Turns out my face is too scary even for radio...

That's right. I got STOOD UP.

By a DJ.

I kept quiet all weekend (okay, okay... but I tried, honestly) and soothed my voice with honey and milk coffee in anticipation of my big radio interview on Monday afternoon. It turns out it was all for naught, because there WAS no call, no interview.

Normally a girl should at least get one complimentary dinner before the guy decides not to phone, no?

Remember my ratty, so enormous it swallowed up my entire room, has-been, executive office swivel chair (circa 1970's/1980's), covered in torn, grayish (but it's really an unidentifiable colour) pleather, purchased by me in April from a second-hand shop?

It is dead.

In pieces.

I am such a loser, even the furniture is breaking up with me...

Today I am older than I have EVER been before!

And yes, I know I said that last year, but this year it is really true, because last year I wasn't THIS old.

Luckily, to soften the blow a bit, I'm not the only one ageing today. Today is also the Ageing Day of an ex-boyfriend. (Happy birthday to us, Johnny Boy!) He is calling me from Mallorca later, the bum. Oh, well. At least he never forgets!

It is also Cameron Diaz's birthday.

And Mary Shelley, who scribbled Frankenstein. She created the monster when she was a mere 18 years old. In those moments when I suffer from delusions of grandeur, I pretend that I'm her reincarnation. WHADOYOUMEAN I'm more Frankenstein than Shelley?!?

My mom called me just after noon today to wish me. She waited to phone, she said, because I wasn't born until midday.

"What?" I asked. "You mean to tell me that there is actually a time of day before noon? I had no idea!"

Let it be known therefore that it is my birth right to sleep until noon. If only because I was such a considerate kid. You have to admit, it WAS rather nice of me to wait until the doctor was fully awake.

I had some more good news today. After some minor adjustments to it, the scale told me that I was 5 kilos lighter than I was yesterday!

They say with age comes wisdom. What about senility then? How do they (whoever THEY are) explain that then, huh? In my case, it's definitely more senility than wisdom. So I've decided to call it wisdumb.

Tomorrow I shall tell you about some of the wisdumb I've acquired through the years.

For now, my arthritic fingers need to rest.

Curled around the biggest cup of coffee it can find.

If your biggest fear on earth was, say, a fear of heights.

And then one day, someone - who knows full well what your fear is and how serious that fear is - misleads you and you end up on a 'plane and when you're 10,000 ft up there (or however high), they suddenly strap you into a parachute and say: "Surprise!" and push you out the door.

Should they really be taken aback if you are less than thrilled and never, EVER want to speak to them again? Would you also be so upset and distressed that you would sob?

And no, the above is all metaphorically speaking. I hate heights, yes, but love flying. Won't go skydiving though.

Can't cope. Hate my life. Wish I could just "Poof!" vanish...

I've always secretly hoped that she was "plump" like me.

I mean, for Heaven's sake, half of her blog's title consists of food!

But despite my fervent wishes, I knew that she wouldn't be fat. She attracts way too much male attention for that, and well, we can say what we want about South African men (or Earthling men, for that matter), but they prefer to bypass girls like me who have tonnes of... personality... to have slight, slinky things dangling from their arms. (Any man who wants to convince me otherwise, feel free to try and persuade me over a fully-expenses paid dinner. With desert.)

And the other day she confirmed my worst suspicions... she is thin. Not just thin, but, according to herself, bones-are-visible thin. And if you've been one of my imaginary readers for long enough, then you would know that, as the world's first and only blubbery, boneless woman, I have always fantasized about not only possessing bones, but actually being able to poke people's eyes out with 'em!

To add further insult to my injured and burdened-by-extra-lard soul: She says that when she stresses, she loses her appetite. Loses! Her appetite!!!

I would never be able to lose my appetite, even if I had wanted to. Wouldn't you know it, but my appetite and I were born joined at the lip. So no matter how hard I try, I could never ignore this enormous appetite clinging to my lip like a stubborn cold sore and glowering at me like a wild and ravenous animal. My appetite suffers from year-long PMS and low blood sugar, and if I don't constantly sate it, there is hell to pay.

