Friday, May 16, 2014

Dear @spillly

Dear @spillly,

We met in a dark corner of a bar too many years ago to really count. It was post Facebook, but pre Twitter.

We spent hours talking about everything and nothing.

I knew then that we’d be BFFE. What I didn’t know was the man you’d turn out to be.

You tweeted something this morning that blew my mind. You said “I don’t know when it happened, but I have become rather a nice guy. I like me. The new me.”

I love that. I love that you like yourself now as much as we’ve always liked you. The new you is bold, brave, fearless, open-minded, unbelievably smart and capable of anything. But I just want you to know that so was the old you. You’re just the better version of the old you now.

I thought you were amazing when you were just spilly with 2 Ls and no @. I thought you were cool even when you had a Blackberry much longer than you should have. I thought you kicked ass when you wanted to take selfies long before selfies were a thing.

Our friendship has changed shape and form a million times over the years, but your ability to make me laugh, your honesty (sometimes brutal) and your very unique perspective on the world, has meant that I have always liked who I am when I’m around you.

I’ve never had to edit myself or dumb myself down. I have always been able to be myself, for better and for worse. You’ve seen my happy face, my sad face, my cross face (sorry), my big girl tears face (even sorrier) and lots and lots of my fun face.

You’ve stepped out into the world on a brave new path and it’s turning out for you exactly as I always knew it would. There’s nothing you can’t do and there’s no one you can’t floor with your mind.

Work, stress and life will always mean that I don’t get to see your freckles as much as I’d like or chat as often as I’d want. Age and adulthood mean that we’ll probably no longer have conversations which consist mainly of sound effects. We most likely won’t head off on a spontaneous overseas trip again.

I have had the most fun with you. I have a million memories and a billion scars on my liver from you, but I somehow think there are more memories to be made and more drinks to be drunk.

Let’s be BFFs forever ever. Ok?

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Before you put all your eggs in Helen's basket...

I have a friend I've known for almost 2 decades. People change over the years, but there was always 1 constant with her: she despised hard boiled eggs.

Recently, I had breakfast with her and her boyfriend and there she was ordering hard boiled eggs.

Sensing the confusion on my face, she explained that her guy loved hard boiled eggs and she decided to like them too. It seemed to come as a surprise to him that she had a chequered past filled with fried eggs.

While she struggled to get her eggs down (I could see the pain on her face), my thoughts turned to another girl who keeps her egg secrets close to her chest...Helen Zille.

Helen gets around and has lots of egg breakfasts in lots of different beds. Sometimes she's eating them poached, other times she's ordering them over easy.

The only thing I know about the way she likes her eggs is that she HATES scrambled eggs. She tells us constantly just how silly, useless and tasteless scrambled eggs are.

It's no secret that I'm a big fan of the scrambled egg. I always have been and even though I often question why they can't be more like omelettes and less scrambled and why the eggs need to be eaten next to a fire pool, nobody else has offered me eggs that I love as much or more.

Helen, it’s too late for you to try and get me to change the way I eat my eggs, but I know there are many people out there looking for an alternative to scrambled eggs. They’d like to know more about what you plan to do with the eggs if they decide to put them in your basket.

I know you've had an upset this week and your eggs got stuffed, but that's no reason not to pick yourself up, pull yourself together and start experimenting with your own eggs and find out how you really like them done.

Once you figure it out, please let the country know. They're going to need to make a choice about how they will like their eggs done for the next 5 years. I’m sure you want them to pick your eggs because they’re good eggs and not just because they aren’t scrambled eggs.

Come on, Helen. Stop talking about everybody else's eggs and tell us about your eggs.

