Friday, October 8, 2010

Goin' on a summer 'olliday

This whole ‘getting paid by the hour’ thing is fucking with my travelling chi. What it means, for those of you who get paid leave, is that I not only have to save up for my holiday, I have to save up enough to cover the amount I’m losing by taking the leave. That’s a lot of saving for a simple week away in Moz or summink.

Truthfully, I’m aware that a lot of people don’t take holidays. They may take leave, but wont necessarily go away. Either because they don’t want to flood the coast with the rest of Joburg, or simply because they can’t afford it. Not that you have to. I am a hard advocate for some well-earned couch-potato time. I don’t think there’s much that’s more relaxing than being able to get up, shower, get back into pjs and spend the rest of the day reading. Or watching tele.

(Rhino Butt)

Other than getting away, of course. ‘Cause face it – we could do the lounging about thing on a weekend if we wanted to. Nothing’s quite as invigorating as leaving the city you’re in and completely displacing yourself. No work to take up your time or your mind space. No bills filling up your mailbox. Yet. No friends pushing you to get pissed every Friday and Saturday. Slash every night of said holiday. It’s just relaxing and detaching.

Which explains why people who shouldn’t really go on holiday (I.e. me) still make a point of doing it. Plus I really don’t want to become a jaded city person. It’s not like Jozi’s New York City with it’s “all you need” access, but it’s bustling and smelly and the same. And I need time in the bush. (Insert stupid joke here.)

I was raised going on “safari” holidays. We went to game lodges more than we went to the beach as a family. And I love it. I love that dry, midday heat and the smell of sage a lot more than the humid, clammy heat and sand sticking to my arse and finding its way into every orifice. I don’t dislike the sea by any means – love it – I just have my preferences. Call it a curse of familiarity. But I immediately power-down and zen out when my car enters big five territory. I don’t even mind waking up at 5am to catch a beautiful morning drive. (And you should know how I feel about sleep…) There’s always a yummy breakfast when you get back and plenty of nap time in the hot afternoons. There’s no TV, which I love. It’s another way of distancing yourself beautifully from your everyday hobbits. You just veg out. Literally sit on a day bed under some shade and stare at a dam or river bed. And if you really need amusement, you can read yourself into Nobel recognition. What more could you possibly want from a holiday?

I do like my ‘olliday’s, not necessarily in Majorcaaaaa.

(This is Majorcaaaaa)

The next issue is of course WHEN to go, WHEN. ‘Cause I really don’t feel like being taken for a ride by one of these:

(This is what accommodation and holiday people look like under their human-masks)

Scolding puppy says you will not judge me for putting up a face-dildo.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Farting behind closed butt cheeks

Farting is a simple yet complicated bodily function. It’s simple, because, well, we need to do it. It’s a totally natural thing. We have internal waste systems for a reason, yea? It’s complicated because most women (in particular) hate it. And ponies smell bad. Duh.

I decided to ask the Twitter world what they thought of farting, particularly in bed. Because you have to realise that at some point in your life, you’re going to fart in front of the person you have sex with. So specifics need to be noted.

You will not actually believe how many people said “it’s fine, as long as it doesn’t stink”.


Seriously? But, like, really?

I’d say 10% of farts are odour free. I don’t think anyone would give a continental shit (all puns in this post intended) about farts if they didn’t smell vile. Much like burping. Burping can be hilarious. Though it seldom is after a spicy dinner.

I could immediately tell who’d been in a comfortable, long-term relationship. The young people replied with their “Oh my GAAD NFW!” (no fucking way) and “I think it’s poor form of either partner” responses.

Most people were of the “Let it Flow” party. “You gotta let it out”; “It’s not paying rent – get outta there!”; “It’s totally bad for you to hold it in.” Mostly men. Obviously.

Now, my other half believes that women suffer from the terrible stomach problems they have because of their tendency to hold back on the tooting. Which is not entirely inaccurate. A huge percentage of women suffer from IBS and all sorts of kak (ya.), which definitely isn’t helped by holding in gas all day. So yes, concluded in the general sense, once you’ve been in a relationship long enough for you to be comfortable to do it, do it. Don’t OVERDO it. But, you know, do what you gotta do. Just a thought.

My query was with bed-farting in particular. Because I hate it. Yes, farting in your sleep is a tricky one to beat, and if the other person’s asleep it can do little harm, so that can pass. But lying in the bed, having just come from night-time ablutions, and letting one rip like a lipless person playing a trumpet, is just not cool. Anger before sleep is never good. Neither is receiving a palm to your nose.

Some said go for it, just be considerate and don’t lift the covers. But then surely it festers like some kind of fart incubator? Only to come out worse with the additional tang of feet? Others said do that, but make an air vent at the bottom with your foot. A more promising suggestion, but not entirely baff-proof. Air doth moveth in mysterious ways. Then there were those who think that Dutch-ovening* is totally hilarious. I don’t know about you, but I would fuck a dude up good and proppa if he EVER did that. Like ball-pummelling kind of pain.

Most of the women suggested doing your best to get it all out in the bathroom and farting away from the other person as much as possible. Which is a typical women answer: It’s endearing and considerate, with the best intentions fitted into reasonable logic. But the truth is farts don’t come on cue to most of us. Some of us are lucky and can channel all unwanted gassage down at once, and eject. For the majority, they usually come up in the middle of a board meeting or lift. And when you’ve just climbed into bed and give that first relaxing sigh. All your muscles relax when you’re relaxed, so it just makes sense.

Is farting in bed okay?