So as you can see, stress has the opposite effect on me than it has on her. My heart only needs to speed up by one beat per hour, then every edible morsel within a 500 kilometre radius of me hurtles into the magnetic force field of my mouth and violently flings itself down my throat.

I really have very little say in the matter. And even if I had wanted to protest, I couldn't, because my mouth is full.

See why I write for a living? It's my only means of communication! (Yeah, yeah, I know... one would THINK that I would be better at it then...)

Anyway, back to Miss Mushy Peas on (thinly sliced) toast. I really want to hate her for being skinny and pretty and not eating when she is stressed, but by being charming and clever and oh-so-witty (as has been reinforced and affirmed by her being awarded the Most Humourous Blog Award at Friday's South African Blog Awards), she has made it nearly impossible to dislike her. Even though I still believe that it should be genetically impossible for thin, pretty girls to have brains, personality and talent. It's too unfair!

Yes, it was the South African Blog Awards on Friday night, and even though that other blog I write for lost, my brilliant boss/friend (bossy friend? Friendly boss!), whose blog title also mocks me by being edible, Cherryflava scooped up the award for Best Business Blog. I'm so proud of him!

The other big winner of the night is another skinny bitch - despite the fact that her slight frame has borne twins!! Mommy blogger Tertia strutted away with the major prize of the night for winning Blog of the Year AND for Best Writing!

Unfortunately they didn't win large food hampers... Although Tertia DID win an Apple.

Good thing I wasn't even nominated in that category, because in the highly unlikely event of me winning, I probably would've devoured the damn thing.

Last night I had the WORST nightmare.

No, it wasn't my usual "falling" dream where I have that roller-coaster feel on the pit of my stomach as I'm falling through space, and then I jolt awake just as I'm supposed to hit the ground... or in my case, the sharp rocks I am hurtling towards.

Analyse THAT!

Or don't.

Anyway, this nightmare also didn't contain monsters, bogeymen or ghosts.

It was worse. MUCH worse.

I was out in a shopping mall in the States, and I ran into my ex boyfriend and his current girlfriend.

Apart from the fact that the witch was blonde (of course! Grrr...), I don't remember any exact details.

Except... and this is the truly nightmarish part...

This is UNBELIEVABLE.

Exactly a year to the day of my arrival back in South Africa, where my welcome home present was the prompt theft of my precious laptop (let me just say, NEVER allow a South African Airways crewmember to assist you with your carry-on luggage aboard a flight, because you might never see your precious cargo ever again), the laptop I had been using since June died yesterday. Just like that. One minute we were still happily chained to one another, dreaming up blog posts and columns, and the next minute... kaput. No great explosion. The screen simply went black and the comforting whir of the machine simply grew silent.

I don't know what it is with Christmas and laptops and me.

So I'm typing this on my mom's ancient Dinosaur of a pc using D...I...A...L...U...P. And I have deadlines to meet and right now the only thing I want to do is curl up and die too.

Please send loads of sympathy my way?

Today marks the one year anniversary of the demise of my precious American Dream.

I think I'm still so heartbroken about it, because its two brutal murderers got off scot free.

If you happen to find yourself in my beloved United States (or any other country that serves Starbucks), please head on over and have a grande latte on my behalf? I still suffer withdrawal symptoms...

Also, if it's not too much trouble, pet a dog and think about me. A large yellow labrador retriever will be especially ideal, but I don't discriminate, so really, any dog will do.

In memory of Redsaid's American Dream: November 10, 1996 - December 24, 2005. Rest in pieces.

... set it free, and if, on its maiden flight to freedom, it is blown to pieces with a sawed off shotgun, then you'll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life.

Don't ask.