Saturday, December 7, 2013

The Black Pimpernel

I started to feel an anger building in me.
A simmering resentment.
A burning need to challenge and preach, but it's not what he would have wanted.
He would have wanted me to ask the questions, but not judge you based on your answers.
I needed to know if all the people who were crying shared his politics.
I had to know if they loved the ANC as much as he did.
I had a hunger for answers. I wanted to know why none of them would ever talk about what landed him in prison.
Why some believed he was sentenced to life in prison simply for his blackness.
They accused me of being racist when I mentioned bombings and revolutions.
I was being regarded as treasonous for mentioning the very things that he was regarded as treasonous for doing.
Let me be the first to tell you that he would never regret what he did to get where he did.
He was not ashamed.
Are you?
My bitterness is growing. I want us to love him for the right reasons.
I want us to respect him because he gave his life, his breath, his love, his family to the ANC.
He gave his youth, his hearing, his lungs, his health to the cause.
He was not a teddy bear.
It minimises his legacy to treat the revolutionary, the soldier of liberation, the radical, the rebel, as a stuffed animal.
This 'teddy bear' had guts and teeth and weapons in all the right places.
I love him with all my heart.
I love him because of his politics, not in spite of them.
I love him because he managed to make you all believe he wasn't political, even though he was.
I love him because he loved the ANC even more than he loved his freedom.
I love him because he still loved the ANC, even though we make up stories in our heads about how much he'd disapprove of them right now.
He would never have defected.
He would never have broken away.
He might have had a quiet word with leadership, but he wouldn't have publicly dressed them down.
I beg you to love him for all of him, not just the pieces you pick.
I ask that you accept the hard edge with the soft heart.
I urge you to spend this next week of mourning celebrating 'The Black Pimpernel' as much as you do 'Tata'.
Before he was the grandfather of the nation, he was the country's 'most dangerous man'.
I love that about him.
I hope you do too.
But he would never have let me tell you why you should love him.
He would be angry at me for dictating the terms of your feelings.
He would have asked me to be fair, kind and tolerant.
He would not have endorsed this blog post, but I can't help feeling that he might have secretly liked it.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

The dream I never knew I had

was asked to write a piece about my career choice for a student publication and I thought I'd share... 

I began reading just before my 3rd birthday. Not comics, not pop up books, proper books. 
My mom likes to think that I was a gifted child; I think of it more as peaking early. 
Truthfully, it's probably down to having an older brother and being fascinated by his homework and spelling flash cards. 
At 3 years old, I was lost in the world of Enid Blyton, obsessed with Moonface, Silky and The Saucepan Man. 
I was the child who couldn't ride a bike, but I could devour several books in a day. Yes, that child. 
Eventually, every one had caught up and reading was no longer a special gift, but rather a requirement. It didn't quash my love for books. I still can't sleep at night without reading, but Moonface and friends have been replaced with piles of fiction and even more non-fiction. 
My love for books hinted at the fact that one day, words might be my bread and butter. 
After changing my mind more times than I could count (I've never been gifted in the maths department), completing a degree and then pursuing my Honours, I finally decided to chase my dream of becoming a copywriter. 
11 years ago, I packed up my life, moved to Joburg and handed myself over to AAA for a year as a postgrad. 
12 of the best months of my life eventually came to an end and they plunged me into the deep end of the advertising world. 
After about 6 months, I realised that I wasn't living my dream at all. I felt stifled and frustrated by the process. I didn't want to just be a contributor, I wanted to give birth to an idea, love it, feed it, raise it and be there to send it out into the world. Most of the time, I just gave birth to the words and then had to give them up for adoption to another department. That's something I was unprepared for and something that revealed how precious I am about my work (read: control freak). 
So, I had uprooted my world to pursue a dream that I was not a good fit for. What does one do? Wait for someone to call you and offer you another dream? That wasn't the plan at all, but it's exactly what happened. 
Television. Do I want to work in television? In a word, yes!
Within 5 days of working in TV, I knew, in the same way you're able to point out exactly where your birthmark is without having to look for it, this was going to be my life's passion. 
Working in TV allows me to conceive my babies, watch over them, nurture them and kick them out of home when I think they're ready. 
I love my job fiercely. I struggle to articulate just how much passion I have for it. 
Most of the day, I'm behind a desk, pushing paper and writing endless scripts, but every day, for at least an hour, I get swallowed up by the magic and mystique of control rooms and studios and the agonising bliss of live TV adrenaline. 
For me, there will never be anything that beats the high of producing live television. 
I get to do that every day. Me! The little girl who buried herself in books. The girl who still can't ride a bike. 
That girl gets to meet the most incredible people. She gets to travel. She gets to learn something completely new every day. She gets to do something she loves, even when she feels like she hates it. That little girl didn't allow herself to dream big enough to ever imagine the life she'd have. 
That girl was lucky, but much more than that, she was determined, focused to a fault, hungry and ferociously in love with creativity.
No, I'm not curing cancer or solving the global warming crisis, but every day I get to play a part in making people think, or laugh, or cry. I help inform them, inspire them or entertain them. 
I get to live the dream I never knew I had, and given my often questionable use of commas, I'm sure that many of you will be glad I gave up copywriting. 

