Yes, I know this is technically plagiarism, but after reading peas on toast and mrs m's versions, I simply couldn't resist...
A is for mr A, my yankee boyfriend who has, in the past week, started to correct my afrikaans.
B is for Bermuda. A too tiny, extremely overpriced tax haven/tourist trap island (or so a reliable source claims) with overweight cricketers. I'd pay pretty much anything that's left on my credit card to be there now, whilst my reliable source allegedly would pay anything to find himself in a country with a decent chance of winning the cricket world cup.
C is for credit card. the bugger used to be my best friend, but he got us into quite a tight spot right now.
D is for double brandy and coke (or double anything with/without mix, whatever's available). Right now i really wish there was a bottle of something in this miserable open plan office.
E is for energy. I used to have plenty, but that was in the days when i still thought you're over the hill when you're 40. not true, sucker. it's actually 25.
F is for faraway lands. one if these days... watch this space.
G is for the general who shall remain unnamed. to my utter disgrace i must confess that i finally heard The Song. and it didn't sound half bad in a bar in graaff-reinet.
H is for horseriding on the beach. it isn't romantic at all. in fact, it's scary (especially when the guide lights up his second zol for the morning and suggests a run) and painful (when you agree to it).
I is for impossible. as in impossible to not get emotionally involved in my job. or postpone things to the last minute. or watch just one more episode of desperate housewives. or start studying tonight. or save money. or plan. or anything else responsible people do.
J is for jobs. please can i have a new one?
K is for the karoo. if only i could own a private jet and a big enough trust fund...
L is for laughter. thank god for mrs m's & j's blogs, and the constant email chats. how else would i survive a day in this hole without laughing every now and again at my computer screen?
M is for mind. i'm losing mine.
N is for never again. but that's what i said the last time i let current and ex-boyfriends share breathing space.
O is for overdosing on weddings. attending three in seven days is a good idea only if you plan to never tie the knot yourself.
P is for passport. i've been having nightmares that mine might be converted to a south african one without my permission and i might never be able to leave this country (anyone seen last king of scotland?). of course i wake up in a cold sweat to realize it's NOT a bad dream.
Q is for queen. i wish i knew one (with a private jet and a big love for the karoo) personally.
R is for reality check. boy, does it hurt.
S is for skimpy salaries. how many days to the 25th?
T is for the Transkei. As i've realized this past week, it's too adventurous for me. And unless hungry kids eating the food off your plate in a "restaurant", humongous potholes and potent dagga are your thing, i suspect it may also be a little too adventurous for you.
U is for urban jungle. i'd love to live in a real city. one with shops that stay open after 6pm. and maybe - can you imagine? - buses and trains that run on time and don't cost an arm & a leg (or a life).
V is for victory. the last time i felt it (or so it feels), was when i passed accounting in my third year with the whopping total of 51%. and that was 2001.
W is for (you've got the) world-at-your-feet. i wish.
X is for... isn't it always for xerox?
Y is for... who cares?
Z is for Zimbabwe. if i was mark thatcher, that's where i would stage a coup.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Monday, March 19, 2007
All a girl needs
I'm drowning in admin.
For the first time in three weeks I have the courage to say I have a problem, and I need help.
My desk is littered with yellow post-it notes, all with different to do lists scribbled on them. I need to call a good friend whose birthday was on the 4th of March. I have to return at least four important phone calls, all outstanding for more than a month. I'm not even mentioning the number of personal e-mails I have to respond to - all carefully written down on one of my collection of to do lists. (That excludes the really important ones that make it to my diary. Of course, on a weekly basis I simply move them on to next week.)
I'm still stuck on week 4 of a 12 week exercise programme, though the rest of the country has moved on to week 7.
I need to find out whether SARS ever received my tax return, I must send a bill for some freelance work I did in January and phone my former gym (again) because they're still deducting money from my account, even though I've sent a gazillion e-mails and faxes and left at least a hundred messages. I need to pay my bills that were due at the beginning of the month. I have to phone flightcentre and see if they're on schedule to pay back a cancelled plane ticket. (They said it would take 3 months... but then I should probably be preparing for 6?)
I have to pay two speedfines (outstanding since August) before they lock me up at Hillbrow police station. Cecilia, my former landlady's spy, called me a week ago to pick up some urgent post - still on list 3 of 7. My car has been cutting out at every single robot since December. I've taken it in five times, and it is still broken. To add to my car miseries, my new neighbour broke off the sideview mirror 2 weeks ago.
