Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Existential Shmisis

It's been 3 weeks since I've blogged anything.

When your job requires you to write for someone else, script their thoughts and feelings, you somehow lose the will/language to speak in the 1st person. I've become pretty good with closing my eyes and hearing Noeleen's voice in my head and that's how I write for her.

But for the past couple of weeks I'd lost Jo's voice, Jo's point of view.
Well... it's back Bitches!

Let's start with the cell-out...Yes, I'm back on my Trevor Noah kick. Dude, you suck! You're everywhere. It's nauseating. If the competition is to make The Parlotones look like they need publicity, you've won. I keep threatening that if I see you on TV one more time, I'll hold my breath until I die. This time I mean it. Go away. Let us miss you. The End. No more Trevor Noah rants.

Ok... The Strike. Yesterday, I ran into a very sussed Doctor friend who likened this strike to Soccer Fever. So it's like this... You've trawled the FIFA website for days and all you can get your hands on is a CAT 4 ticket to Netherlands vs Denmark. Shit game, right? You have no interest in either team and you aren't in the least bit invested in the outcome, yet somehow you arrive at that game with Danish flags painted on your face, adorned in their team colours and eating herring. You jumped on the Danish bandwagon. This is strangely similar to the strike. People love a cause and sometimes, even when they aren't sure why they're doing it, they find themselves eating herring.

My new moan is all about service. What the hell has happened to Service Levels in this country? Am I not entitled to expect to be acknowledged when I walk up to a counter to pay for something? Bitch, please... When I get to the till, stop talking to your friend about how tired/unhappy/happy/constipated you are, say hello, ring my sale up, take payment, say thank you and be rid of me. I actually had a salesperson at Truworths eating a sandwich at the counter on Saturday. Her bovine-like masticating made me dry heave.

And lastly, I tend to try and make each day a rocking one and I try not to live according to a countdown calendar, but this has to be said...48 days till Linkin Park in Berlin baby!!!

Hopefully, my voice will stay with me for a while and you'll hear from me again soon.

Until then, from me Noeleen, have a good evening.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Sweets for my Sweets, Cleaning for my Cleaner


I’ve become a bit of an urban legend in my circle. Not in a good way. Like in the same way the dude in Rosebank who wears shredded garbage bags has. I’m the girl who cleans for her cleaner.

Every Tuesday night I do a massive clean-up, lest poor Theodora is confronted with the horrific sight of a dust-bunny. This is not a classic case of Suburban Guilt, nor is it a mutant form of OCD that requires I perform rituals only on Tuesdays. But if I am truly, deeply honest about why I do this its because I’m afraid she’ll judge me. But worse than that, I want to be number 1 in her eyes, in the same way that I brush, rinse, floss, tongue scrape and gargle (multiple times) before going to the Dentist so that he thinks of me as his model patient. I also insist on doing a conditioning treatment before going to the Hairdresser.

People pleasing is exhausting. It’s a sickness. I’m ill.

I’d really love to write more but I have to go do my nails. I have a mani in the morning…

Monday, August 9, 2010


Many of you have complained about not being able to comment on posts...
I think I've rectified the problem. Please let me know if you're still unable.

Will Jacob Zuma please come to The Diary Room?

I hope that this blog post doesn’t land me in a holding cell and if you haven’t heard from me by this time tomorrow, kindly investigate!

It’s with morbid fascination that we follow Jacob Zuma’s personal life like a reality TV series.  From what we’ve seen so far, it’s less Big Brother and more Temptation Island. But is it any of our damn business and are we losing focus of his political achievements or failings by concentrating on his marital hit rate? Why are we making him accountable for his nomadic penis and not his patchy leadership? Is it right that when there is a forum to challenge him the question asked is “How do you keep 5 women happy?”

My personal opinion, and its just mine, you needn’t agree, is that I don’t think it’s fair that you’re stripped of your right to privacy when you’re sworn in as President. I think anything that doesn’t cross legal boundaries is his business. But mostly I think we’ve taken our ‘JZ Wife Watch’ a step too far. I say this not because I am at all sympathetic to his needs but rather because I’m acutely aware of us taking our eye off the ball because we’re too keenly observing the other balls. 
It’s time to refocus, shift our thinking and start asking the right questions about our leadership. We’re letting him get away with murder. Literally. 

Smonday Bloody Smonday

Firstly, before I moan, Happy Women's Day to all the amazing, kick-ass women out there.
This country is built on a foundation of women who made sacrifices, not for accolades and acknowledgement but simply for progress and betterment so that we could do more and be more.