How do I loathe thee*? Let me count the ways.
I loathe thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling bandwidth slight
For the lack of free local calls, such ideal Grace.
I loathe thee to the level of everyday’s
Most desperate need for unlimited surfing, by the monitor’s soft light.
I loathe thee intensely, as we strive for cheap, unthrottled broadband internet – our human Right;
I loathe thee completely, as thou turn further from reasons that would be worthy of Praise.
I loathe thee with the hatred thou use to aggrieve us, and cause our loss of faith.
I loathe thee with a loathing I seem to gain
With my lost Rand and Cents, - I loathe thee with the shallow, panicked breaths,
Sorrows, tears, of all my internet-less life! – and, if ICASA should at last choose a competitor,
I shall but rest better only after thine slow and painful death**.

* Yes, you’ve guessed it. Due to painfully slow dial-up and costly local calls – okay, yes, AND due to my lack of restraint and complete and utter need to be online a LOT – my mom’s phone/internet bill was really REALLY high. And my sister’s and bro-in-law’s as well. So if I get scarce(r than usual), just know that I’ll be offline somewhere, in the REAL world (*shudders at the thought*), where I’ll be doing something to try and pay off these debts I have all because our country has a manipulative, sadistic phone monopoly who hates South Africans and don’t believe that we should be allowed to have free local calls or inexpensive and unlimited broadband access.

** And upon Telkom’s demise, I shall gladly write an elegy.

Just a quick one (or a slow one... my mom has DIAL-UP internet, but it gets even more dire than that, believe it or not: for it's only available in the day-time!!!!!! Courtesy of some senior-citizens internet-plan thingy she has, to which I softly beg: Help me!). Anyway... as I was saying: I have to make this quick. Just want to say that I arrived in By George! my new home-town, in one piece.

I've already been across the mountain to the famous KKNK. And no, the KKNK is NOT affiliated with or supported by (or to be confused with) the American KKK. This KKNK to which I refer is a fab arts festival celebrated annually in Oudtshoorn, a town on the outskirts of the Karoo (which is South Africa's version of the Outback), where I unwittingly chatted up South African celebs. More about that in a later update (when I manage to steal on here again).

But what the title of this blog is really referring to today is THIS article I glanced at when the MSN homepage finally downloaded.

I read it and wept a bit for myself. But should this bill pass, I'd be very, very happy for millions of other deserving hangers-on.

Edited to say: I know that this is probably an effort by the generally Xenophobic Republicans to clamour for votes, and ironically their proposed bill is very similar to what the Democrats have been trying to pass for a while, but at this point, I don't care, I just want long-suffering immigrants to benefit for a change, because I've BEEN there, and I know what that kind of life (if one can call it that) is like.

She was gone and I was left alone, a trembling, hopeless hostage, tethered to the line, the mind-numbing muzak seeping into my ear towards my brain, rendering me slowly unconscious.

“Thank you for holding and holding and holding (you’re quite a sucker, aren’t you?).”

“All our service consultants are currently on their taxpayer-sponsored coffee breaks, after which they will be going to a leisurely lunch followed by a five-day weekend. They will pay for the lunch and the weekend with that erroneous deduction of thousands of Rand they had made from your bank account - a slight oversight that occurred when the decimal sign was curiously misplaced and which will take five years and thousands more of your hard-earned Rand to fix,” says the robotic operator in her best Stepford Wife voice.

When I left South Africa in 1996, I was a broke journalist who had to rely on dates for food (so needless to say, I made Kate Moss seem positively obese).

After the money for my rent payment was scraped together, there simply wasn’t anything left for luxuries like food, or a car, or electricity (and my apartment was situated above a Mobil petrol station, which made striking matches to light candles a potentially life-ending and therefore quite thrilling adventure. The upside to living at that particular address was that my friends and I never needed drugs to get high. We merely had to lean out the windows and inhale). And after not spending money on food, or a car, or electricity, there was also no money left for a home telephone.

So, until this morning, I had NO IDEA what it’s like dealing with Hellkom, the ‘affectionate’ nickname given to Telkom, South Africa’s only phone company.

