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Our fathers who art on Earth

Varied be thy names: Pa, Paw, Papa, Pops,

Da, Dad, Daddy, Daddy-o, Old Man, Sir

Thy day has come

Therefore thy will shall be done at home as at thine office

We’ll cook thee today thine daily burnt toast

And give thee cheap socks and ties

As we give thee each and every Christmas

And thy will kiss us

And lead us to believe that thy love it

But deliver it to the back of thine sock drawers and closets

For, whether deadbeat, hands on, pushover, strict, wealthy, pauper,

CEO or stay-at-home

Thy art our kings

With the power

To change light-bulbs

Today is the shortest day of the year in South Africa.

Since it also marks the official start of winter, my thoughts naturally turn to gnawing. Not just the suicidal gnawing of my own wrists due to Seasonal Affective Disorder (of COURSE I suffer from it – I suffer from every ailment under the sun except hypochondria, remember?), but the gnawing of actual food.

One of the things I’m pondering is this: If the saying ‘you are what you eat’ is actually true, and I like to eat bread, does that make me a loafer?

And don’t even dare to answer. Unless your answer was going to be a resounding: “Of COURSE not, Red!”, that question was entirely rhetorical.

If you’ve been one of my imaginary readers for a long time, you would know that I don’t cook. And putting it like that is still a gross understatement. Water? I can totally burn it.

In the good old days, when I lived in an actual HOUSE (as opposed to the tiny room I find myself in these days), that room which in other people’s houses is known as the kitchen, was known as my coffee maker’s private quarters. The stove was just a very large and potentially dangerous, decorative ornament.

Luckily for me, my sister cooks. Well, all of them do (see? It’s entirely their fault that I don’t. By the time my mother got ‘round to having me, the cooking gene had – thankfully – been depleted. As well as the looks, the talent, the charm, the intelligence, the bone structure… but that’s a sob story for another day), but the sister I’m referring to happens to live conveniently close to me.

She is married to an Italian. And in order to keep that part of the ancestry alive and well, she cooks almost exclusively Italian. She has become so good at it, it has spilled over into her personality, which has become increasingly feisty. And it must be from all that stirring of-a da Spaghetti, but she now can’t speak without gesturing wildly and passionately. Some people, like my brother-in-law and me, might even interpret the latter as an occasional slap in our general direction.

On the pantry door of this wholly Italian kitchen, the following has been written: “The trouble with Italian food is that five days later, one is hungry again!”

But since the Longest Night of the Year is about to descend leaving me no choice but to go to bed right now, some day soon (see? I’m so commitment phobic, I don’t even want to make a date) I’ll tell you why eating leftovers at that very sister’s house might just kill you.

My first love was a comatose guy.

And no, in this case, 'comatose' is definitely not a euphemism for 'laid-back.'

I mean, the guy was in an actual coma! In hospital!

No, of course he wasn't always in a coma. He was fully conscious when he asked me out, I swear! (Although yes, probably not in his right mind.) Because, believe it or not, even the likes of me has standards. A guy has to be at least breathing and conscious before I'd agree to go out with him.

If he slips into a coma after just a few dates with me, well... that really can't be helped, can it?

But just between you and I? I think he did it deliberately. He always did have a thing for nurses.

Anyway, of course I didn't stop seeing him just because he was in a coma. Because trust me, even in a coma he had more personality than some of the other guys I had gone out with before.

Every day, I went to the hospital, sat by his bed and poured my heart out. It was great! I made all sorts of plans for the two of us and for him ("You are going to learn to cook for me. And I'm going to enroll you in singing lessons so that you can serenade me. Besides, the speech therapist said your vocal chords will need a bit of work after the tracheotomy!") and he couldn't contest any of it.

And since the doctors reassured me that comatose people still hear everything that is going on around them, I have to say that he was one of the best listeners ever.

But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end: He regained consciousness. Him waking up was a major romance killer for me and so I let him off gently and wandered off to see if there were any other strapping young bachelours lying incapacitated in I.C.U., just dying for someone to have a chat with them and to hold their limp hands.

And so, with my incessant chatting, I believe I cured an entire ward of single, male, coma patients that year. I think they woke up just so that they could tell me to please SHUT! UUUUP!

Seriously though, dating a guy in a coma really ruined me for other relationships. Here's why: A guy in a coma doesn't ever complain about anything. A guy in a coma doesn't mind which channel the television is on. A guy in a coma can't accuse you of being a harlot when your gaze lingers a touch too long on that new young doctor who is treating him. It was very touching to see how his heart rate spiked whenever I spoke to him. I've since begun to insist that all guys get hooked up to EKGs when they're on a date with me so that I can make a run for it if their heart rates increase. I'll run because an increased heart rate, when someone is sitting down, can only mean a few things: either he is having a heart attack, or he is developing deep feelings for me - which will make him way too clingy for my liking.