On my desk I have two baskets filled with research reports, documents, print-outs, old newspapers and magazines - all waiting for that follow-up story that needs to be written. I have an e-mail folder named work: keep, that I haven't touched in 3 months, except to dump more e-mails in it in a futile attempt to keep my inbox under control. I run my contact list from two croxley address books, two folders and a plastic container filled with business cards. I also have some printouts with random names and numbers stuck against the wall. I've been meaning to convert this - the lifeblood of my career - to electronic format for the past year. Alas.
I've always thought all a girl needs is a good mechanic. (And a handyman boyfriend, if you can find one that's also a great kisser and a fabulous cook.)
Now I know you can't go through life without a sideview mirror and a great personal assistant.
For the first time in three weeks I have the courage to say I have a problem, and I need help.
My desk is littered with yellow post-it notes, all with different to do lists scribbled on them. I need to call a good friend whose birthday was on the 4th of March. I have to return at least four important phone calls, all outstanding for more than a month. I'm not even mentioning the number of personal e-mails I have to respond to - all carefully written down on one of my collection of to do lists. (That excludes the really important ones that make it to my diary. Of course, on a weekly basis I simply move them on to next week.)
I'm still stuck on week 4 of a 12 week exercise programme, though the rest of the country has moved on to week 7.
I need to find out whether SARS ever received my tax return, I must send a bill for some freelance work I did in January and phone my former gym (again) because they're still deducting money from my account, even though I've sent a gazillion e-mails and faxes and left at least a hundred messages. I need to pay my bills that were due at the beginning of the month. I have to phone flightcentre and see if they're on schedule to pay back a cancelled plane ticket. (They said it would take 3 months... but then I should probably be preparing for 6?)
I have to pay two speedfines (outstanding since August) before they lock me up at Hillbrow police station. Cecilia, my former landlady's spy, called me a week ago to pick up some urgent post - still on list 3 of 7. My car has been cutting out at every single robot since December. I've taken it in five times, and it is still broken. To add to my car miseries, my new neighbour broke off the sideview mirror 2 weeks ago.
On my desk I have two baskets filled with research reports, documents, print-outs, old newspapers and magazines - all waiting for that follow-up story that needs to be written. I have an e-mail folder named work: keep, that I haven't touched in 3 months, except to dump more e-mails in it in a futile attempt to keep my inbox under control. I run my contact list from two croxley address books, two folders and a plastic container filled with business cards. I also have some printouts with random names and numbers stuck against the wall. I've been meaning to convert this - the lifeblood of my career - to electronic format for the past year. Alas.
I've always thought all a girl needs is a good mechanic. (And a handyman boyfriend, if you can find one that's also a great kisser and a fabulous cook.)
Now I know you can't go through life without a sideview mirror and a great personal assistant.
Monday, February 26, 2007
What makes you tick?
I got a phone call from an anonymous reader last week. What makes you tick, she asks me. Of course I couldn't think of a single thing right then, but she got me thinking.
I eventually managed to compile quite a decent list, including milk tart, hot gossip, new places, office politics, deadlines, foreign accents, current affairs, word magicians, conversations after the second glass of wine, Karoo sunsets and hardegat men.
Top of the list, however, is simple ideas. There's just nothing that gets me as excited as an obvious solution to a big problem that can potentially make a huge difference to people's lives. Which is one of the reasons I (sometimes) love writing on technology. Every now and again a truly inspirational, proudly South African story slips through the cracks to make you feel that anything is possible.
Take Wizzit, the cellphone bank for poor people, as example. The Wizz-kids - the first cellphone bank in the world to specifically target the under- and unbanked poor market segments - don't bullshit about how bank fees can't be lowered to give more people access to banking. They're simply getting into their helicopter to reach rural people with cheap, affordable banking services. Which means in future the two girls I once gave a lift from Kroonstad to fetch money from their mother in Jozi, can simply get their monthly stipend deposited to their Wizzit account via sms.
My good news story for the week is a bit old, but still incredibly inspiring and has such great potential to make a difference that I simply have to share it. The South African Social Index (SASIX) has been going for about 7 months now, and has attracted a number of "blue chip NGOs" and "investments" of about R2,5 million.