My initiation into the paradoxical experience of trying to get someone from the phone company on the phone occurred in the United States. But James Earl Jones, who thanked me profusely (and repeatedly) for phoning Bell-Atlantic in his sexy Mufasa voice made the whole experience of holding for five hours straight bearable - even secretly enjoyable.

Now, I’ve HEARD the Hellkom Horror Stories and there are enough of those to fill several hefty tomes. So I can’t really say that I went into this entirely unwittingly.

But you know how it is, unless and until you’ve experienced something really awful for yourself, you’re not really able to wrap your mind around it, therefore you always think: “Oh, it can’t be THAT bad. These few (read: millions of) people must surely be exaggerating!”

So I didn’t even complain or hesitate to pick up the phone when my sister asked me to do her a “little” favour and call the phone company on her behalf to find out why they haven’t yet come to move the phone line that she had asked them to “some time ago.”

“When did you ask them to come and do it?” I asked her as I was dialing the number. (Not because I was suspicious at her vagueness, silly me. Merely because I wanted be well-informed when I spoke to someone at Hellkom.)

“Oh, about six months ago,” she mumbled before sprinting out the door, dodging the directory I had thrown at her.

Too late. She was gone and I was left alone, a trembling, hopeless hostage, tethered to the line, the mind-numbing muzak already seeping into my ear towards my brain, rendering me slowly unconscious.

After fifteen minutes the muzak stopped. And even though it should be deemed unnecessary to say that the muzak was awful (because it’s a scientific law of the Universe that muzak must be awful, didn’t you know?), the sudden silence was unnerving.

Just when I thought that I had been cut off, the eerie Stepford-Wife voice came on.

I held. (I might be a sucker, but I’m a PERSISTENT sucker!)

I read War and Peace. The unabridged version. Twice. In its original Russian.

With the other hand, I still held.

Elephants mated, gestated and the females gave birth to their full-term calves.

I was still on hold.

High school graduates entered medical school. Years later, as those same students were solemnly reciting the Hippocratic Oath, I was STILL holding.

You think you get the point, don’t you? But no, really, I assure you, you don’t.

I typed this blog post with one finger. (Still holding.)

Bush was impeached. (I wanted to say that he finally became an intelligent life form, but I simply don’t have enough imagination to write science fiction.) A Democratic black Jewish woman became President of the United States. (Perhaps I can write fantasy fiction instead?)

At last, there was worldwide peace; global famine and poverty and illiteracy were eradicated (and with it, crime); cures were discovered for all diseases; all orphans and stray animals were adopted into loving homes and free books and unlimited refill coffees became a human right.

And I?

Was STILL ON HOLD!

Because alas, whilst corrupt governments crumbled and dictatorships were (peacefully) toppled, one thing remained stubbornly unchanged:

Phone companies never answered their telephones.

… And he is only two and a half years old!

This probably begs an explanation.

Yesterday, I was innocently minding my own business by petting the dogs, when my normally sweet nephew, who was outside with me, was overcome by the mostly hidden Dark Side of his personality (the side usually reserved for throwing Terrible Two tantrums), compelling him to do something to me which I will have to remember to tell all his girlfriends one day while I show them all his naked baby pictures.

My sister came out of the house to ask me something, and I turned my head away from him and the dogs to look at her. Suddenly something made me lose my balance, and I felt a razor-sharp pain at the side of my head, the kind of pain that makes your eyes water.

My nephew had thrown a sizeable stone at me! I had no idea that such a little guy can have such strength… and such great aim!

So yes, alas, I’ve been stoned. By a toddler. And unfortunately, the closest I’ve come to dope is, well, by being myself.

‘Cause I feel like a big dope with a terrible headache…

I stand before you today, my five dearest readers, begging you to PLEASE release me from my misery.

(I didn’t mean it like THAT, so please put those guns away that you’ve whipped out with such great speed and eagerness.)

PLEASE tell me that I’m not the only one among us who has the following torturous dilemma? (Perhaps all you foodies out there would be able to advise me.)