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but if I did...

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions, but if I did, these would be mine...

- Learn to love tequila again. 
- Listen to a new song every day. 
- Stop listening to my favourite songs on loop. 
- Be kinder to gingers. They're people too. 
- Learn to speak German properly. Swear words don't count. 
- Stop asking people to roofie me when I can't sleep. 
- Stop trying to train my cats. 
- Bag you like groceries. (No, not you. YOU.) 
- Stop emotional cutting my hair. 
- Stop making emotional cutting jokes. 
- Stop making lists. 

*This list was made while listening to Imagine Dragons on loop*

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

2012: The year of everything and nothing

Yet another year has snuck by without being courteous enough to ask me if I was ready for it to end.

Part of me is ready for 2012 to exit quickly and quietly, and another part of me wants to hang onto this year forever.

2012 hasn't been about amazing trips (although I've had some of those), nor has it been about success (there’s been some of that too). It's been a year of absurd amounts of personal development. Bucket list stuff.

I had 3 wishes for this year. 3 wishes turned into 3 goals. 3 goals became 3 missions. 3 missions became 3 checked boxes.

Look, it hasn't been all plain sailing. I've been left with some scratches and scrapes, bumps and bruises, but none of them permanent. None of them regrets. Not a single one. Really, not even that thing I thought I would hate myself for.

I’ve kicked myself several times. I’ve had a couple of scares. I was mad as hell at myself for being so ill equipped to deal with them. I forgave myself quickly.

I’ve learnt countless lessons, some of which I am self-aware enough to learn from and some of which I am self-destructive enough to repeat. Some things don’t change!

Ok, now that I’ve got that out of the way, I have to focus a little on some frivolous (and some more serious) 2012 loves and hates…


My liver – I can hardly believe you stuck by me for yet another year. You’re stronger than I thought, kinder than I imagined, and probably more enlarged than I want to know about. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you, but regretfully, I won’t be making any new year’s resolutions to go easier on you.

My feet – If my liver thought it had been abused, it has nothing on the 2 of you. I’ve done terrible things to you. I’ve made you fit into cruel shoes that feet shouldn’t ever have to be exposed to, but you have to understand that mommy hurts you because she loves you. You should always look your best and I work very hard so that I can afford for you to be adorned and adored.

Skulls, studs and spikes – I’m sorry to everyone who has been injured in the process of hugging me this year. I promise that my obsession with skulls, studs and spikes is simply a fashion phase. It’s not a cause for worry and certainly not intervention-worthy. It also has nothing to do with the occult, an underground S&M circle or an indicator that I will be taking to the seas to become a pirate. This too shall pass…maybe.
The Radio - I'm already so lucky. I have a job that fuels me and fulfills me. A job that is so much more than a job. On top of this stroke of luck, I found a new passion in radio. Every Wednesday night from 7-10, I got to hang out with my BFF (forever ever), @spillly, listening to my favourite music, talking dirty and drinking beer.  


Opportunists – I have no intention of naming names, but you know who you are. You think everything’s about you anyway, so I can’t imagine why this would slip by you. Douche.

Getting older – I refuse to be one of those people who age gracefully. Fuck that. I’m fighting back, hard. I’m 34 and I’m actually totally ok with that. It’s not about the number. It’s about the more severe hangovers, the ever-increasing recovery time required, the hint of laugh lines (Yes, I know the lines on your face tell stories. Whatever! I call bullshit.). I’m not taking this lying down, so I will continue to push my body and make it do whatever I tell it to (refer to aforementioned statement regarding not involving my liver in any New Year’s resolutions).