SASIX works like a stock exchange. In stead of listing companies that complied to a whole list of requirements, they list NGOs and charities with ideas for sustainable projects that will have a measurable outcome. SASIX isn't interested in the Nelson Mandela Children's Funds of the NGO world, but get excited about rural, innovative, unknown projects where people really have no access to "social capital markets" (i.e. big corporates who spend some money to improve their reputations).
Whether animals, kids, HIV/Aids, the environment, entrepreneurship or education makes you tick, you can find a project to invest in. Shares cost R50 each. By investing in a Sasix-listed project, you know your money won't be wasted on admin, parties or politics - details on every project are available on the website and shareholders get regular feedback on progress with implementation & the eventual outcomes.
The Siyanakekele project in the Eastern Cape got me excited - check out www.sasix.co.za to see if anything turns you on.
I eventually managed to compile quite a decent list, including milk tart, hot gossip, new places, office politics, deadlines, foreign accents, current affairs, word magicians, conversations after the second glass of wine, Karoo sunsets and hardegat men.
Top of the list, however, is simple ideas. There's just nothing that gets me as excited as an obvious solution to a big problem that can potentially make a huge difference to people's lives. Which is one of the reasons I (sometimes) love writing on technology. Every now and again a truly inspirational, proudly South African story slips through the cracks to make you feel that anything is possible.
Take Wizzit, the cellphone bank for poor people, as example. The Wizz-kids - the first cellphone bank in the world to specifically target the under- and unbanked poor market segments - don't bullshit about how bank fees can't be lowered to give more people access to banking. They're simply getting into their helicopter to reach rural people with cheap, affordable banking services. Which means in future the two girls I once gave a lift from Kroonstad to fetch money from their mother in Jozi, can simply get their monthly stipend deposited to their Wizzit account via sms.
My good news story for the week is a bit old, but still incredibly inspiring and has such great potential to make a difference that I simply have to share it. The South African Social Index (SASIX) has been going for about 7 months now, and has attracted a number of "blue chip NGOs" and "investments" of about R2,5 million.
SASIX works like a stock exchange. In stead of listing companies that complied to a whole list of requirements, they list NGOs and charities with ideas for sustainable projects that will have a measurable outcome. SASIX isn't interested in the Nelson Mandela Children's Funds of the NGO world, but get excited about rural, innovative, unknown projects where people really have no access to "social capital markets" (i.e. big corporates who spend some money to improve their reputations).
Whether animals, kids, HIV/Aids, the environment, entrepreneurship or education makes you tick, you can find a project to invest in. Shares cost R50 each. By investing in a Sasix-listed project, you know your money won't be wasted on admin, parties or politics - details on every project are available on the website and shareholders get regular feedback on progress with implementation & the eventual outcomes.
The Siyanakekele project in the Eastern Cape got me excited - check out www.sasix.co.za to see if anything turns you on.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Astronauts and deadlines
6 pm on a Thursday really isn't the time of the week for me to be playing around on the internet. For one, I have three stories to finish before I can go home. But you can't really blame me for finding the love triangle of two US astronauts and an Airforce pilot more interesting than Cell C's new target market or the politics at Sentech, can you?
Back to the astronauts. Should we really be wondering why a smart, successful woman like Lisa Nowak would want to put on adult diapers to drive halfway across the States for a "confrontation" with the other woman in her love triangle? I'd say no, but that's probably just because I've done many stupid things in the heat of the madly-in-love-moment.
In primary school, I spent hours and hours staring at a picture of T, a guy who was 3 years (!) younger than me and dated my best friend. (I thought he looked like Tom Cruise at the time; it really boosts my ego to tell you that 15 years on, he is overweight and not worth a second glance.)
I once drove 60 km in a car with hardly any breaks at 3 am to convince an ex to take me back. I spent R800 excluding VAT on a phone call from Singapore in the middle of the night. I've been to the gym at 7:30 on a Sunday morning to impress a guy I could hardly talk to. He wasn't a great kisser either, but of course when he dumped me, I went back to try and convince him otherwise. (Worrying trend, I agree.)
I've taken back boyfriends who cheated on me and broke my heart. I've taken one back twice, simply to get my heart broken twice. Of course I also broke some hearts. I've had two boyfriends at the same time. I've cheated on perfectly good guys. I've peeled potatoes and changed diapers to impress a boyfriend's mother. I've written poems, held picnics on traffic circles, climbed cellphone towers and mountains and even wore a horrible red dress in public once. And I'm blaming it all on being madly in love at the time.