I DESPISE… no, I utterly LOATHE… Glad wrap.

I find absolutely nothing to be so “Glad” about when asked to use it. (In fact, I believe that a more apt name for it would have been “Sorry” wrap.)

And I’m almost always asked to use it.

You see, as has been established on here before, I don’t cook. (And that’s not overdone, that’s actually putting it medium-lightly.)

Thank heavens that most people who have the displeasure of knowing me in Real Life, have come to accept (if not fully embrace) my general helplessness and inability in the kitchen. The result is that I’m happily left out of any food preparation activities.

It’s widely known that I merely have to glance at the fresh produce to have it wither up and die. Add to that my uncanny ability to burn water, and I’m not even trusted to slice, dice or butter. Instead, I’m left with the cleanup part of the culinary experience, which suits me just fine.

Firstly, I’m very successful at cleaning off my own plate. And, remarkably, I don’t even enlist assistance from my canine companions when it comes to the cleaning of the other diners’ plates.

In fact, my dishwashing could inspire soapsuds to fly from here to the States and back again. I’ll rinse, dry, put away and even sweep without much hesitation or grumpiness or even a tear.

But Glad wrapping the leftovers… now THAT is something I hate and fear!

It should be a genuine, Google-able (Googlable?) phobia: “Glad Phobia. Fear of happiness and/or, more likely, of the sticky clear plastic commonly known as Glad wrap (no matter what other brand-name it’s sold under).”

As soon as I’m left with bowls of food to preserve and a roll of Glad wrap to allegedly assist with the preservation of said leftovers, my physical form senses what is about to occur and so it always happens that my right hand turns into another left hand, and all my fingers turn into uncooperative thumbs.

Well… actually, I’ve quickly derived inspiration from Eminem’s famous Wrap… er, I mean… Rapping rappertoire (okay, I'll stop soon, I promise) to help me explain exactly what I mean.

This is to be performed to the tune (beat?) of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.”

(Keep the beat by banging on some pots and pans.)

Original lyrics to be found here:

Here then is my "Sorry Rap about Glad Wrap (to be performed to the tune… er… beat?… of Eminem’s “Lose Yourself”."

"Look, if you had one roll, or one opportunity
To Wrap everything you ever wanted – One moment
Would you capture it or just let it slip?

Her palms are sweaty, fingers weak, hands are heavy
There’s food on the floor already, mom’s spaghetti
She’s nervous, but on the surface she looks calm and ready
To Wrap chops, but she keeps forgettin’
What happened last time, when the roll wouldn’t unwound
She opens the box, but the roll won’t come out
She’s pulling, but there’s no fooling her
The roll’s not out, it just won’t unwound, blah!
Snap it back to reality! Oh, there goes gravity
Oh, there goes the Rabbit Stew, it was smoked
She’s so mad, but she won’t give up that
Easy, no
She won’t have it, she knows her leftovers must keep
If it don’t it will reek
She knows that, but she’s weak
She’s so clumsy that she knows
She goes back to her fridge, that’s when it’s
Back to the Roll again yo
This whole Wrap shit
She better go capture these leftovers and hope it don’t slip her

Hook:
You better not lose your fingers in the serrated side of the box, the moment
You grab the Wrap, you better never let it go
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to unroll
If tomorrow you want to still dine on this roll

The food’s escaping, through this hole that’s gaping
This Glad Wrap isn’t mine for the taking
Make me queen, as we move toward a new roll of Glad Wrap
Culinary life’s borin’, but Glad Wrapping’s close to post mortem
It only grows harder, only becomes stickier
She rolls it all over the Wrap is all over her
Toast to roast Wrapped, she’s known as the Sorry Wrapper
Sticks to fingers, Heaven only knows
How to do this she groans, she’s no Wrapper
She goes to the kitchen and barely knows her own leftovers
So hold your nose ‘cos here goes the moldy water
The leftovers ain’t lefovers no mo’, they’re mold product
They crossed over to where moldy leftovers go
Her nose closed, she smelled nada
So the Wrap Saga is told and still won’t unfold
I suppose it’s back to that old partna’, the Tupperware lives on
Da Da Dum Dum Da Da

