour to bid them good luck and bon voyage as they set out on the fourth leg of the race to Boston. Corny as it may sound, I was lucky to be in the presence of greatness.

Just before they set off, I asked a member of the crew what the nautical term for "Good Luck" is. He said he thought it was merely "Bon Voyage". I thought that was too boring, and pitched a few ideas at them. "How about putting a spin on the theatre saying, "Break a Leg" and changing it to "Break a Mast"?"

The looks on their faces quickly dismissed my idea. As they left the dock, it dawned on me and I yelled:

"Float your boat!"

Noting my enthusiasm at the encounter, my former Captain thought it meant that I still had some seaworthiness left in me. No such luck for him.

But instead of telling him where he could shove the mast, I sweetly commanded him to find someone else as an offering to Neptune.

Ahoy!

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Late last week, the Baltimore City Police Department called a press conference to say that they’ve noticed some tampering with the evidence at City Police Headquarters. More specifically, there were tiny holes in the bags of confiscated marijuana.

An inside job, perhaps?

After an intensive investigation (have you noticed that the police are always intensely investigating matters?), they finally discovered the culprits: rats and mice.

Apparently, recent renovations on the downtown building housing Police Headquarters drove the rats and mice out of the woodwork and straight into the evidence room.

This story is tinged with irony.

In Baltimore City, 60 000 people (about one out of ten) are addicted to illegal drugs, and Baltimore also leads the nation in per capita heroin use.

Drugs are also the main factor behind eight out of every ten homicides in the city.

Now, I don’t know the city’s rodent count, but one can safely assume that they by far outnumber the humans. I just think that the police force have enough problems with the city’s human population without having to deal with rodents getting hooked on gateway drugs too.

The story also broke just days after several city and community leaders announced the latest collective campaign to curb the intertwined drug use and violence in the city. The campaign, called Baltimore Believe, is a series of television commercials (actually more like mini movies) designed to, I assume, put people off drugs by (hopefully) scaring them into sobriety.

I have no idea what they’re going to do about the dope head rodents scurrying about as high as kites – their red beady eyes even redder than usual – but I can just fathom the repercussions if nothing is done about it.

For one, can you imagine the sequel to the animated film "An American Tail: Fievel Goes West"?

The film could be called "An American Tail: Fievel Goes To Baltimore" or "Oh, Rats! Of Mice and Policemen" followed by another instalment called "Fievel Goes To Rehab".

It will be like an animated version of "Trainspotting" meets "James Bond" meets "Moulin Rouge" (same kind of artistic flair and happening, upbeat soundtrack as the latter), and the plot will be riveting.

Our hero, young Fievel Mousekewitz, now a handsome mouse-man, returns to the East Coast where he falls under the bad influence of the city rats of Baltimore. (The rats: always the enemy.) Only, Fievel lacks a bit in street smarts. So, naïve fellow that he is, he doesn’t have any inkling that the rats aren’t so well intentioned, but are really quite awful and mean.

The plot thickens. Fievel’s beloved mother falls gravely ill, and the rats arrive on the scene under the pretence that they want to be of assistance. They say that they know of a special herb that can cure her. (After longingly eyeing the marijuana stashed in the evidence room through the air conditioning vents and daydreaming of becoming the wealthiest drug trafficking rats in the world.) They will tell Fievel where it is and let him have some for his mom and other unwell mice, on one condition: he needs to help them get to it.

The rats explain that the human police are fully aware that these herbs hold special medicinal value for rodents, but that they want to withhold it from them in an attempt to cruelly wipe out the city’s rodent population (Including, of course, Fievel & Co.). Thus they trick our Fievel into helping them break in at City Police Headquarters (because he is smaller and can squeeze through the vents more easily).

Before long, they’re all in there having their own private party with space cakes, and due to the strange "medicinal effects" of these herbs, Fievel’s sick mother is soon all but forgotten…

Right about then (and right on cue, if you ask me!), Fievel’s love interest, a pretty young mouse girl named Michelle, shows up looking for him. (Trust a woman to save the day!) She has bad news to tell Fievel: some Johns Hopkins medical students who had mistaken her for a potential lab rat have captured his ailing mother. (What can we say? These city kids can’t always tell their rodents apart, no matter how clever they are otherwise.)