Thankfully it can be justified. According to scientists at the University of Pisa, love and obsessive-compulsive disorder could have a similiar chemical profile. In a study they conducted, serotonin (a neurotransmitter that is altered by medication like Prozac) levels in lovesick couples and people with OCD were on average 40% higher than people who weren't suffering from matters of the mind or heart.
That, apparently, is supposed to explain why you'll phone someone a million times to hear someone's voice and then hang up as soon as he/she picks up the phone. And that's why anti-depressants can help you get over that powerless feeling of being madly in love, obsessing about one person for hours, analysing every word and smile and gesture.
Not that I'd like any Prozac in my anonymous Valentine's day flowers next week. I'm having a perfectly great time being powerlessly, madly in love.
Back to the astronauts. Should we really be wondering why a smart, successful woman like Lisa Nowak would want to put on adult diapers to drive halfway across the States for a "confrontation" with the other woman in her love triangle? I'd say no, but that's probably just because I've done many stupid things in the heat of the madly-in-love-moment.
In primary school, I spent hours and hours staring at a picture of T, a guy who was 3 years (!) younger than me and dated my best friend. (I thought he looked like Tom Cruise at the time; it really boosts my ego to tell you that 15 years on, he is overweight and not worth a second glance.)
I once drove 60 km in a car with hardly any breaks at 3 am to convince an ex to take me back. I spent R800 excluding VAT on a phone call from Singapore in the middle of the night. I've been to the gym at 7:30 on a Sunday morning to impress a guy I could hardly talk to. He wasn't a great kisser either, but of course when he dumped me, I went back to try and convince him otherwise. (Worrying trend, I agree.)
I've taken back boyfriends who cheated on me and broke my heart. I've taken one back twice, simply to get my heart broken twice. Of course I also broke some hearts. I've had two boyfriends at the same time. I've cheated on perfectly good guys. I've peeled potatoes and changed diapers to impress a boyfriend's mother. I've written poems, held picnics on traffic circles, climbed cellphone towers and mountains and even wore a horrible red dress in public once. And I'm blaming it all on being madly in love at the time.
Thankfully it can be justified. According to scientists at the University of Pisa, love and obsessive-compulsive disorder could have a similiar chemical profile. In a study they conducted, serotonin (a neurotransmitter that is altered by medication like Prozac) levels in lovesick couples and people with OCD were on average 40% higher than people who weren't suffering from matters of the mind or heart.
That, apparently, is supposed to explain why you'll phone someone a million times to hear someone's voice and then hang up as soon as he/she picks up the phone. And that's why anti-depressants can help you get over that powerless feeling of being madly in love, obsessing about one person for hours, analysing every word and smile and gesture.
Not that I'd like any Prozac in my anonymous Valentine's day flowers next week. I'm having a perfectly great time being powerlessly, madly in love.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The year of The Wedding
I know 2007 is supposed to be the Year of the Pig, but for me this is definitely The Year of the Wedding. Not mine, thankfully (I'll never get married in an uneven year...), but it seems everybody I know has decided to tie the knot before the end of April.
It's only the third week of January, and already I've travelled far and wide to spend two beautiful Saturday afternoons hearing people say "I do". (As a matter of fact, I've never been to a wedding where they said "I do". It's always the unromantic "yes".) As if two isn't enough, I have another four coming up in the next 2 months, and I'm already praying there'll be enough liquor available to deal with the five lovesick couples who will most likely be seated with me and my imaginary date.
Because of my extensive database of attended wedding receptions (one of the legacies of a small town upbringing), I've decided to indulge you in my version of How to get Married without Losing Friends and Alienating the In-laws.
In my opinion, the most important thing to get right is the dress. If the bride looks stunning, and I mean really breathtakingly beautiful, you can get away with almost anything. Nobody cares too much then about the shit food, the too loud so last decade music or the fact that they really think the groom is an assbag. All they'll say afterwards is: The bride looked soooooo beautiful.
Of course, it also helps if the bridespair like each other. I've been to a wedding once where the groom couldn't stand the sight of his wife. Seriously. He couldn't get himself to look at her, never mind smile at her. She, of course, was MADLY in love with him. So even though I prefer bridespairs to be like peas in a pod, I can deal with it if they at least look at each other while declaring their everlasting love.
