Oh Blog It All

I know, I know, as a south African I’m not supposed to be siding with the Aussies but I’ll make an exception. It seems the Aussies are keen to lure international visitors to their shores and have gone to a lot of trouble to create a TV ad showcasing all that is great about Australia and giving one a taste of what Aussie humour is like.

Unfortunately the British and the Canadians don’t share that sense of humour. The Brits have a problem with the word “bloody” while the Canadians take exception to a half empty glass of beer and the word “hell”.

(Personally I’d take exception to the half glass of beer myself. If you want me to come over then hell, don’t be stingy with the beer.)

Naturally all this fuss made me want to see the ad as well. They have a website for it and I headed over to have a look. Unfortunately I don’t share Australia’s taste in operating systems.

On second thought, the Aussies can fight this one on their own.

I’m always flattered when I get tagged for a meme, means someone was thinking of me. In this case it was the lovely Marisa who tagged me with this meme.

Things I need every morning
More sleep but I don’t always get it
Sunshine on my drive to work but good luck getting any of that in Cape Town in winter (which is fast approaching)

Things that turn me off
Dirty finger nails
Greasy hair

Things that turn me on
Shaved heads
Tattoos

Things I believe in
If you don’t get the lesson the first time, it just keeps coming round (and more painfully so) until you do.

Things I am afraid of
Spiders
Snakes
Scary Movies

Things I do every day
Surf the Internet
Cook

Things I want to do before I die
Travel beyond my country’s borders
Get another tattoo
Shave my head

People I want to meet
Marisa
Tertia
Tai

Numbers that rule my life
The number of hours I work every month because that determines how much money I earn every month

Favorite colours
Blue
Cherry Red

Names you won’t answer to
Sweetie
“Gesiggie”

Parts of your heritage
Scottish
Jewish (apparently)

Things you are wearing right now
A smart pair of black trousers, the circus tent blouse and a pair of orange slops

Favorite songs today
The Hand That Feeds - Nine Inch Nails
Get the Balance Right - Depeche Mode

Your hobbies
Cross Stitch
Creative Writing
Reading

Places you want to visit
Seattle
Scotland
Zanzibar

Ways you are unstereotypically male/female
I love playing violent video games

People to tag
The people I’d want to tag have already done this one but if anyone out there is looking for some blog filler then feel free to go tag yourself.

I caught a snippet of the news last night where they were talking about the Jacob Zuma rape trial. They mentioned that the victim’s sexual history had been allowed in court as part of the evidence. I was shocked. What did that have to do with anything? She either gave consent or she did not. And if she did not then she was raped.

I get so angry about this that I don’t even know where to begin. Fortunately there is a blogger who does say it better then I do. Please also read the comments, very enlightening.

The mirror was huge, it covered nearly the whole wall. She tried to ignore it, ignore the reflection of her naked self as she always did in the tiny mirror above her basin in her bathroom back home. If she did not look then she did not have to see, she reasoned to herself. Yet it was hard not to look and perhaps had she not slipped on a wet tile she might never have had to see.

It was something red on her stomach, like a scratch, only she could not tell for sure by looking down because her breasts were in the way. She ventured a quick glance in the mirror and became caught by the sight of her reflection, unable to move. There was not one, but two of the red marks on her stomach. One almost the mirror image of the other, her bellybutton creating the centre line. They were not scratches, they were new stretch marks.

She ran her fingers over the marks, tracing each one’s path from bottom to top. They did not hurt. Her fingers kept moving upward over her stomach, over her breasts which had always been too large, over what would one day be a proper double chin and stopped. Her eyes followed her fingers and for the first time in a long, long time she saw herself, her naked self.

She had avoided doing this, seeing all of herself just as she had avoided beaches and swimming pools and summer outings and boys. Her tiny bathroom mirror showed so little. She had not wanted to know what it was that she did not see.

Now she saw and now she knew. She was fat; not chubby, not plump, not rounded, fat. She had avoided looking because she thought it would not be pretty but she had no idea that it was so disgusting. It was like seeing fresh road kill on the highway, bloody and gross, but being unable to turn away. Now that she had seen she could no longer pretend that it wasn’t there.

Her disgusting, fat flesh had become too much to contain, she was bursting out of her own skin. There were no more illusions, the angry red stretch marks had shattered them once and for all. She was fat and fat was all that she would ever be. She reached for the brush and began.

Her auburn hair is rolled into an elegant chignon. Her eyeshadow makes her hazel eyes look green. Her lipstick is a shade of red that perfectly matches the tiny ruby brooch on her lapel. The black suit is slimming and elegant on her. Her shoes are black satin, the high heels making her seem taller then she really is. She is perfectly groomed, nothing is out of place.

I wonder to myself why they chose white satin, it does not suit her complexion. She looks pale and washed out, all that perfect grooming spoiled by such a careless detail.

I cry.

I cry because I envy her perfect grooming. I cry because when my turn comes I’ll probably get white satin too. I cry because I never told her that I loved her. I cry because she was never fat to me. I cry because I don’t want to be fat like her. I cry because I am her.