Repeat Hook

No more games, I’ma change into what you call rage
Tear this muthaf***n’ Wrap off like 2 dogs caged
I was playin in the beginnin’, the mood all changed
The food’s been chewed up and spit out and now the stage
Where I keep trying to unwrap the next roll
Best believe nobody’s able to Wrap with this roll
All the pain inside amplified by the fact
That I’ve been trying this from 9 to 5
And I can’t provide the right coverage for my leftovers
‘Cos, man, these damn Glad Wrap rolls don’t stick
And it’s no BBC food show, there’s no Nigella Lawson, this is my life
And this Glad Wrapping’s so hard and it’s getting even harder
Tryin’ to Wrap the leftover feed, plus
Teeter Totter caught up between my fingers and the food
Glad Wrappin’ makes me scream on and
Too much for me to wanna
Make the Glad stay in one spot, another day of no leftovers
Has driven me over the edge, I would’ve liked my leftover’s hot
I’ve got to formulate a plan ‘fore I accept my Sorry Wrapping lot
Success is my only mutha*****n’ option, failure’s not
Glad, I loathe you, so this Glad Wrap of yours ‘s gotta go
My food cannot grow old in an uncovered pot
So buying Tupperware is my only shot
Tupperware fail me not ‘cos this may be the last chance at leftovers I’ve got

Repeat Hook

With Tupperware you can do anything you set your mind to, woman"

- Copyright, Redsaid 2006.

(This one is dedicated to my sister, whose birthday could've been on leap day, but luckily she made it out on the 28th. I'll wrap put your leftovers in Tupperware any day, sista! Thanks for taking me in (on?) and early Happy Birthday!

But will I survive?!?

Yeah, probably. Only the good die young, after all, right?

Thank you very, very, very much to everyone (more than five! Who KNEW that I had more than five readers? I certainly didn't!) who replied to the behind-the-scenes e-mail I'd written to explain why I'm more quiet than usual.

To those of you who are blissfully unaware of what I'm going on about (as usual) and who wish to be relieved of your state of bliss and ignorance, drop me a line or two (okay, one will do) and I'll send the much coveted (fine, but a girl can dream) explanatory e-mail to you too!

To those of you who for a welcome change DO know what I'm going on about this time, I'll just say that I'm doing... okayish. My moods (de)range from erratic highs to devastating lows. Oh, right. That's normal for me.

Seriously though, this is probably the most difficult thing I've EVER had to do (which yes, makes me pretty lucky, I guess), and I just want to say that your e-mails of encouragement (and even a Christmas card, from her and her love!) have been helping to get me through this. I wish your e-mails could also help me pack (those of you who can't remember how difficult it is for me to move, see this), but for now I'm content to take all the words of encouragement I can get!

So thanks.

Was it something I had said?!?

Because three days go by and I still don't have a single comment?!? Now, before you think: "How vain of her to think that we should lower ourselves to not only always read what she has to say, but then also take the time and effort to say something about what she has had to say! We have a life, woman! Even if you don't!"

No, please don't be so aggressive, that's not what I'm saying at all! I just mean that I've learned over the year and a half of leisurely blogging that no matter what I say or how often I don't say it (what with upholding my reputation of being the world's laziest blogger and all), there were always, much to my astonishment, a few of you who were obviously so bored at work, that you had something to say about what I had said. Almost without fail. Even though I'm notorious for not replying to what you have to say to me (not because it's not important, understand, it's just that usually I can't think of a sufficient, equally witty comeback!).

You get what I'm sayin'?

As I was saying, I was beginning to think that it must've been something I'd said that made you, my five (yes, FIVE now!) readers quite unhappy. So unhappy, in fact, that you thought it didn't even warrant sending me hate mail!