Make sure the wedding gifts are safely guarded throughout the night. You won't believe it, but some of your guests will be very tempted to take some of the gift registry home. In fact, a friend of mine has been to a wedding where the groom stole R1000 cash (meant for the DJ) out of his new father-in-law's jacket. I kid you not, he was caught red-handed on the wedding tape.
(In the light of the above, I guess it's also a good idea to make sure you know a good divorce lawyer before you even think about setting foot in that church. And the prenups better be in your favour.)
Invite kids. They're the ones who'll have the most fun - that is, until a fistfight breaks out on the dancefloor (my cousin, aged 4 at the time, once gave a crybaby boy an opstopper and bloody nose. the guy now plays tighthead for the cheetahs.) Kids won't have any forced, polite conversations starting with "so how do you know the bride?" and as long as you feed them hot dogs, chips and chocolate cake, they won't gossip about the dress, the food, the venue or the assbag groom.
Talking about those forced, polite conversations - think carefully about the seating arrangements. To be honest, I don't give a shit if you put your two uncles who haven't spoken a word in years next to each other. Or if you seat the family flirt next to the dominee. Just make sure I'm not the only single person at a table with five lovesick couples ever again!
Pick an upbeat song to open the dancefloor with. No, Steve Hofmeyr's Pampoen is not appropriate (yes, I've been to one of those too...). Neither is anything by Celine Dion or Shania Twain. If you really insist, you can play a tranetrekker, but only if you can dance and are wearing a stunning dress that will divert the attention.
Now, the liquor arrangements can be a tricky thing, especially if the bride is a recovering alcoholic (yes, I've also been to one of those. The bride was falling drunk at 9h30 pm). You don't have to spend a fortune on the bar tab, but you really have to remember the following:
* Choose a venue where the cash bar won't charge your guests R34 for a double of anything. And the cheaper the tequila, the better.
* The more friends you invite, the better for the party (and the family politics).
* Forget about the bride, the DJ is the most important person in the room.
* You can never have enough champagne.
Lastly, while you and your loved one are taking pictures for hours, your guests are (still) having forced, polite conversations while staring at their drab-looking appetisers. Make sure the party is well underway by the time you're back. One tiny glass of sherry is not going to do the trick. You need an open bar and huge cocktails at the door.
Want your wedding to be roaring success? Then take my dad's advice and remember: the best weddings are those where the guests start wondering at 7pm what the hell the dressed-up fools at the main table are doing there.
It's only the third week of January, and already I've travelled far and wide to spend two beautiful Saturday afternoons hearing people say "I do". (As a matter of fact, I've never been to a wedding where they said "I do". It's always the unromantic "yes".) As if two isn't enough, I have another four coming up in the next 2 months, and I'm already praying there'll be enough liquor available to deal with the five lovesick couples who will most likely be seated with me and my imaginary date.
Because of my extensive database of attended wedding receptions (one of the legacies of a small town upbringing), I've decided to indulge you in my version of How to get Married without Losing Friends and Alienating the In-laws.
In my opinion, the most important thing to get right is the dress. If the bride looks stunning, and I mean really breathtakingly beautiful, you can get away with almost anything. Nobody cares too much then about the shit food, the too loud so last decade music or the fact that they really think the groom is an assbag. All they'll say afterwards is: The bride looked soooooo beautiful.
Of course, it also helps if the bridespair like each other. I've been to a wedding once where the groom couldn't stand the sight of his wife. Seriously. He couldn't get himself to look at her, never mind smile at her. She, of course, was MADLY in love with him. So even though I prefer bridespairs to be like peas in a pod, I can deal with it if they at least look at each other while declaring their everlasting love.
Make sure the wedding gifts are safely guarded throughout the night. You won't believe it, but some of your guests will be very tempted to take some of the gift registry home. In fact, a friend of mine has been to a wedding where the groom stole R1000 cash (meant for the DJ) out of his new father-in-law's jacket. I kid you not, he was caught red-handed on the wedding tape.
(In the light of the above, I guess it's also a good idea to make sure you know a good divorce lawyer before you even think about setting foot in that church. And the prenups better be in your favour.)
