Oh Blog It All

Spencer is a rather peculiar character. He exists solely because of me. Spencer’s details are stored in an encoded file on a server because he is that important to me. Without Spencer I can do nothing.

But I’m thinking of killing Spencer. It’s not that I hate Spencer or that Spencer has done something terrible to me, rather it’s what Spencer represents. Some days Spencer represents a sandbox complete with bucket and spade where I can happily build sand castles for hours on end. Other days, most days, Spencer represents a dark room where the only light comes from a computer monitor and the only joy comes from remembering the sandbox.

I know most of this, all of this is not Spencer’s fault at all but Spencer is there, Spencer is the key, and less and less does Spencer let me play in the sandbox. I do not want to kill Spencer but Spencer is slowly killing me.

Monday is the day I pull the plug on Spencer’s life support. That is if on Monday I can bring myself to pull the plug. I don’t know that I can do it. I won’t know until I’m standing there in the fluorescent lit room, signing that final piece of paper and handing it over. Spencer might linger for a while still but before the end of February Spencer will be dead. Would I have killed myself in the process as well?

I think that every little girl should get to be a flower girl at least once in her life. Weddings are special but when you’re that little girl all decked out in your special satin dress, with bows in your hair and a basket filled with confetti, the day is extra special. Unfortunately you don’t have much time to be a flower girl. Your kid-cute years sort of come to an abrupt end when you hit 9, and you’re no good as a flower girl unless you can walk so really you have about 7 years to fulfil this dream.

But should you, for some strange reason (like uh, little bro, you’re a boy) not get to experience the wonder and the beauty that is being a flower girl then your next best thing is to be the bride. People definitely notice the bride.

Being the bride also means you get to experience the kitchen tea. If you’re unlucky (and some girls really are) then your female friends and relatives will get together, force you to dress up in some daft outfit that includes really, really baggy pants (for housing your newly acquired used wrapping paper collection) and paint your face with the kind of make-up that looks great on drag queens but makes you look like Barbara Cartland. If God really hates you then some bright spark will think it ever so funny to string together two potatoes and a cucumber and make you wear it as a belt. Guess where the cucumber is supposed to hang?

For some this pain and humiliation is worth it. You get some really great stuff. For others, well, there is always Cash Converters.

Fortunately the era of openly co-habiting has meant that kitchen teas are rather unnecessary. Most of us modern women have lived in our own places for a few years and probably have all the tea strainers we can ever want. But we women needed a reason to get together and celebrate the fact that we’ve conned some shmoe dear man into taking out the garbage once a week for the rest of his natural life. Enter the bachelorette party.

(As an aside - I hate the term bachelorette - makes us sound like wanna-be males and quite frankly I don’t wanna be a male, those cucumbers look uncomfortable and downright dangerous).

Ah, The Bachelorette Party, where women get together to drink copious amounts of alcohol and watch men take their clothes off for cash. Okay, never mind what I said as an aside.

And then finally the big day dawns.

I offer some advice to the bride. Firstly, in this day of co-habiting my grandmother certainly feels it is inappropriate to wear the big white dress and the veil. I agree, but only if white makes you look like unbaked Mama’s Pie and the big dress makes you look like, well, a Guinness World Record Mama’s Pie.

A dress of colour might not be a bad thing but beware, there exists the remote possibility that some uninvited, inebriated ingrate will crash your do. He will cast his eyes around, focus on you in your divine sage green dress, stagger over and slur “You must be the hot bridesmaid”. If this statement is liable to make you cry, consider wearing something in cream, beige or pale gold. And if your groom doesn’t deck the uncouth asshole, consider looking for a good divorce lawyer, it only gets worse from there.

Secondly, a morning wedding seems like a good idea. Although you run the risk of severe sunburn and possible sunstroke while posing for pictures in the midday sun, a morning wedding can be quite cost effective especially if you have the reception in the church hall. No booze and no dancing equals a great saving. But with no entertainment your new father-in-law might take it upon himself to entertain the masses with his four hour how-to-have-a-perfect-marriage lecture, even though he is with much younger wife Number 2.

