Oh Blog It All

Yeah, quite a subject isn’t it, though not the reason I bought the November issue of Cosmo. Someone, who may or may not still read my blog suggested I get the issue. I can see why she suggested it, I’m sure she gets a little thrill every time she sees her name on an article. I must admit I got a little thrill on her behalf seeing her name in print. True, I’ve never met this woman but I am at least electronically acquainted with her so it was really cool seeing her name on something.

Now that I had the magazine, and had read the bit written by someone I sort of know and got my 95c worth, I thought I should read all the rest so that I can get my R23 worth. It’s taken me this long to get through the mag. Apart from being really stressed at work and spending quality time with my Geek, my cat and my PS2, I haven’t had much time to read the said magazine.

So today I put aside all other distractions and did some serious reading. At 308 pages (as per the cover statement) I thought I had quite a task ahead of me. Once I realised that about 90% of those pages were filled with either advertisements or skinny models in skimpy bikinis, it suddenly did not seem such a daunting task.

Might I just take a moment here and now to thank Cosmo for so thoughtfully including an article on boosting my self-esteem. After those bikini models, nearly 50 pages worth, it’s reassuring to know you devoted three whole pages to my mental well-being (although you might have held off on adding yet another bikini clad model in said article, it kind of spoiled things for me).

Back to the title – which I borrowed direct from the cover. As a white South African, I was looking forward to a very interesting read. A lot of things in our country may have changed but dating and marriage across colour lines is still not that common (at least now people have the good grace not to stare).

From the title I had made two assumptions, that the author was a woman and that she was white. I was close, the author is a woman, a black woman. Which begs the questions, why the hell does she need a page in a very popular woman’s magazine to make this statement and justify this? Do I need to do a write up on why I only date white men? It seems like such a non-issue if you ask me.

I could understand and would have welcomed an article from someone, regardless of their race, talking about why they only date people from another race group. Are white men more attentive? Are black women more accommodating? Are Indian girls just so damn drop dead gorgeous that no one else can compete? Are coloured men funnier and more apt to make you laugh and not take life too seriously? The answers to these questions would have made for fascinating reading. It might also have made us look at ourselves differently and question the race assumptions we make.

At the very least, the author might have spent more time on the cultural differences she and her partner experience - he’s Angolan, she’s Nigerian. It might be obvious to some, but for others it needs to be spelled out that skin colour and culture are not one and the same thing. A Swede and a Brit may share the same lack of a tan but they certainly don’t share the same culture.

Yes, I made the assumption that she was white. Partly it’s because I think Cosmo’s demographic goes more in the pale direction but mostly I just expected something explosive and revealing from the title. Had the title been “Why I only date White Men” I would have assumed that she was a she and that she was black.

So, I’m curious to know what came first, the title or the article. If it’s the title, did Cosmo’s editorial staff have to look far to find a story to suit? Had their intention been to publish an article more along the lines of a mixed race relationship and did they then reach their deadline and have to make do with something else?

Assuming the article came first, just where does the author live? If she resides in Africa, surely Africans don’t bat an eyelid at her refusal to date white men? In fact I’m hard pressed to think of any nation that expects black women to date white men.

No one expects Cosmo to be a deep, philosophical read, least of all the people at Cosmo themselves. Then surely they do not need provocative titles on their cover to sell magazines? So why the misleading title, who are they hoping to con into buying their magazine? Me? More questions then answers and if I thought they would give me the printing space, I would write a letter to the editor. However, unless I’m offering up heaps of praise I doubt it will get printed.

I probably won’t be buying Cosmo again, which is a pity. The magazine has potential (they did include an article on Mirena, a contraceptive I had never heard of and think I need to talk to my gynae about), but if I wanted barely dressed babes I’d buy FHM.

Fortunately me not buying Cosmo won’t leave a lot of staff writers unemployed. Cosmo never catered for my kind in the first place. My kind being the thinking woman with a brain, wanting information, entertainment and an acknowledgement that there is far more to life and living then how you look in a swimsuit.

I have been living in Cape Town for nearly eight months now. For this whole time I’ve been able to convince myself that I have merely been on an extended holiday, if what one does on an extended holiday includes moving all your furniture to your “holiday” destination, getting a job at your “holiday” destination and changing your postal address to that of your “holiday cottage”.