Invite kids. They're the ones who'll have the most fun - that is, until a fistfight breaks out on the dancefloor (my cousin, aged 4 at the time, once gave a crybaby boy an opstopper and bloody nose. the guy now plays tighthead for the cheetahs.) Kids won't have any forced, polite conversations starting with "so how do you know the bride?" and as long as you feed them hot dogs, chips and chocolate cake, they won't gossip about the dress, the food, the venue or the assbag groom.
Talking about those forced, polite conversations - think carefully about the seating arrangements. To be honest, I don't give a shit if you put your two uncles who haven't spoken a word in years next to each other. Or if you seat the family flirt next to the dominee. Just make sure I'm not the only single person at a table with five lovesick couples ever again!
Pick an upbeat song to open the dancefloor with. No, Steve Hofmeyr's Pampoen is not appropriate (yes, I've been to one of those too...). Neither is anything by Celine Dion or Shania Twain. If you really insist, you can play a tranetrekker, but only if you can dance and are wearing a stunning dress that will divert the attention.
Now, the liquor arrangements can be a tricky thing, especially if the bride is a recovering alcoholic (yes, I've also been to one of those. The bride was falling drunk at 9h30 pm). You don't have to spend a fortune on the bar tab, but you really have to remember the following:
* Choose a venue where the cash bar won't charge your guests R34 for a double of anything. And the cheaper the tequila, the better.
* The more friends you invite, the better for the party (and the family politics).
* Forget about the bride, the DJ is the most important person in the room.
* You can never have enough champagne.
Lastly, while you and your loved one are taking pictures for hours, your guests are (still) having forced, polite conversations while staring at their drab-looking appetisers. Make sure the party is well underway by the time you're back. One tiny glass of sherry is not going to do the trick. You need an open bar and huge cocktails at the door.
Want your wedding to be roaring success? Then take my dad's advice and remember: the best weddings are those where the guests start wondering at 7pm what the hell the dressed-up fools at the main table are doing there.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Dealing with the quarterlife crisis
It was a hot January morning. I was driving through the Kalahari on my way back to Jozi, willing to do pretty much anything if I just didn't have to come back to my increasingly uncomfortable comfort zone.
I had just spent the previous two weeks trying to dream up ways to get unstuck in love, work and life. I had the music (to be more specific, a bunch of my sister's high school compilation tapes) blasting away at top volume, while trying to think of some practical strategies to deal with my quarterlife crisis. Or to put it this way, I was (and still is!) in desperate need of a way to kill that crippling realisation that there are so many opportunities out there that it is impossible to make any regrets-free decisions.
Wear sunscreen, the radio suddenly tells me. I hadn't heard the Sunscreen Song, an old favourite, in ages. And unexpectedly I got some advice on dealing with the QLC - what to do, where to go, when to do it, who to do it with, how much money to do it for - from Mary Schmich's now famous Chicago Tribune column:
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
Point is, you don't have to have it all figured out. Who does anyway?
Like Mary says: Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
So relax, have fun, and keep walking. New opportunities will come your way if you're moving forward; not if you're stuck in limbo. So just make sure you keep going.
There's also no point in comparing yourself to people who (seems to) have the wind at their backs. I'm extremely competitive - hence my feeling of failure when thinking of a, who is on her way to Ethiopia to cover the AU Summit, or f, who can convert a looooooooong distance relationship into a marriage, or j, who is pocketing the big bucks on a tropical island in the middle of the Atlantic.
Thankfully, Mary's got some advice for us closet competitors too:
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
So yes, I'm feeling a little left behind at the moment. But just give me a minute...
PS Some getting-on-top-of-the-world-tips from Mary:
* Sing.
* Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
* Do one thing every day that scares you.
* Floss.
* Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
* Stretch.
* Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
* Travel.
* Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
And best of all:
* You are not as fat as you imagine.
I had just spent the previous two weeks trying to dream up ways to get unstuck in love, work and life. I had the music (to be more specific, a bunch of my sister's high school compilation tapes) blasting away at top volume, while trying to think of some practical strategies to deal with my quarterlife crisis. Or to put it this way, I was (and still is!) in desperate need of a way to kill that crippling realisation that there are so many opportunities out there that it is impossible to make any regrets-free decisions.
Wear sunscreen, the radio suddenly tells me. I hadn't heard the Sunscreen Song, an old favourite, in ages. And unexpectedly I got some advice on dealing with the QLC - what to do, where to go, when to do it, who to do it with, how much money to do it for - from Mary Schmich's now famous Chicago Tribune column:
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
Point is, you don't have to have it all figured out. Who does anyway?