NOT if you do it the first second you’ve climbed in.
NOT if you’re doing it deliberately and you know it’s going to kill all living creatures in a ten meter radius.
NOT if you plan on violently flapping the duvet around, like that’s going to solve the problem.
NOT (NOT NOT NOT NOT) if your arse is facing the other human being beside you. You deserve to have a studded plug shoved in there if you’re gonna tempt that shit.

YES, if you’re asleep.
YES if it’s reasonably inoffensive.
YES, if it’s not going to play out an entire symphony that would put Bach to shame.
(i.e. and wake the other passenger up.)
YES, if you know how to spread your cheeks and make that unnoticeable “ffffffff” sound. That’s funny.
And YES, if you know your partner can have a laugh and get over it. And do it back to you.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Fame-whoring: Wherefore?

It’s funny how right Andy Warhol was when he said that in the future everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes. And it’s not humorous only because he was definitely on to something – it’s because everyone’s so desperate for it. When celebrity first became a visible entity in the world, it was otherworldly. Celebrities were glamorous and godly – they were unique and out of reach. And the life of celebrity was also unattainable. The larger population was happy to accept that it was a rare calling, and they were also happy to admire celebs from their cinema seats.

That changed, both with the increasing power of celebrity and with the path towards total freedom of choice. People became increasingly aware and headstrong of their right to pursue their dreams. We no longer had ‘lots in life’, and had a choice in the matter.

That’s what’s brought us to this point, where every one in two people thinks they should be famous. Or deserves to be famous. Or even worse, thinks they have the talent that acquires fame. Along with the right to vote, the right of speech – general human rights and freedoms, came a very odd need to validate ourselves. It’s no longer good enough to make your family proud, and your friends proud – or even just make yourself proud of your own achievements. Whether it’s a promotion at your small firm, or making partner in a law firm – for some that kind of success isn’t appealing.

Our overexposure to other people’s lives has become a bit hazardous. In more ways than one – but I’ll keep on topic. We “know” all about the personal lives of movie stars and musicians. We watch them being idolised and admired by TV presenters and their peers over their clothes, their personalities and sometimes their talent and beauty (snort). And it’s created a generation of insecure lost souls. There are people who painstakingly think that they need to have their names in a magazine or on a television show in order to be successful. To “win”. To validate their lives since high school, since their last bad break-up or since they lost 30kg, they need to be famous, and prove it.

The worst thing is, they love to think they’re just proving it to themselves, and “doing what they really want to do with their lives”. But they expect that when they “make it”, all those people from school, all those ex-boyfriends and shitty friends will suck it, because they’re famusth. I’d like to chat to someone who really feels better when it all “works out”. I’d ask how it feels now – are you vindicated? Are you content? And I can promise the real answers won’t be yes. They’ll still feel empty, and unfulfilled and wanting. Because what they’re really trying to do is be happy through other people’s opinion of them.

Enter the reality TV show. People who long for fame and haven’t “made it” yet in whichever field, now have this “platform” to fame and, er, fortune. (Excuse me while I fall over and kill myself laughing.) The examples are endless and I don’t have the energy to go through what’s wrong with it – other than it makes for the most dull and pointless viewing I can imagine. How this shit makes it onto television, I have no idea. But now that we have stupid numbers of people becoming famous for absolutely no reason, it’s given more hope to the masses who are mildly aware of their lack of public appeal. Some of the dumbest most vapid people on the planet are household names. And you’d be hard pressed to give a good reason why.

But back to the root of all this need for fame. Yes, we all care what people think to a degree. We have to. We live in societal confines. It’s part of the deal. But isn’t basing your entire existence on what people think exhausting? I mean gaaaad – you’d be rethinking your every move; every sentence you utter; every outfit you wear and how you do your hair. How bloody pointless. And there will be a point reached when they’ll realise all this shit they did “for themselves” has left them with no friends, no real personality and no direction. Sad isn’t it?

Routine Hell

I’m a creature of habit. But I am very fond of change. Ya – walking contradiction, I am. Specifically when it comes to my routine. I wake up at the same time, brush my teeth, put in my contacts lenses etc, etc always in the same order. Nothing wrong with it – it’s a very good time gauge and is definitely one of the reasons why I’m seldom, if ever, late. (Touch wood.) The kak thing about it is that I’m now having to wake up particularly early, what with the whole PTA – JHB schpiel. And my control-freaked always-alert brain constantly reminds me at night that I’ll have to be waking up really early the next morning. It pisses me off, man! ‘Cause it really fucks up my nights. By the time it’s half past eight my mind’s going, “don’t commit to anything now – you’ve got to get to sleep soon”. Sonofabitch.

I miss late movies, late TV shows and much-needed reading. And I’m one minus HDD recorder at the moment so I can’t even tape the shit. (No, I don’t have PVR. Duh. Not retarded.) All in all, feeling very sorry for myself.

Then some nights I try to say “fuck it” and just stay up and watch whatever, read whatever and surf for however long I like. Aaaand of course I hate myself for it in the morning. See, one thing about me that will never change is that I like my sleep. I like eight hours of it. I always have. I’ve tried being that person who can live on five hours’ sleep a night. Either reslutting (yea) in a miserable bitch or quiet and tired toddler. Doesn’t work.

There’s nothing worse than being habitual and routiney and hating said routine. It’s turned me into one of these weekend-loving folks. I’ve obviously always loved weekends, but I’ve never been a Monday-hater or a “count down to Friday” maniac. I’m like that now… It bothers me. ‘Cause my job’s awesome, my weekdays themselves are rad.

I need to get around this whole issue. Kveekly comrade, kveekly.

(Back to more compelling topics soon.)