Native Capetonians are thinking that I’m paying their city a compliment, that things here in the mother city are just so damn nice it’s like being on holiday and never wanting to go home. Sorry, Native Capetonians, you’ve got it wrong. I’ve been pretending to be on holiday because all holidays must end and then you get to go home - in my case home would be that lovely little place called Joburg.

Ah, you noticed that I’m not all that fond of Cape Town. Allow me to digress from the story for a moment to tell you why.

We were lured down here by promises of a better quality of life and coming from Joburg we figured it could not be any worse. We’re still waiting for the better quality of life happen. It may have happened of course, but with the gale force winds and the C-plated drivers with a death wish I’ve been somewhat focused on merely arriving at work alive and not looking like a bag lady having a really bad hair day.

Whatever the better quality of life supposedly is though, I’m pretty sure that it involves “The Mountain”. My “holiday” employer’s offices are located close to “The Mountain” and apart from the odd occasion that it looks real purdy, I really don’t know what the fuss is all about. I bet it doesn’t impress the folks from Switzerland who have the Alps as a benchmark. It sure don’t impress this Joburg Girl. In Joburg we have lots and lots of flat topped mine dumps all over the place and in winter, with the smog, the whole table cloth effect is reproduced ever so nicely and at a fraction of the price.

Anyway, back to my sad lament.

Sadly, my holiday has come to an end even though I’m not going home. Them bastards at the traffic department have put and end to my hopes and dreams of returning to the city where equality isn’t a pipe dream, it’s more like a pipe bomb; where all the inhabitants have been been victims of crime (although some have been more victimised then other, lucky sods, they end up having the best dinner table stories).

Before I go any further let me just state for the record (and in case some traffic cop reads my blog) I’m not knocking the traffic department. Many a time, and I’ve seen this with my own eyes, the placement of a well positioned pointsman has helped keep traffic flowing.

And you have to admire the bravery of the traffic officers. I mean, just because you’re wearing the khaki uniform with matching day-glo yellow and toxic orange vest smack-bang in the middle of a busy intersection does not mean that a huge big truck won’t drive smack-bang into you. Naturally these brave people deserve danger pay, but with the gravy train barely making it out of the station, funds have to be raised.

One good way of raising funds for all kinds of things is licensing all kinds of other things. In South Africa we licence EVERYTHING. We need a licence to watch TV. We need a licence to own a gun. In some towns, we needed a licence to own a dog which is why we are a cat family. We need a licence to drive a car. And the car, if it wants to be driven, needs a licence as well.

It’s this last licence that had finally ended my Indian summer here in Cape Town. My car licence had to be renewed before the end of this month. So, week before last I took myself off to the licensing department, stood in the obligatory long queues and forked over a few hundred rand for the privilege of driving my car AND getting a new number for my number plate - because according to the traffic department, if you’ve been in one spot for nearly eight months you’re no longer on holiday, you live there - damn!

Then, on Tuesday, the man in my life, my soul mate, my all, came home with a little something for me, the new number plates. To be fair, I did ask him to do this, but it would have been so nice if he’d behaved, just once, like a typical male and just forgot. I was counting on him forgetting so that I could continue living my holiday hallucination and continue on my merry little blue way in my little blue car with matching blue and white number plates (yes, I’m still sticking with the whole blue colour scheme and I just know that the Gauteng Traffic Department designed the number plate specifically to match my car’s paintwork).

This story does not yet have an ending, try again on 30 November when the current licence expires and I have to change the plates.

I’ll probably also start a new blog then called “My adventures as a C-plated driver”: where I will recount the joys of driving in heavy rain without switching on the headlights, changing lanes without indicating, deliberately ignoring the concepts of right of way and not stopping at stop streets. Oh, let’s not forget developing an total intolernace of people driving cars with GP number plates. Fortunately, for him, my Geek is already a C-plated driver.

I have, for some time now, been considering a career change. I am just so tired of working for idiots. Working with idiots I can handle because I sometimes get to tell to tell them to fcuk off (when they’re safely out of earshot, of course) and they make my ‘average’ look like ‘brilliant’ when compared to their ‘mediocre’.

It’s working for idiots that really is the challenge because I can’t kill them. Well I probably could and make a good case for justifiable homicide at that, but with my luck, mine will be the docket that doesn’t go missing. (The only cop in our family is my step brother and we’re not that close).

My other option is simply to leave, look for something else and probably end up working for another idiot – yeah, there’s a prospect that gets me all excited.

But the Universe together with my e-mail may have possibly provided a solution.