Lastly, and this is maybe the most important advice I can give any bride. At some point during the ceremony the minister will ask if there is anyone present that knows of a reason why the happy couple can’t be joined in holy matrimony. Most couples hold their breath and pray their skeletons are firmly buried in the back yard. It is a tense moment and it seems that some light hearted relief is called for. If your grandma were to fart loudly right then it would be funny. You raising your hand in the air as if to object might elicit a few nervous chuckles but no one will step forward and save you from your folly, they will merely think that you are clowning around, as usual.

So there you have it. Make of it what you will, but remember, I’ve been a flower girl not once but twice, I’ve seen it all.

Me: How do you know if you have a virus on your phone?

My Geek: It does funny things, why?

Me: I had a missed call and when I went to check the number there was just letters and punctuation marks scrolling across the screen.

My Geek: Caller ID mismatch, not a virus.

Me: So I can’t take my phone and rub it all over my monitor at work thereby transferring the virus and bringing down the network.

My Geek: Ah, no.

Me: Damn

Lyrics that I have found, so far, that are sort of relevant to this post include:

“Start spreading the news, I’m leaving today”

“I’m taking a ride”

“I’m leaving on a jet plane”

“I want to be in another place”

“Got to move on sometime”

If you’re wondering what I’m on, the answer is anti-histamines and I’m still quite drowsy. If you’re wondering what I’m on about, well I’m trying to tell you that I’m moving my blog. You might recall that sometime ago I mentioned (okay, wrote an entire post about it) that I have my own domain.

I had hoped to have my blog moved to there before the end of last year. But then Santa brought me and iPod and an EyeToy and I got a little side-tracked. Do you blame me?

So, finally I’ve got things set up on my domain and now you can go read my blog there if you like. I also plan to copy all my archives and previous posts accross to that side as well. Okay when I say “I also plan to copy…” what I really mean is that I’ll be asking my Geek for advice on how to do it, then I’l claim that I’m not computer savvy enough to do it myself and can he please help me and when he agrees to help me then I’ll nag and nag and nag and nag and nag until it’s done. And yes, he’ll have read this post and know what my plan is and he’ll still love me anyway but only because I’m a damn good cook.

“Let me take you on a trip”

I hope you’ll stop by at the new blog and check it out.

Best regards

Geek’s Girl

PS - “I’ll make it all worthwhile”

Because I had so much fun using song lyrics in a blog post, I’ve decided to pepper this post with a few more. Perhaps pepper is not a good choice of word, I’m still sneezing despite having taken two anti-histamines. But anyway, if you just arrived here I could go with:

“And so you’re back, from outer space”

or

“Well it’s about time”

But that just might come accross as me being all smarmy and snotty and stuff. Although snotty is entirely accurate but you don’t really need those kinds of visuals, just please “Try walking in my shoes” and you’ll know I’m not thinking to clearly at this point in time (yet it doesn’t stop me from blogging, but hey, at least I’m not driving).

“Finding the right words” for this post “Can be a problem” because I suddenly ran out of appropriate song lyrics.

Let’s just say that this is “Somewhere I belong” and I promise “I’ll confide everything” because “This addiction that we’re both part of” needs a regular fix. And there I go on about the drugs again, you know there is some freaky shit available over-the-counter.

Anyway, I’ve “Being walking home a crooked mile” but “Finally I’ve found that I belong here”.

I hope you’ll call again.

When I started writing this post it was going to be all about how evil digital cameras are. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that I didn’t get one for Christmas. Rather it was a reaction to a folder sitting on our company server called “End Year Party 2004″. Specifically it was those pictures that happened to have me in them that were particularly evil.

I was going to explain the evilness of digital cameras by pointing out that in the good old days developing photos were expensive and people were more careful about what they photographed, unlike today’s people who snap away with reckless abandon and then leave the sad results somewhere for all to find.

I just know some of my co-workers are looking at those pictures, the ones with me in them, and wondering how in hell I got a job here. I bet you some of them are thinking I’m the special affirmative action case the company had to hire - you know, one ‘intellectually challenged individual’ on staff that cancels out at least three white male middle managers. Affirmative Action is a strange concept sometimes.

And for the record, I’m not really an ‘intellectually challenged individual’, blog posts to the contrary. I’m more like what you imagine Dilbert’s Induhviduals to look like. I think it has something to do with my droopy eye, the one I only have in photographs because my mirror doesn’t lie. .