To all the men who are asking when Men's Day is... When you gain the ability to bear a child from your vagina, you'll get your very own day. Now, go make your woman a cup of tea!

My moan will be a quick one...
I have to say how much I dislike having a public holiday on a Monday. This Smonday phenomenon is disorientating, confusing, and just generally anticlimatic. My very smart friend, @TanyaKovarsky said it best, "It's like Sunday night and Monday morning rolled into one." I could think of nothing worse!

So as Smonday afternoon rolls in to evening, I will adapt an old tradition into a new one and spend the last few hours of freedom with friends, indulging in Sangria Smonday.

Have a good one!

Sunday, August 8, 2010

Putting the end in Friend

The end of a friendship can be so much worse than a break-up. There are never guarantees with love interests but friendship, you hope, is unconditional.
Sadly, this often is not the case. 
But, much like a relationship, when what you have to offer is not enough or what they bring to the table is not what you're looking for, it is better to part ways. 
And just like a break-up, even though you know it's the right thing, it still really hurts like hell.  
Worst part? You don't even have the old faithful 'I hope we can still be friends' to fall back on...

P.S. It doesn't mean I don't miss you.  

Who Moved My Please?

Dear Mom
Just a note to say thanks for raising me so well. Thanks for teaching me the value of a ‘Please’ and a ‘Thank You’. It’s gotten me far in the world.
I am currently fashioning a voodoo doll of the Cocktonsil that consistently makes demands of me and forgets their manners.
Please will you bring me food parcels in jail if the voodoo doll doesn’t work out for me and I decide to punch them in the face instead?
Thank you

Jokes aside, does seniority or age exempt a person from manners and pleasantries?
I bloody think not.
So, to the Cocktonsil: Mind your P’s and Q’s or I will have to ask you to please fuck off.

Bafana Befok

So I made a promise to myself during The Soccer World Cup that I wasn’t going to be a victim of World Cup Syndrome. You know the disease. The one where we become instant fans/experts/linesmen/coaches during the period of the tournament and then totally abandon our team allegiance the moment the extravaganza comes to an end.
Determined to stick to my resolve, as soon as I heard that Bafana Bafana would be taking to the field to (hopefully) kick some Ghanaian ass at the NeverNeverLand of soccer venues, Soccer City, I sped off to computicket.com (thank God the FIFA website ticketing abortion is behind us) to buy Category 1 tickets. I was having flashbacks of the competitive nature of the June/July period where life was reduced to 3 simple questions:
1.     Are you going to any games?
2.     What Category did you get?
3.     How much did you pay?
I was horrified to discover that there is no longer such an animal as Category 1 tickets. No, they weren’t sold out. They just don’t exist. Regardless, I persevered with my ticketing frenzy and made further discoveries:
1.     Block 129, Lower Embankment seats (Previously of the much coveted Category 1) cost R100. Ummm, that’s like 4.5% of what I paid for my last World Cup Ticket.
2.     Block 3654, Altitude Sickness Embankment seats also cost R100! A beautiful Communist/Capitalist hybrid. 
3.     Tickets that say ‘National Stadium’ aren’t half as sexy as ones that say ‘Soccer City’.
4.     FIFA tickets were much prettier. (I’m a girl, damn it)
So with all this information, and tickets in my pocket, on Wednesday night, I will dust off my beautiful vuvuzela, slap on the fake tan so I don’t make anyone vomit on my alabaster (read: albino) skin in my yellow shirt, and board the train to National Stadium to visit my beloved, long-lost Phillip.
Expect pictures of my Angelina Jolie lips on Thursday.
Hope to see you there!

Losing my Virginity

Tweeting is easy. Holding someone’s attention for 140 characters is simple. Even Ritalin kids can focus on a Tweet.
Blogging… hmmm. Not so easy. It evokes the same anxiety in me as my birthday parties. What if no one comes? What if it’s not fun? What if everyone leaves early?
I will deal with blogging in the same way I deal with my birthday parties… I will drink. A lot.
I’m going to try and avoid doing what most virgin bloggers do and use their inaugural post to wax lyrical about what thought-provoking content is to come. I’m going to be honest… I’m pretty sure I’m not going to change anyone’s life. This blog is probably going to be used to talk smack about people. I’m going to name and shame Cocktonsils and you can come and do the same.
So, basically, you can choose to visit this site or not. I hope you do, I hope it’s fun and I hope you don’t leave early.
Must. Drink. Immediately.