My fears were immediately eased when I received mail (regular, still not hate! What on earth does a girl have to do around here to receive hate mail?!?) from her and her telling me that my comments police is working overtime (for a change. Usually they are on a very convenient doughnut break when the spammers strike) and so apparently nobody has been able to leave any comments!

Is this true? IS IT? Leave your answer in the comme...

Duh. Never mind. I suppose that was a rhetorical question.

Or, if you really want, you can drop me an e-mail. Even hate mail. Seriously, anything will do!

P.S. And if anyone out there is familiar with the mysterious ways of the MT Blacklist, please, HEEEEELP!

You all know that the A - Z Time/Life Medical Encyclopedia is one of my favourite reads. I highly recommend it to anyone*, but especially to those of us who take ourselves seriously as practicing hypochondriacs and lay doctors.

Don't be deceived by the book's modest size either. Sure, it might not be the thickest medical text around, but trust me, it contains diseases and possibilities for self-diagnosis that you haven't even DREAMED of yet! (And if you haven't dreamed lately, well... according to the book a state of constant dreamlessness smacks of serious underlying psychological issues. Or a severe case of insomnia. Either way, it's bad.)

However, this bug my sister brought with her on her recent visit from South Africa and - when she couldn't stuff it in her suitcase along with all the shoes she bought - decided to leave here when she went home again, has turned out to be quite difficult to shake.

At first I thought it was the flu (after all, I have all the symptoms as listed under "F" and "Flu" in the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia) and I thought I would get better when I resumed my regular schedule of rest and relaxation.

So as soon as my energetic sister with all her draconian demands (like telling me to get UP! EVERY day! Before the crack of NOON!) went home, I dove back into bed, only surfacing every couple of hours to replenish my blood coffee levels.

It worked. One day I woke up and knew I was feeling better when I poked my nose out from under the duvet and I was able to actually smell the coffee again.

I celebrated my recovery by immediately taking a long nap. I was viciously shaken awake a bit later as rasping, racking coughs were sending spasms through my body. Talk about a rude awakening!

This specific symptom - illusion of wellness only to then get sick all over again - can be found nowhere in the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia, which has left me to draw only one conclusion: If the Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia hasn't even heard of this flu yet, then it MUST be serious and indigenous to Africa. (And usually "serious" and "indigenous to Africa" go hand in hand. I mean, just look at me! Do you get anyone more serious and African than me?? Exactly. I didn't think so.)

The last time I veered off my usual serious, soft news blog subjects and mentioned this Afri-flu I have been struck with, Tim T. wanted to know if the African flu roams the savannahs with the zebra, lions, etc. That is sooo typical of Tim T., asking all the hard-hitting questions without batting an eye. (Granted, even if he HAD batted an eye whilst typing that hard-hitting question, I wouldn't have seen it. Which in turn bodes the question: If someone bats an eye and no one else is around to see it, did the person really bat an eye?)

I don't know, Timmy T. While I believe the Afri-flu HAS been spotted stalking prey on the savannah (causing lions to cower and elephants to plunge trunk-first into watering holes, causing all the water to instantly depart from said watering holes with one gigantic, sweeping splash, which of course had other severe consequences like drought), sightings of the Afri-flu have also been reported (in wheezing, rasping voices) from several night spots in and around Johannesburg, Cape Town and Durban.

According to the most recent sighting claims, the Afri-flu was seen gnawing another hole in the ozone layer, this time above Bloemfontein. At first the claim was dismissively filed away in a government folder under "R" (for "Rubbish, blatant rubbish!"), because it was suspected that the whole thing was a desperate attempt by the Bloemfontein Tourism Board (but "Bored" is how they've been spelling it on their official stationery) to try and finally convince the world that things really DO happen in Bloemfontein. (Even if it IS only sometimes, and, technically, only ABOVE the city.)

However, the file was promptly removed from the "R" "Rubbish blatant rubbish!" folder when several other witnesses stepped forward, because not only did those witnesses have matching reports of the sighting (this may have been due to the fact that they were all interviewed together, in one room, but never mind), but they also had very concrete evidence (called "indisputable" by the government representative (the vice-chairman of the Afri-flu subcommittee) during his lengthy television news appearance. He insisted on using up every last second of his fifteen minutes of fame).