Before we go any further I just need to state that NO, I will not be posting the photos on this blog or anywhere for that matter. I’m not going to be the girl who goes down in history as the Induhvidual who broke the Internet.

But I’ll give you an idea of how bad it is. There’s the photo of me standing in line at the bar to get a non-alcoholic beverage. You know it’s non-alcoholic because my hands are clasped before me and my eyes are closed, I look like I’m praying. In fact I think I was praying because I saw the guy with the digital camera coming my way and I just know I was thinking “Please God, please let me not end up in any of these photos”.

Then there is the other one of me, taken from behind, where I’m doing some kind of bird impersonation with my leg bent all funny. The bird in question could a be flamingo or a crane or something, I’m not sure which. The only thing I know about birds is how to make a decent roast chicken and I’m not even sure chicken is a bird.

The first prize goes to the one of me doing my “Old Crone” impersonation. It’s a side view picture and it looks like I have a widow’s hump (though I swear, Your Honour, I divorced the SOB) and this when I’m only 30. Then there’s my scrawny arms and claw-hands seemingly held in readiness to pounce on a small child and eat it. Oh and I think that was the day I decided to forgo a full petticoat and go with a wine barrel with shoulder straps instead.

I was going to blame this all on the digital camera but then realised it’s not the camera’s fault. The camera (digital or otherwise) doesn’t make me wear a hairstyle reminiscent of the wig Willem Dafoe sported in Boondock Saints. The camera (digital or otherwise) just tells it like it is. So I looked at the photos again, carefully, and then it hit me in the face.

It was the blouse - the black one with antique coloured roses all over the place. This blouse is what you would get if you decided to allow florals to inspire you in your circus tent design business. It’s bad and it gets worse.

My own little circus tent carries the Penny C label so it wasn’t a cheap circus tent you understand. I just wish Penny C would take the time to actually look at people who wear something a little bigger then a size 8. Would someone please tell Penny that us non-anorexic people really benefit from darts, and tailoring, and small print florals. Unfortunately some of us only learned this after increasing her net worth by a few thousand rands.

Yes those same few of us also value, value for money and only wearing something once is just criminal so every now and then we drag it out of the wardrobe for one last wear. We do this while conveniently forgetting that there may be digital cameras floating around at the event in question. And then we end up with the sad, pathetic results sitting on a server for all to look and laugh at.

You know what they used to do to witches, well, the time has come for the same to be done to the blouse. Tonight it will burn, BURN, BURN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But that blouse was expensive, so expensive, it will be like burning real money. I think I might need a few fruit dainties to help ease the pain. Or maybe some chips, with dip of course. Peanuts, what’s a blouse burning without peanuts? Oh, and smoked oysters in cotton seed oil on sesame seed crackers. Some cheese and wine maybe, I want this to be a classy affair. And if it proves to be really hard work we can have beer and pizza (ALWAYS with extra cheese, and salami and cheese and bacon and cheese) afterwards to replenish our strength.

No more shall the Penny C Circus Tent Blouse make me look like a pious, barrel-shaped bird impersonator with Willem Dafoe Ho Hair. It’s evil reign ends tonight. And if the rest of my wardrobe doesn’t take note and start making me look good in photos they will follow suit.

I give you Mr Joe Gordon, yet another blogger that has been fired because of his blog (i.e. dooced).

Mr Gordon tell’s his story here

Granted, I’ve never read his blog before and really can’t say whether his employer was justified. Somehow I doubt it though. You see, readers and fellow bloggers alike, this could be any one of us. The question is whether our employers have the right to govern every aspect of our lives. The answer is a resounding NO.

I wish I could boycott the bookstore in question (I already actively choose not to buy EA games but not quite for the same reason) but alas I live in another country where fortunately they don’t operate. What I can do is draw attention to Mr Gordon’s story and hope that you might do likewise.

I was one of those good girls at school. You know they type, friendly to my classmates, respectful to my teachers, always did my homework and my chores. I did well enough at school to make my parents proud even if I wasn’t top of my class. I was liked by pretty much everyone too.