I won't say I'm commitment phobic per se. Besides, they say it's a predominantly male condition. So maybe I'm just a bit weary of commitment. But hey, my mom always said that a girl always has to make a guy wonder a bit. So the last guy who was foolish enough to propose to me is still wondering what my answer is.

Am I the only girl who suffers from commitment weariness? (Darn, you'll have to answer me via e-mail, because the comments are STILL broken!) But come on girls, even those of you who desperately long for an engagement ring on your finger will have to agree with me: Sometimes having a three course meal with a certain guy is simply too much of a commitment.

When the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, I was surrounded by a group of naked men.

And I was the only woman present.

Okay, so they weren’t naked.

And when I say ‘a group of men’, I actually mean… three.

And they were all gay.

So although I was technically speaking the only woman present, I was certainly far from the only queen.

You see, those were the only men I could find in my new hometown of By George above a certain age who, like me, are unmarried, childless and therefore available to party the night away.

I was in bed by 1 a.m.

But actually, our low-key start to the New Year wasn’t the queens’ faults. I was simply knackered from old age a long year.

I was really not sad to see 2006 go. This is weird for me, because I’m usually such a sentimental creature, I can hardly leave a room.

I suppose when you’ve had as many New Year’s as I’ve had, the novelty is bound to wear off eventually. Besides, the entire holiday season brings out the annual performance angst in me. The pressure always seems to be on one to have to come up with something frightfully exotic (which by default happens to be frightfully expensive) to do in order to celebrate.

And if you’ve been a big enough sucker and you have been reading this blog for a while, then you should know that I’m not good under pressure. To put it mildly.

In South Africa, Christmas and New Year’s are summer celebrations. So unlike the wealthy Northern Hemisphere residents who tend to seek out the warmer climates to spend their holidays, the wealthy South Africans, I’ve learned, tend to head north in search of those magical White Christmases you northerners have been taunting our snow-deprived southerners with for years with your Christmas cards, movies and carols depicting and describing magical winter wonderlands while we stand by the barbecue under the scorching sun and sweat.

Hence I’ve had many recent conversations that went more or less like this:

Me: What are you doing for the holidays?

Other person: Oh, nothing special. We’re going skiing.

Me: Oh, fun! At Hartbeespoort Dam? (A lake near Pretoria.)

Other person (with disdain): Not WATER-skiing. SNOW-skiing. At the Swiss Alps.

And when they see the naked envy on my face, they ask smugly: And what are YOUR plans?

Knowing full well that I obviously don’t have any.

I hate the holidays just as much as a married man who is firmly in the closet must hate being with his wife: It’s just too much pressure to perform, to measure up to, to outdo…

So how did YOU all outdo me?

My beloved Doctor is revealing a chillier side, blowing an icy winter’s breath onto a world enveloped by fog and sputtering rain.

Apparently, this is a typical Cape winters day. Maybe it’s because I’m all cozy indoors, my fingers curled around a steaming cappuccino, but I find it rather appealing.

With winter finally here, it’s time for a wardrobe reassessment. Imagine my delight on a recent shopping trip when I discovered this.

Stellenbosch – In what can only be described as one of the most gruesome and shocking bloodbaths in recent history, Valentines Day was murdered early this morning right outside of Stellenbosch, a picturesque college town nestled in the heart of the South African wine country.

The alleged murderer, described as an embittered single woman in her early 30’s, has been arrested and is being held without bond in a local jail.

According to a witness, when the suspect, who was said to be covered in a sticky red substance thought to be blood (or a chewy, cherry-flavoured filling found in some popular brands of assorted chocolates) and bruised, torn rose petals, was frisked and handcuffed, she exclaimed: “Now this is the most action I’ve had in years!” The witness added that the suspect's maniacal laughter gave him “the heebie-jeebies.”

Mr. Mark Hall, President of Valentines Day’s multi-billion dollar empire, was too shocked to personally comment, but a statement released on his behalf reads: “We are deeply saddened by the loss of our dear friend Valentines Day.
Valentines was seductive, remarkable. Like true love, those are qualities that will withstand the test of all eternity. The murderer will therefore not be allowed to get her wish of eradicating Valentines Day, and 14 February shall forever remain Valentines Day’s Day, or Valentine’s Day for short.” (Hall’s PR people have never been big on grammar, and correctly inserting apostrophes has always been particularly tricky - Ed.)