The "indisputable" evidence? Identical and very prominent farmer's tans, inspiring the vice-chairman to point out: "Those tans are indisputable evidence of another hole in the ozone layer! Bloemfontein residents used to have impressive farmer's tans before, but THESE!"

He paused dramatically, allowing the glowing tans to speak for themselves.

"As we all know, a good tan can only be judged by its tan lines, and we, the government of South Africa, believe that these tan lines are so impressive that these Bloemfontein residents will, for as long as these tans last, look as if they are wearing clothes, even when they are not!" That last remark had the Bloemfontein residents in question (who were already beaming brightly thanks to their ozone-free, early spring sun exposure), positively oozing with pride.

After the chairman's lengthy speech (during which he had managed to smoothly divert the attention away from the Afri-flu epidemic by convincing the Bloemfontein residents with the farmer's tans to help prove his point that they look clothed even when they're not) aired on television, the South African Broadcasting Corporation (SABC) was flooded by letters of complaint from the South African Skin Cancer Prevention Society (SASCPS) and the South Africans Against Nudity on Prime-Time (Or Any Time For That Matter) Television Society (SAANPT(OATFTM)TS). (And just as a quick, but fascinating aside: the SAANPT(OATFTM)TS is the first Society in sub-Saharan Africa (and the world!) to have parentheses within its acronym.)

Anyway, the Afri-flu is highly contagious. It spreads from animal to human (and vice versa), from fauna to flora and - as I've concluded from the sputtering noises and anguished beeps that came from the laptop before it froze, then overheated, then turned itself off (but not before it deleted all my work, including this and a few other words-in-progress blog entries. Alas, I'm afraid the laptop ate my homework!) - from human to machine.

On behalf of the chairman of the Afri-flu Subcommittee, I'd like to thank you for taking part in this voluntary experiment to see whether or not the Afri-flu is able to penetrate computer screens and infect readers of this blog, who, according to the chairman, are probably already a bit soft in the head (and therefore probably have very low if not non-existent immune systems) for subjecting themselves to this mindless, nonsensical drivel on a regular basis.

"In which case," he said, "contracting the Afri-flu would only do them all a world of good in the long run."

* The Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia makes a great gift, especially to hospital patients who can't sleep. Give them this book to read, and I guarantee that it will cure their insomnia. Because after reading this book and reading about all the things their doctors are probably NOT telling them, it won't be insomnia keeping them awake at night!

... I would be a loaf of bread.

My sis is gone and suddenly the house seems unbearably quiet and empty.

Her 18-day visit flew by so quickly, it felt more like 18 hours.

Luckily, she left us with a rather distracting memento... the flu.

Not just any flu either. A potent, monstrous South African flu! (This after I'd TOLD her that I didn't want any gifts! Next time I'll ask for Pro Nutro* instead.)

Seriously, my poor sis fell ill shortly before leaving South Africa and unfortunately she didn't quite shake it while she was here - even though she did so generously pass it on!

The boy contracted it first and I managed to proudly dodge their germs. All these years in the U.S. must've made me soft though, because I was finally struck down last week.

So here I am... a pathetically sad and sniffling heap who is feeling completely crummy.

Which is why I'll be loafing some more until further notice... (Not too much longer, though, I promise!)

* Pro Nutro: A South African breakfast cereal. I've been a proud, life-long addict. Knowing this, my sis DID bring me a couple of boxes of the stuff, even without being asked!

Why why oh why does time seem to fly by when you least want it to?!?

My sister will be leaving again on Saturday and I'm already suffering from severe separation anxiety...

I don't know how long it will take me to recover from the trauma of saying the much dreaded goodbye, but as soon as that happens, I promise to resume my regularly scheduled leisurely blogging.

In the mean time, I'd be happy to receive overnight shipments of all your spare Valiums!