Except the boys, boys never did like me. Or perhaps they did and I never noticed. I was sure, though, that if one of them really liked me he would have at least asked me out, even if our date was really the two of us meeting at a school dance and him buying me a colddrink. But I didn’t even get to have that kind of date.

Boys, it seemed, really didn’t like me, which is why I ended up going to my matric farewell with my cousin Jacob. I might not have minded going to my matric farewell with one of my cousins if that cousin was Robert, who was ten years older then me, who smoked and swore and had a tattoo. I thought he was cool, my mother thought he was trash and so she was the one who called Jacob and asked him to go with me.

There was a time when I used to think that Jacob was kind of cool too. He knew all these really big words like ‘disconcerting’ and would use them whenever he got the chance. I thought that this made him really clever. Then one day I noticed him noticing my boobs and I thought he was a bit creepy. He became really creepy when I noticed that the looked at everyone’s boobs, including his mother’s, as if he were seeing them exposed in a porno magazine. Then he would smile this creepy little smile and slide his hand into his pocket.

When I think back on things now I realise that I did have other options besides having Jacob go with me to the matric farewell. I could have risked asking Dominique to go with me and if he said no (which he wouldn’t have because he didn’t have a date either) I could have gone alone (Dominique did). But I was only 17 and terribly shy and naive and all I did was mope around and pray for some calamity to befall Jacob or me so that the whole thing would be called off.

The day of the Matric Farewell dawned cloudy and cold and both Jacob and I were in disgustingly good health. I did have a glimmer of hope for a disaster when the electricity went out at about two o’clock but that glimmer faded when the lights came back on at five. Then we were being driven to the venue by my mom who seemed grimly determined to get us there in one piece.

Things I remember about my matric farewell - the girl who arrived in a silver dress that looked as if it was made of tinfoil; dancing with Jacob and having him stare at my bust the whole time; only having the starter and desert because I somehow overlooked the section of the buffet serving the main course; Jacob staring at the bust of every girl at our table; catching Dominique looking at me and smiling a regretful little smile as if he wished that he were the one sitting next to me.

I dearly wanted to go to the after party and my parents might have allowed me to go but Jacob filled them with horror stories of teenage drunkenness and teenage sex and so I wasn’t allowed to go. Instead I found myself in bed just after midnight, reliving my matric farewell only this time with Dominique by my side. I think I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

It started out as a good dream. Dominique and I were walking along the water’s edge holding hands. There was so much I wanted to tell him, tried to tell him but he silenced me with a kiss instead. Then there we were, laying under the willow tree, him undressing me and telling me I was beautiful and he loved me and how he was going to fuck my pussy raw. And it wasn’t Dominique any more, it was Jacob and he was holding a hand over my mouth and pinning me down with his body as he shoved his cock into me. And it hurt, so much, and I just kept telling myself that it was a horrible dream and I would wake up and it would all be over.

I did wake up and it was all over, all over the sheets. Blood. I told my mother it was because my period had come early and I was unprepared. And when the bleeding carried on for days I believed I was right. Eventually the blood did stop flowing and my stomach started swelling and I found myself sitting in the doctor’s consulting room and my mother was asking “who?”.

I knew the right answer was Jacob. I gave her the right answer. Jacob. And she asked again “Who?” And she was still asking three hours later as she hit me with a belt anywhere she could reach. Who?

And I remembered the beginning of my dream and how lovely and perfect it was. Who? And I said Dominique. And she stopped.

My mother sent me to live with her sister while we waited for the baby to be born. It was adopted by some family and I was never told whether it was a girl or a boy. I was allowed to move back home after that but I knew that Dominique and his family had moved to another town so there didn’t seem to be much point in going back. They say you can never go back anyway.

It’s been 12 years now. I still sometimes google for Dominique’s name, hoping he has a blog or a home page or that his name will be listed somewhere. I thought I found him once but I just could not bring myself to send off the carefully worded e-mail I had composed. What if it wasn’t him, or worse, what if it was? Could he ever understand or forgive?

I wish I were a writer, a good one, so that I could write a new story. In the new story Dominique and I will make love under the willow tree. My swelling stomach would be a source of love and pride for both of us. We will get married and watch our son grow up. When we’re old we will watch our grandchildren play in our front yard. We will look at each other and remember that willow tree with fondness.

And that story will have a happy ending.