The statement concludes with a bit of shameless plugging: “Commemorative cards shall therefore continue to be available during February of every year. My company will be personally responsible for distributing and selling those cards.”

This final and successful assassination was not the first attempt to take Valentines Day’s life.

In February 1999, a young woman who had been driven mad by unrequited love, shot at Valentines Day with a bow and arrow. An overexcited witness described the event: “The arrow flew by with a whistling sound! It narrowly missed Valentines Day, and instead pierced a member of the Valentines Day entourage, a half-clad elf named Stupid, or something like that, right in the buttocks!”

In court transcripts of the hearing that followed, the deranged suspect, when asked whether she had any remorse over shooting Cupid the Cherub, screamed: “I loved the way the fat and cellulite on his flabby butt-cheeks drilled and shook when the arrow went in! It was spot-on! Not bad for my first try, ‘eh?” (She was Canadian.)

The judge took her answer to be a “no” in the remorse department, and she was sentenced to 450 hours of non-stop Hallmark Channel viewing.

She committed suicide after serving only two hours of that sentence.

Single women were responsible for almost all the other assassination attempts on Valentines Day's life. Only in one case (of particular flair) was the emerging suspect a gay man, but like all the other attempted murderers, he was single too.

As news of the Valentines Day massacre has been rapidly spreading around the world, friends, fans and perfect strangers (the latter ironically often found to be married to each other) have been inspired to send messages of their grief.

A South African expat in Atlanta, GA, writes: “I am reeling at this news. However, I was not too surprised when I learned that Valentines Day was murdered in my crime-ridden homeland. I always knew that something like that would happen, which is why I packed up and left with my family in the late 90’s. Do you know that we never have to lock our doors here? In fact, we would sleep with it wide open, only my wife has been nagging me about the chill. I told her the chill had little to do with the mild Atlanta winters and far more to do with her own cold-bloodedness and frigidity. She’s filed for divorce.”

A South African psychologist (and self-described amateur meteorologist) replied: “It has been an unusually hot summer in the Stellenbosch region where the massacre occurred. Oppressive heat tends to do strange things to the human psyche, so it was definitely not the safest time for Valentines Day to travel to South Africa. It would’ve been better for Valentines Day to come in June and July, during the Southern Hemisphere winter, when people tend to want to snuggle more.”

Even U.S. President George Bush commented on the Valentines Day massacre. “Valiumtime Day was great.” And, further moved by the tragedy to display an unusual amount of eloquence, he added: “It’s very sad indeedly.”

During the news conference, he was seen passing a note to his Secretary of State and former National Security Advisor, Dr. Condoleezza Rice. It read: “Where is South Africa? If you also doesn’t know, ask Rove.” And: “P.S. May I please go to the bafroom.”

Valentines Day leaves behind devastated parents Channuka and Christmas, an adopted African brother named Kwanzaa, drunken Irish uncle St. Patrick, and French niece Bastille.

Funeral arrangements for Valentines Day are still unknown, but red roses, chocolates, diamonds, sports cars, romantic getaways for one, and wads of cash have been requested in lieu of donations to charitable organisations.

I had this whole thing planned out for Halloween, honest. I even LEFT THE HOUSE (yes, GASP! indeed) on Saturday and took pictures and EVERYTHING so that I could upload it today.

But, with me being The World's Laziest Blogger and all, which one can only successfully be if one is... well, lazy, of course, but also disorganised and a procrastinator and barely awake most of the time, there will be none of those carefully planned Halloween-themed pictures appearing on this blog today.

Instead, I'll be true to my nature and title of The World's Laziest Blogger and post the pics at an inappropriate time long after everyone's forgotten about Halloween. Like around Christmas time next year maybe.

I suspect that those of you who are aware that I was a journalist, long ago in a past life, are probably wondering to yourselves why and how (and who and when and where and what... see, I vaguely remember the gist of journalism) the likes of me ever picked and held down such a deadline-driven job if I have trouble keeping up this blog (which, I'll let you in on a little secret, not blogging often and never continuing stories is actually part of my duties as The World's Laziest Blogger. Why, thank you for thinking that I do it very well and for saying that I'm a natural at it!).

Truth is, when I opened up the career councilling/college course brochure and read: "Journalism: The ideal field of study and career for the individual who thrives on deadlines," my eyes got stuck on the "dead" part of deadline and I envisioned an office filled with dim lighting and comfy couches on which journalists are leisurely strewn about emulating the dead and quietly (or, in the event that the journalist snores, not so quietly) dreaming up stories. And I thought to myself, "Why, even I can do that!"