The Sticker Family – In a world where we can land on Mars, jump from space and have ginger celebrities (sorry @spillly), why the absolute fuck (thanks @MegPascoe) are we now putting little stick figure families on the back of our cars? Take that shit off. NO ONE CARES! I guarantee it’s increasing the incidence of road rage.

Dubstep – I just can’t like it. I’m never going to. Please don’t ask me to.
The Treadmill - I want you to know how much I hate you. Nobody should have to run nowhere at high speed while staring at a sea of spandex. I've made peace with you, but I'm never going to love you.

All in all, it's been a remarkable year filled with the best people and over the top fun. Thanks so much to every one of you who has made memories with me, called me on my bullshit, told me I'm better than some of the silly things I've done, treated me with respect and kindness, laughed at my jokes, got me, put up with me when I've been grumpy, shared their sleeping pills with me when I've been unthinkably tired, drunk copious amounts of beer with me, let me feed them doo doo shots against their better judgement, made me laugh, not made me cry, encouraged me, put up with my sad sick cat stories, stopped me from cutting more of my hair off, told me the truth and trusted me with their weirdness. 

Truly, if the Mayans get their way, I'm ending on a high note.



Monday, August 20, 2012

Dear Trolls, Bullies and Hypocrites

Dear Trolls, Bullies and Hypocrites

Truthfully,  I think the open letter has been done to death, but seeing as you hide so skilfully and spinelessly behind your screens, I have no choice. 

Some time ago, I wrote a blog about how Twitter changed my life. And it has. Really. For the most part, it's still my favourite place to go and escape. As an avid people watcher, it's my little piece of heaven. By the looks of it, it's clearly still a great place for harmless flirtation, debate, news, networking and passing time when you can't sleep, you're in queues, or in traffic (illegal, yes, I know). 

I've met some of the most interesting, intelligent and enlightened people through Twitter. I've made great friends, acquired brilliant drinking partners and have been on the receiving end of endless support during shitty times. 

Here's what else I've been on the receiving end of...

You've wished  cancer, rape and death  on me. 

You've bullied me. You've threatened me with legal action. You've promised me I will rue the day I had a standpoint on morality. You've guaranteed me that you will ensure my career will suffer for it. 

I'm human. I want to be liked.  I have a big mouth, but those  who really know me know that I'm soft, sensitive and I hurt hard. It stings like fuck when someone comes after you. Do I wish I had thicker skin? Yes. Should I toughen up? Probably. 

You've posted some really intensely personal things about me (which have since been removed) in the comments of not only my blog, but on blogs I have contributed to. Trust me, it took me a very long time to get those voices in my head to pipe down a little. 

Many of us spend a lot of time walking around praying that others don't see us the same way we see ourselves. We hope to be met with kind eyes, but live in fear that we won't be. You trolls sure do know how to hit exactly where it hurts. A 140 character missile directly into the nether regions of your soul. 

Why? Why do you feel the need to hurt, humiliate or attack someone you don't even know? What is it about people receiving  positive attention that irks you so much? Is it that important for you to belittle others in order to gain a little meaning in your life? 

Twitter has become a breeding ground for you faceless cowards, bitter spineless little people who don't have the balls to speak up in the real world. 

Today was the perfect example...You can all obsess about buying followers and "fraud". I have never once seen Barry or Kirsty feel the need to humiliate anyone on Twitter. I've never seen them target anyone and relentlessly assassinate their character. I've never seen them wish disease on anybody. I have, however, seen all of those things directed at them (by you, of course). They're 2 of the more genuine, real people on Twitter and what you see is truly what you get with them. So throw words like fake around, you can be as caustic and sarcastic as you like about their 'influence', but if the bulk of their followers are fake and they have no influence at all, why is so much being written about them? Why do you care so much? Why are they even on your radar? Hmm. No influence. No influence at all. 

Your character and your influence is not measured by how many followers you have, but who you are when you're not anonymously lurking in the shadows of the internet. That, I'm afraid, leaves you trolls a little fucked. 

I look forward to the choice comments you'll *no doubt* be leaving on this post. Cocks. This time, I'm fighting back.