In my previous entry I posted an open letter to Amy Bruce, offering her some advice for getting out of her predicament. No, I haven’t had a reply from her but it seems someone else did read my post. I received the following in my inbox this morning:

——
Subject: FW: PLEASE FORWARD AND R2,00 WILL BE DONATED

Love is the key, forward is the motion, don’t be afraid to love
someone. Hi, my name is Surita Diputs Naidoo. I live in Chatsworth,
South Africa. I am 8 years old, and I have been in a hit and run accident
with a taxi.My 14 year old brother was killed instantly, and my father later died at RK Khan’s Hospital, Chatsworth. My mother and I are now living with my grandparents.

The doctors have told me that I need corrective surgery as my face
and arms were badly burned in the accident. Fortunately, my plight
was brought to the attention of a wealthy Herbal Importer in Reservoir
Hills, South Africa, who, with the help of IBM, have promised to give me
R2 for every person this e-mail is forwarded to.

Please send to as many people as you can and GOD bless. Remember,
have a heart. Surita Diputs Naidoo, Unit 9, Chatsworth, Durban,
South Africa.

——

I took the liberty of tiding it up a bit, those 50 000 forwarding arrows are a bitch.

Getting back to my career choice, perhaps I am meant to be helping little kids like Amy and Surita by giving them advice that might just help them get through this difficult time in their lives.

So, let’s see if I can help Surita:

Dear Surita

I am so glad that your e-mail made its way to my inbox. There were just so many other messages from demanding bosses and ungrateful co-workers that it’s a pleasure to receive something that is not work related and where I feel I can really make a difference.

I really am sorry to hear of your accident. It might help you to know that you are not the only victim of a taxi incident. Perhaps you and your mom could find a local support group. Hearing other people’s stories and how they overcame the difficulties they faced might well help you in recovering from this tragedy and dealing with the loss of your brother and dad.

I must tell you that I am a little surprised by IBM’s attitude – they clearly have the funds to help you out one time and all yet they make you send around an e-mail to the entire planet. Surita, child, I hate to break it to you but I think whomever you spoke with at IBM doesn’t really work for IBM. I have it on very good authority that e-mail tracking is damn near impossible and with the resources they would need to spend to track an e-mail, it would be way cheaper to pay for your surgery themselves.

IBM is not a bad company, at least not as far as I know, so I don’t think they would be this cruel.

Your wealthy Herbal Importer is another matter all together. He sounds very much like a self made man and I gather them self made types hate giving things away for nothing. Witness Donald Trump’s “The Apprentice” where Donald makes the contestants prove they have what it takes, that they deserve a shot at the big time because they earned it (oh wait, your mom’s probably flogged the TV to pay for medical expenses, sorry, that was a rather insensitive slip on my part).

I’m thinking that perhaps you should approach your wealthy Herbal Importer with the following proposal.

Importing herbs can be rather difficult but even if you make it past those blasted dogs at the airport, delivering the herbs locally can be a problem. Now that our local police are no longer allowed to make use of the services of professionals for free (I keep forgetting you’re only 8 years old, ask your mom to explain this one when she thinks you’re old enough), they have to find other ways of keeping busy and as always, they pick on the innocent folks running the herbal import industry.

This is where you come in. Cops are very unlikely to hassle an 8 year old. It’s more likely that they will give you an armed escort to wherever you need to go. So, you can happily go along and help your wealthy Herbal Importer to deliver his herbs to his clients in Chatsworth.

Now, I know and you know that your little deliveries will hardly make a difference to his bottom line. However, it’s your willingness to work, do something for yourself that will impress this self-made man. I’m thinking that he’ll be so impressed that he’ll pay for your operations himself. Or failing that, he’ll at least let you have some herbs to take home.

The latter might be preferable. Next time your mom makes some breyani she can leave out the curry leaves and use some of your hard earned herbs instead. Guaranteed that after that meal you’ll feel A LOT better (so will your mom and grandparents for that matter). You’ll feel so good, in fact, that you might just want to give up this silly surgery nonsense.

I think you should embrace your circumstances (the herbs will help) and focus on getting your education. Your Herbal Importer can’t live forever and your dedication and hard work from such an early age will stand you in good stead when he has to choose a successor for the herbal import business, 20 years from now.

Once you have control of the empire you can get that surgery. It will be a case of seriously delayed gratification, but I think the wait will be worth it and you can get your boobs done at the same time (turst me, at 28,you’ll be wanting better boobs).

I wish you the best of luck.