Ha! Imagine the unpleasant surprise I received when I showed up on the first day of the job at the newspaper and there was NO COUCH in sight!!!! Just very upright, uncomfortable office chairs (well, being upright IS a very uncomfortable position for me to be in), and desks, with notepads and computer monitors and keyboards on which we were expected to furiously type away stories which had to be in YESTERDAY.

And just the horror of that awful memory has completely drained and exhausted me, so it's time for me to immediately take what I hope would be a nightmare-free nap.

I wrote that long title because I'm avoiding other Issues.

From the how-to be a writer books in my collection I gather that it's usually the other way around: Writers sometimes resort to doing other things, things that are normally far more heinous to do to oneself than having to will fiction out of thin air, just to avoid writing. This condition sounds really terrible, because some of those poor, tortured, masochistic souls will even do... GASP!... the laundry!!!! instead of their writing.

So I suppose my last slender hope of ever becoming a real, authentic A*U*T*H*O*R has just evaporated, because I can't even get the procrastinating right! (Well... at least not in this case.) You see, when I procrastinate writing I honestly don't feel the need to cover it up with productivity. (How else do you think I manage 206 hours' of television per week? WHADOYOUMEAN THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE?!? The fact that there is only 168 hours in a week, you say? Well, that just makes my weekly television viewing achievements all the more remarkable, doesn't it?)

And I've almost forgotten that the reverse was possible... until last night.

Let me explain: The boy has been out of town since last week.

He finally came back at midnight last night.

Unfortunately he walked into a disastrous house... looks as if a tornado's twirled through here.

Alas, despite the funky weather we've been having these past few days, nothing more serious than me has hit the place.

You see, I really did have every intention of cleaning the house for (and before!) his return, honestly I did!

I even tackled the job with an unusual amount of enthusiasm. And that word right there, the one that says "enthusiasm"; that alone is a sure sign that my career of unemployment and television viewing, however impressive, has officially driven me into the flailing arms of delirium.

So I cleaned, but being the focused, highly disciplined creature that I am (stop laughing like that! You'll wrinkle!), I got side-tracked and started unpacking closets.

But instead of doing it like I suspect a normal person would (which means none of you will be able to tell me either, har har) - possibly one closet/room at a time, I suppose - I became possessed by the eager Spring Cleaning Fairy (she's a manic depressive who's stopped taking her lithium because it 'stifles her creativity and besides, she's been feeling MUCH more balanced these days, thankyouverymuch', and so she happened to breeze through here during the peak of one of her maniacal highs. Unfortunately her high was brief) and before I knew it, every cupboard, cabinet, closet... had its contents strewn on the floor.

The sight was overwhelming to my sensitive self... It's a war zone: a gigantic explosion of clothes, papers, food (yes, I got my paws on and in the kitchen cupboards too) EVERYWHERE.

What's even funnier... when the boy called me from the road last night to
tell me that he was on his way, and before I even had a chance to warn
him about my "little" on-going project, he informed me in a very
wistful tone (and this will speak volumes and will give you a big hint
as to the kind of housekeeper I normally am): "By the way, I dreamed
that I came home to a clean house."

Oh, how I laughed!

Hey, at least I had the best of intentions! Pity that I decided to
take a coffee break just as I had thrown everything on the floor, though.
'Cause as soon as I sat down with the coffee, I grew very, very tired. The fairy had vanished and she'd taken my strength and will with her, the cow.

I finally devoured a path out of the kitchen (which, in this house, is
better known as The Coffee Maker's Private Quaters) and now I'm going to rest my weary head on a stack of how-to be a writer books.

Hopefully, when I wake up later today, I'll be a real writer. And hopefully, by then, the boy's dream of a clean house will have miraculously come true as well!

In honour of Earth Day, I've written the following bad poem.

Today is supposed to be filled with mirth
As we say: “Happy Earth Day, Mother Earth!”
So I promise not to be a naysayer
And point out the hole in the ozone layer
Or how Bush is going to drill for oil
Right in the middle of the arctic soil
(One would think that he, with a surname like “Bush”
Would give environmental issues a push)
And I refuse to tell you ‘bout urban sprawl
Or its land devouring friend, the shopping mall
I also won’t tell you about SUV’s
Or the rainforests’ fast disappearing trees
Won’t breathe a word about carbon monoxide
Or lead, or smoke, or soot, or sulfur dioxide
No, I will not mention the disgrace
Done to you by the human race
Instead I’ll wish you a Happy Earth Day
And say thanks for allowing us humans to stay