Like Mary says: Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.
So relax, have fun, and keep walking. New opportunities will come your way if you're moving forward; not if you're stuck in limbo. So just make sure you keep going.
There's also no point in comparing yourself to people who (seems to) have the wind at their backs. I'm extremely competitive - hence my feeling of failure when thinking of a, who is on her way to Ethiopia to cover the AU Summit, or f, who can convert a looooooooong distance relationship into a marriage, or j, who is pocketing the big bucks on a tropical island in the middle of the Atlantic.
Thankfully, Mary's got some advice for us closet competitors too:
Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.
So yes, I'm feeling a little left behind at the moment. But just give me a minute...
PS Some getting-on-top-of-the-world-tips from Mary:
* Sing.
* Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.
* Do one thing every day that scares you.
* Floss.
* Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but your living room.
* Stretch.
* Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.
* Travel.
* Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.
And best of all:
* You are not as fat as you imagine.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Hot and bothered
I'm bitter. And cynical. And the more I know about what's going on in this cool, crazy, beautiful place, the more hot&bothered I get. So I'm trying to enforce a news embargo for three weeks, which, I know, is a crazy idea for a journalist. But I can't handle one more news story on Tony "Cheap 4x4" Yengeni, who mos really shouldn't have been prison. And I simply cannot read another article on some or other government department who can't do the job, but are brilliant at shifting the blame (think the poor farm manager who got beaten to death last week because a land claim has been caught up in red tape for years and years).
So I prepared myself for what I thought would be three weeks of blissful business reading. Just imagine the disgust when I couldn't miss Beeld's lead story this morning. SA's nr 1 man said it: crime is not so bad. The perception must be rectified. I think I'll invite him over for tea to my grandfather's, where I had to please explain my anti-death penalty sentiments over Christmas. Not so easy if you're debating with grandpa (78), who got attacked in his bed a month ago, or my cousin (31), who was raped three years ago (police unfortunately misplaced the docket), or my uncle (49), whose best friends got murdered on their farm a while back.
Seeing that a news embargo won't help if you spend most of your waking hours in a newsroom, I need a new escape route. And I think I've had enough first-hand experience in dealing with pathetic government officials to be pissed off enough to justify fleeing the country. So the question is not if (definitely) or when (asap) to go, but where to go.
My mind's pretty much made up - when the rest of the country will be celebrating the day women marched to the Union Buildings to toyi-toyi against the pass laws, I'll hopefully be marching to some far-off land - my lonesome toyi-toyi against the EC government stealing R100 million out of the mouths of poor, hungry kids.
So now it's just to decide on where to go. Don't know about you guys, but to me New York, New York always had a special ring to it.
NS All you optimists out there who believe SA definitely won't go the same route as Zimbabwe, please read Peter Godwin's excellent new book When a crocodile eats the sun. Be in touch - I have a good contact at Flightcentre.
So I prepared myself for what I thought would be three weeks of blissful business reading. Just imagine the disgust when I couldn't miss Beeld's lead story this morning. SA's nr 1 man said it: crime is not so bad. The perception must be rectified. I think I'll invite him over for tea to my grandfather's, where I had to please explain my anti-death penalty sentiments over Christmas. Not so easy if you're debating with grandpa (78), who got attacked in his bed a month ago, or my cousin (31), who was raped three years ago (police unfortunately misplaced the docket), or my uncle (49), whose best friends got murdered on their farm a while back.
Seeing that a news embargo won't help if you spend most of your waking hours in a newsroom, I need a new escape route. And I think I've had enough first-hand experience in dealing with pathetic government officials to be pissed off enough to justify fleeing the country. So the question is not if (definitely) or when (asap) to go, but where to go.
My mind's pretty much made up - when the rest of the country will be celebrating the day women marched to the Union Buildings to toyi-toyi against the pass laws, I'll hopefully be marching to some far-off land - my lonesome toyi-toyi against the EC government stealing R100 million out of the mouths of poor, hungry kids.
So now it's just to decide on where to go. Don't know about you guys, but to me New York, New York always had a special ring to it.
NS All you optimists out there who believe SA definitely won't go the same route as Zimbabwe, please read Peter Godwin's excellent new book When a crocodile eats the sun. Be in touch - I have a good contact at Flightcentre.
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