Due to her illness-induced weakness, Michelle says, Mother Mouse couldn’t get away fast enough, so now they have to go and rescue her from certain death at the med school laboratory.

It doesn’t take long for Michelle to detect that Fievel (who for some reason and despite the bad news she has just broken, can’t seem to stop giggling hysterically) isn’t at the top of his game.

She sniffs and inspects the bags of herbs, gives Fievel and the rats (who, at this time, are talking non-stop) a suspicious once over and quickly puts two and two together.

Realising that she can’t squeal on the rats without having Fievel busted too, she manages to tie up all the rats (by very industriously using their own tails for the purpose), who, in their current states, don’t even seem to notice what is happening. (There were those who did feel quite flattered by the physical closeness of such a pretty young thing – even if she IS a mouse – which in itself nearly led to a few misunderstandings.)

Her patience worn thin by now, Michelle (who at the best of times can be rather spirited!) drags Fievel out of Police Headquarters by his large pink ear, in the process managing to sober him up considerably.

By securing the help of the strongest mice, Michelle and a very sheepish Fievel are off to Johns Hopkins where they effortlessly sneak into the lab and rescue his mother (who is now miraculously feeling much better thanks to new medicine that was tested on her by the unwitting medical students.).

On the way out, Michelle has Fievel committed to the hospital’s rehab centre, which is where the next film "Fievel Goes To Rehab" will take off. Before he goes, Fievel apologises profusely for his drug use, declares his undying love to her and proposes marriage. She says she will see about that after his month in rehab, but if the lingering kiss they share is any indication, it looks promising that she will accept.

In the mean time, the human police officers find the rats fast asleep in the evidence room, arrest them all and donate them to Johns Hopkins where they will serve the rest of their days as lab rats.

The End.

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After wrestling to open the box (just about gnawed it open with my teeth, I was so excited! Yes, indeed: You can take the girl out of Africa, but...) I carefully lifted out the contents. Wow! There was a LOT of stuff. I felt the same way that a magician probably feels when pulling an endless stream of coloured hankerchiefs from a hat, because just as I thought that I was done for sure, I uncovered something else!

I can't remember the order in which I found things, but here's the inventory of all the goodies. (Make yourself comfortable with your beverage of choice for this, because the list is loooooooooooong.)

No less than FOUR awesome movie soundtrack CDs: Cruel Intentions, Spider-Man, Dick (and they all rock!) and Random Hearts which is soothing jazz composed by Dave Grusin, whose movie scores I've always, always adored!

Then... TWO t-shirts (one black Spider-Man tee and one in a gorgeous light blue from the film Something's Gotta Give) and TWO stunning hooded Spider-Man sweat-shirts in a gorgeous rusty red.

AND a hard-cover book about the only mouse I've ever liked: Stuart Little. The book is amazing. It contains detailed information about how a handful of super talented folks used highly sophisticated techniques and managed to turn E.B. White's 1945 classic into the very sweet movie that we all fell in love with.

Eve, I don't know which Hollywood studio you robbed of all these lovely things (although I suspect that movie memorabilia is probably available in your line of work), but I just want to say that I ADORE all of it. The music is amazing, the tees and sweats are high quality and all in my favourite colours and I swear I squealed with delight when I saw the book because I've always been interested in animation (in fact, I've been attempting to learn MAYA on my own, but to no avail).

But wait... there's more. Turns out Emily added a personal touch.

So the whole day, as I was listening to all the CDs and dancing around (most exercise I've had in years!), I was wearing... thanks to Emily... my very own,

dazzling,

sparkling,

oh-so-dainty-that-I-could-almost-pass-for-a-lady:

TIARA!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you SOOOO much, Emily and Eve.

Aren't I just too spoiled?!?

(Update: 4 AM and I'm still wearing the tiara. The boy bowed down very deeply when he came home last night and saw me wearing it, so now I'm seriously considering never, ever taking it off again. Ever. I'll just have to figure out ways to sleep sitting up (without compromising any of my comfort, of course) and to wash and condition and style and tame my very wild mane around it.)