Sincerely

Geek’s Girl

PS – I live at Unit 12 Bellville, Cape Town, South Africa. Not that I expect any payment for my advice, it’s payment enough if my advice works for you, but if there’s any chance you can send some of those herbs my way I’d be most grateful.

PPS – Am doing a little research project of my own and would like to know if you were wearing shoes at the time of your accident? If so, did you make it all the way to the hospital with both shoes?

Okay, so I haven’t managed to post anything in a while. Partly it’s been because I have not had anything to write about. But mostly I’ve been a bit busy at work, you know, actually working. I’m not usually quite that motivated to really do anything resembling work at the office (although typing e-mail to friends, family and foes seems to fool the folks into thinking I’m really busy) but you know, the 25^th rolls around, I get a pay slip, I think, shit maybe I’d better DO something to earn this this piece of paper. This enthusiasm and productivity lasts about as long as the money does – it’s a long 48 hours. Yet despite my massive work load (this week I really earned the Christmas bonus I’m never going to get), I did have time to read my e-mail.

Once again I received an e-mail from a concerned co-worker about Amy Bruce. I remember the first time I received an e-mail about Amy Bruce. I was so moved by her plight I e-mailed absolutely everyone in my address book. That poor, dear child, only seven years old and already a victim of cancer and abuse. I shed a tear for Amy Bruce and I said a prayer because I really did not think my paltry efforts at passing on her poignant e-mail would save her life.

So imagine my absolute delight when I received yet another e-mail from yet another concerned co-worker about Amy. I thought Amy was sending out a message to the good, kind people that passed on her mail to let them know that her and our prayers had been answered, that her tumour was gone, her cancer was in remission and that AOL / Bill Gates / Some or Other Charity had paid her millions because her e-mail message had traversed the cyberglobe a thousand times.

And yes, it seems that her e-mails and our prayers have been answered, in a manner of speaking. As usual God is moving in ultra mysterious ways. You see, Amy is still suffering from cancer. She still has the tumour. She’s still with the family who repeatedly beat her and caused her tumour in the first place. Yet God’s miracle to Amy is the fact that 5 years after I received her original e-mail she is still alive and she is still only seven years old.

One of the best things about childhood used to be that it did not last. Your life may end before your childhood does but provided you could survive brocolli, breath mints, your big brother and your strange uncle Bob with the bulge, you’d eventually grow up. Not poor little Amy though, doomed forever to be seven years old, too small to defend herself from the awful adults calling themselves her parents, too young to just walk away. When He said suffer the little children to come to me he wasn’t kidding!

I sent that e-mail halfway across the world. I wasn’t sure where little Amy lived (I always put the lack of address down to Amy being afraid that her parents would find out about her desperate plea for help and finally beat her to death) but I feverently hoped that God would send an Angel to rescue her. He didn’t. I guess even God needs an address.

But all is not lost. I have some advice for Amy and maybe, just maybe, someone out there will read my blog and be able to get my message across to this poor child.

Dear Amy

Not you cancer nor your tumour or your parents for that matter have managed to kill you (yet). I know I can’t help you personally but I’m hoping I can offer some advice that a five year old seven-year-old like yourself can put to some good use.

You do have some positives going for you. You’re still alive and you’re still seven years old.

First off, forget AOL and all the rest. Rather focus on the cosmetic companies – like Revlon, Clinique, Elizabeth Arden (to mention but a few brands resting on my bathroom shelf). Every year they spend millions on research and development to create products that will keep women looking young and wrinkle free. These products don’t work though so the R&D continues.

I bet if you told these cosmetic companies your story they would rescue you in a heartbeat in the hopes that they can turn your miracle into moolah.

Of course they will want to perform all sorts of tests on you, to find the secret of your seeming eternal youth. Don’t be alarmed. These are scientists and big business types. They do not believe in God or miracles. I say go along with whatever they want to do. It can’t be any worse then your current situation (what’s another tumour?) and at least you can stop worrying about second hand smoke, I’m sure they’ll let you have your own cigarettes.

I’m sure too that they will establish a lovely eternal youth product range bearing your name. And for every jar of potion purchased a donation will be made to the foundation that also bears your name (hey, sooner or later even the best test bunny gets euthenised).

I, in turn, promise to buy the useless potions and shall think of you often as I pursue my quest for eternal youth (as every woman must when she turns 30).

I know the solution is not the best, but it’s better then a beating.

Sincerely

Geek’s Girl