Recently in Seasonal Disorders Category

My sister and I hoofed it down Cape Town's World Cup Fan Walk on Tuesday night, before the match during which our Dutch forebears ended up slaughtering the poor Uruguayans.

Despite the heritage thing and the colour of this blog, we were rooting for Uruguay all the way. (Hey, I can't claim a Dutch passport, can I? So they can just suck it, for all I care. On Sunday, I'll be supporting Baspaña Baspaña all the way!)

Our journey on that chilly evening was decidedly lengthier than the designated Fan Walk. We ended up parking FAR away, so had to walk quite a distance to join the other fans, but every step of it was thoroughly enjoyable. (Says the girl who breaks into a sweat when she gets out of bed - which is why she mostly remains there.)

The walk through the designated city streets to the stadium was awash with colour. (Especially orange.) It was also crowded. Crazy. LOUD!  And hilarious. I grinned like a goof the entire way. Although, on second thoughts, that may have been a grimace due to the pain. Yes, I wore sensible shoes - as if I own any other kind - but when your feet hardly touch the ground during your regular existence, you are definitely going to feel it once they do. I also made my sister pose in front of anything that even remotely resembled soccer-themed memorabilia - which means that she was striking a pose at least once per minute - so that I could snap blurry pictures of her on my cell phone.

She was NOT a very cooperative model, so she was promptly fired (although she'll deny it of course and continue to insist that she quit), and then I retired my noble effort at taking commemorative pics. After the cocktails we picked up along the way (because it's important to remain sufficiently hydrated while taking exercise, didn't you know?), there was no chance that I would have been able to focus properly again anyway!
 
During this World Cup on our shores, I have learned that football fever is a highly contagious condition indeed - even affecting and infecting those of us who are usually immune and indifferent to anything even vaguely sports related.

I've also discovered that I would actually like FIFA to keep governing the country. So they're not paying taxes? Well, neither are many members of our current regime! My sister and I both noted how the police were out in full force. Whether on horseback, on foot or in their patrol cars/vans, their presence made us feel so safe, we didn't even mind walking back alone through the near-deserted downtown streets later that night. Something that would be sheer stupidity/madness at any other time - even though it has to be said that, in 'normal' times, Cape Town is still far safer than Jo'burg and Pretoria.

Also notably absent were beggars, street kids and hookers. Which made us wonder: what did FIFA do with (to?) them?

I also learned that seven Uruguayan fans have the capacity to be noisier than 70 000 vuvuzelas being blown at once.

But the most important thing I am taking away from this World Cup?

I'll tell you later. Sorry, it's simply too horrifically traumatic and still too raw to even talk about right now...   
 

I had been inside all day, absorbed in work, when a message from my former roommate lures me outside. "I know you're busy, don't want to disturb, but I'm outside waiting for M to get back and just wanted to say hi."

After having worked through lunch, I thought it was as good a time (and an excuse) as any to take a quick break.

I opened my door only to be greeted by an almost otherworldly, eerie sight: twirling ash flakes and thin layers of fog-like smoke as far as I could see.

I ran through the courtyard towards the gate that leads out to the street, where my friend was waiting in her car. "What on earth is going on?" I asked her.

She pointed up the street. Above the tree line, the mountain had disappeared behind a billowing cloud. Turns out the mountain closest to our neighbourhood, in a stunning nature reserve called Jonkershoek, caught fire. To make matters worse, the infamous Southeaster wind has been sweeping across the area for the past few days, adding fuel to the fire and making it extremely difficult for firefighters to contain it.

As far as we know, no neighbourhoods are in danger. Many people were out and about, to, like us, gawk at the strange sight. Many seemed to be going about their business as usual. The ash floated down and, like snow flakes, settled in our hair and covered our clothes. The smoke soon ignited our throats and stung our eyes. We covered our noses and mouths with our hands and walked around the corner.

"This is what it must feel like to live near an active volcano!" I sputtered. 

It's so weird, because I've been glancing out my North-facing window all day, seeing the cloudless, clear blue sky and watching the Southeaster's forceful dance with the Oak trees, entirely oblivious to what is going on the other side of the house.

Earlier today, I even saw a headline online about wildfires here in the Western Cape, but typically, I thought it was further away.

Despite the discomfort and possible danger, it does make for a spectacular sight. Right now, the setting sun remains defiantly visible through the smoke, looking like a luminous, orange ball, seemingly suspended in mid-air. It has tinted the smoke shades of pink and purple.

It is almost as if the day is dying in a glorious blaze of its own.

Let's just hope the fires die down soon too. (Although I doubt it, because the wind has gotten a second breath and is blowing with renewed vigour.)

P.S. Great minds think alike! (Yeah, yeah... or fools never differ then...) Apparently a blazing mountain in one's hometown is a hot topic. My sister has blogged about it too. She's even added pics from their vantage point against the hill on the other side of town. Only thing is, according to her, the neighbourhood closest to the mountain (not mine) IS in danger.

Updated: Uh-oh, apparently the fancy Lanzerac Hotel just a few blocks over from us have been evacuated! It's past midnight now, the wind is still raging, and the fire is still lighting up the smoke-choked night sky.  

1.) In 2009, I resolve to remain just as slothful as I was last year and during all the preceding years of my life.

2.) I'm going to comfort eat. This means I'll simply HAVE to eat everything and anything in sight when I'm bored/stressed/depressed/angry/happy. I'm elated to report that, on this 21st day of the year, I'm already wildly successful at these first two resolutions.

3.) I shall continue to proudly live up to my title as The World's Laziest Blogger, and watch as my largely ignored blog continue to languish away in obscurity on the world wide cobweb (this dark, damp, forgotten part of the Internet where insignificant websites come to die without ever being hit on - kind of like some blogger I know, actually!).

4.) This year, I'll continue to procrastinate even the act of procrastination itself. I mean, why do something later if you can do it even LATER than that?

5.) I absolutely will NOT write a book this year. I'll just continue to talk about how I'd love to write one. Because I've heard that talk is cheap, so that is clearly the way to go during these trying economic times.

6.) I still refuse to get a boyfriend. As my mom always says: If we'd wanted trouble, we'd have bought a secondhand Alpha Romeo with an oil leak.

7.) Even though talk is cheap, I won't learn to parle l'Français. It's far easier to continue to speak about how badly I want to learn it than to do all that actual memorising, ne pas? 

I have a feeling that I'm going to stick to these!

... Because I seemed to have caught a serious strain of a bug and it might be contagious.

This bug is so awful, its existence isn't even noted in my beloved Time/Life A - Z Medical Encyclopedia. But I can tell you from horrible experience that the very real symptoms include irritability, fatigue, depression, homicidal/suicidal tendencies, and vehement hatred of tinsel and carols. (Except when said carols are disguised as jazz standards sung by Diana Krall. Then it is actually more than tolerable.)

So yes, women, it's basically identical to having an extreme and ongoing case of PMS.

And ongoing it is. This affliction seems to strike annually around the end of November, lasting through the entire December, and peaking on the 25th. It's called the Bah Humbug! and really, it can get people killed.

And I'm not just referring to the sufferers...

Roll on, January! I beg you.

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

Making thee forever more than mere men

I must be getting swept up in the spirit of the season, because suddenly? I have a very large craving for...

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.