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During tonight's rehearsal, I made the upleasant discovery that a mouse has taken up residence in the threatre. I learned that threatre mice can get really aggressive and confident, especially if you happen to be the one standing between them and the confectionary counter.

I've also learned that I will NEVER WEAR SANDALS TO REHEARSAL EVER AGAIN.

Ever.

Eeeek!

I've also learned that when you happen to find yourself in a karaoke joint (by accident, of course) you should NEVER, EVER make eye-contact with the bad Elvis impersonator, or you might just find yourself being intimately (and badly) serenaded.

Whadda weekend.

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So, because I like you and your people so much and all, I'm wondering if you possibly have another Green Card to spare? For me?

I believe I will be a good candidate for a Green Card. You see, what I really want to do for a living is write (even though you'll never be able to tell from reading this) and since the words I write come from my own head (well, sometimes they don't come, but that's another story altogether and not something I need to trouble you with at the present time), it's not as if I'm likely to take a job away from one of your people. (Did I mention how pretty your female people are? And how handsome your males are? And how beautiful you are?)

I might not be as pretty as your people, but I'm a walking patriot because I have RED hair, BLUE eyes and I've such a pale complexion that people often remark how WHITE I am. And that's true. Since I'm a redhead, I AM very pale, therefore the summers of my native South Africa are much too harsh for my fragile complexion and so I'm bound to turn into a tomaydo (See? I can spell and draaaawl and everything) should you send me back there without the option to return, which is, once again, where the Green Card will come in really, really handy.

I'm not a bad person, honestly. I like to read and keep to myself a lot, so I won't be too much of a bother. But when I am out in public, I like to be pleasant and make people laugh. And they do, although I suspect that they're mostly laughing at me more than with me... but again, not something I need to trouble you with at the present time.

Let's see, what else can I tell you about myself?

Oh, yes! I know the words to the Star-Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful. But since I don't have a very nice voice, I lip-sync so as not to defame these perfect-pitch-worthy anthems. (Unless I'm in the shower where nobody can hear.)

Oh, and just in case this counts for something, I also happen to know that a Green Card isn't really green but pink. Which happens to be one of my favorite (see? I remembered about the spelling again!) colors (and again with the spelling! Even though I may not always be very quick on the uptake, I can assure you that I'm a very enthusiastic student!).

So, dear United States, I do hope that you deem me worthy enough of the honor (spelling, again!) of awarding me with a Green Card very, very soon. I have been waiting for such a long time already, and even though I AM very patient, all this waiting is making me sad.

Respectfully Yours,

Red (and White and Blue)

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We've (read: he's) been busily renovating the house, a streneous and impressively dangerous process involving lots of hammers, nails, drills, somewhat mysterious and lengthy expeditions to the Home Depot and clouds of dust.

I'm also getting hooked on rather used to being on a perpetual high from inhaling all the paint fumes.

So it's been a hotbed of activity around here. And we've come to learn a variety of things about life and each other.

For example, the boy has learned that I am extremely bossy and a real know-it-all-and-pain-in-the-arse an encyclopedia of helpful advice.

We have both learned that renovating a home is much more challenging than it appears to be on ABC's Extreme Home Makeover and other such shows where they have entire armies enlisted to finish the work during the commercial breaks so that you the viewer just see the sparkling end results with the new paint and the Sears furniture.

In real life, the process is much more unpleasant and messy and noisy and slow.

And, did I mention potentially dangerous? (Omit the word "potential" when you think about how I walk into ladders, trip over drills, stub my toes on hammers, and step on nails on a daily basis... I'm not going to write it, because I don't want you to know how clumsy I really am.)

The danger factor is never far from my mind when I see the drill bits come within mere inches from the boy's fingers as he deftly drills holes into the wall. It's so nerve-wracking I can't even watch him work anymore.

So imagine how my fragile heart nearly stopped one recent weekend afternoon when I heard a loud scream from the room he was working in.

"Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeetie!" I flew up the stairs towards the sound. "Are you okay? What happened? Where are you?"

Silence (except for an ice cream truck idling on the street outside).

Then, a hideous groan and: "Oh, noooooo... "

By this time I'm virtually hysterical, as you can imagine, asking him over and over where he is and whether he is okay, anxious to find him and yet too scared at what I might encounter when I do.

Anyway, he finally emerged from inside the walk-in closet where he was busy putting up shelves and molding. "I'm not hurt, but... Please. Just. Make. It. Stoooooooop!"

"What?" I asked, still more than a little confused and keeping my eyes averted in case there is blood somewhere.

Finally, he pointed through the window towards the ice cream truck, a manic look in his eyes. "That. That thing is driving me NUTS! I hate those *&^%!@ things!"

At first I didn't realise what he meant. And then... I burst out laughing.

"Wait... You mean... You hate ICE CREAM TRUCKS?!?"

"Can't STAND them," he hissed through clenched teeth. "They come to neighbourhoods playing their AWFUL out of tune songs and pry on the innocent children."

(I SWEAR he said all of it. I'm absolutely NOT making any of it up!)

He was dead serious too. And the more I laughed, the less amused he became.

So now, whenver I want to annoy him, I start humming the drawn out and looped ice cream truck version of "The Entertainer."

I have to give it to the boy, the ice cream truck version of the tune is annoying, especially since it sounds as if it's coming from a worn out audio cassette. I doubt that Scott Joplin ever intended for one of his signature compositions to end up as a Baltimore neighbourhood ice cream truck tune solely used to entice the children to buy popsicles and soft serves and driving certain home owners completely bonkers in the process.

(Update: After the boy read this, he became worked up all over again and said: "No, but seriously, it's a complete invasion of privacy. Who does he think he is... " (I'm assuming he means the ice cream truck driver?) "Maybe he is selling drugs or something."

Yes, sweetie. I'm sure the parents of the "unsuspecting innocent children" are bound to agree with you when their children's sugar highs kick in after devouring their treats.)

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"Trust you to come up with something so difficult to answer, ha ha.

Seriously though, it IS hard to say, because South Africa possesses a little bit of everything in her landscape: She has the arid Karoo landscape - very similar to the Australian Outback, I hear - where ancient lands fade into an endless horizon; she has the ruthless Kalahari Desert where only the toughest creatures survive... but that's also where she proves that she has a sense of humour, for right there, among the scurrying scorpions and the lizards and snakes, we find her taking care of scores of perky meerkats.

But she is also proudly curvaceous, with snow-capped mountains in Kwa-Zulu Natal, the Eastern and Southwestern Cape and the surrounding valleys where the vineyards and ploughed fields unfurl like a gigantic and colourful quilt.

Deep within her reaches her golden heart kindly pulsates, fueling the economies of the bustling and first-world cities nestled in her bosom, with their bright lights drowning out the glow of the Southern Cross at night.

Her human and animal children coexist, each species conveying mostly cautious respect for each other, yet sharing the same instinctive possessiveness of their land and a yearning to survive.

She rises up from the restless Indian and Atlantic Oceans laying to her sides. She does her best to keep them separated, but to no avail, for at her feet they collide in a wild and foamy embrace. Legend has it that you can actually see a line where the two oceans meet at the southernmost tip of Africa.

See? This is the type of sap you get for asking me when I'm desperately homesick.

But I know that you are clever enough to see past (if not right through) my sentimental bias.

So when you're done gagging, go and buy yourself a plane ticket. I assure you, it's worth every hour it takes to get there.

R."

P.S. Happy birthday to my big sister!

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There is Random Pensees, who won me over with this entry.

At Seven inches of Sense Brando tenderly wrote about spending an evening with his beloved.

I've fallen in love with the wit and wisdom of these literate blogging pups: The Terriorists (No, NOT terrorists. Go back and reread carefully!). They're "top dogs," in my opinion. But my opinion shouldn't necessarily be trusted, since I'm completely canine crazy.

Be sure to check the showcase daily for new talent.

And thanks again, Simon, for making a novice blogger's day.

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