An Ode to a Decision

Yesterday a friend of mine died. It is unclear whether he took his own life or whether it was an accidental overdose. Last night I couldn’t sleep, the lack of clarity haunted me.  Finally I fell asleep with the hope (and I really don’t do much of the hoping-stuff) that he decided on an action and took it. I hoped my friend’s death was suicide and not accidental.

I understand many people will find this not only controversial, but most probably an abomination. How the fuck can I wish that someone committed suicide?? How is this better than an accidental overdose? It is. It means he made a decision, one that he followed through. Many people believe suicide is an “easy way out”, and I am sure there are cases where it was. Many people are saying today about my friend; he should’ve tried harder. Those people did not know my friend, because he did. He tried with all his might. There is only one thing harder than trying, and that is admitting that one has failed. This does not make my friend a bad person, or one who should be defined as a “failure”. It makes him human. A man, not a boy, faced his situation and made a noble decision. Some may say that quitting is not a noble decision. People quit all the time, they walk out of relationships, jobs, marriages. In cases where these situations were bad for the individual we applaud the decision. Maybe this life, this sphere, this world was bad for my friend. It is heartbreaking to be left behind, it is unimaginable the pain my friend’s family are feeling right now, but it would also be dishonourable to the memory of our friend to deny that ultimately he made a decision for himself.

You will not be missed, you are missed. Fare well my friend, tonight I have a Jagermeister on you.

 

The Green Tunnel, the Green Ambulance in it and a Stuntman

Chapter 2 Xperience 88 & 89

It is quite obvious that not much has been happening on the new xperience side of life lately. For some reason I though going to varsity at my “advanced” age, would be more blog-worthy, it turns out I am sadly mistaken. Yeah, new things happen, though nothing that inspires me to grab my phone and blog in traffic (not that I’ve ever done that, by the way).

But every now and again you get a text message that goes in the direction of “Hey Couz, feel like going on an adeventure?”. I adore adventure, I ache for adventure, I might change my middle name to Adventure. OK, truth is, I NEED to do something other than study, study and study. At this stage going to the Spar in the next neigbourhood is an adventure, but let’s leave it at that.

Coolly I inquire what might this adventure be? Some stuntman is doing his thing on a movie set, close to home and Couz is the paramedic standby. Hell’s yeah!! Where in my life would I miss seeing someone doing something utterly mind boggling stupid? Where, when and may I take photo’s? Oh, did I mention all this is happening in a tunnel?

I have not yet taken the liberty to complain here just how cold it is in Johannesburg for someone that’s been living in Cape Town for more than a decade. So it is ball freezing, mind altering and soul deadening cold here (don’t even try to tell me it’s colder in other parts in the world, I do not give a flying f*ck), but I put on an extra layer under my thickest, woolliest “Russian” coat and I meet the paramedics at a Sasol garage not too far from my house.

Labeling is wrong. Sometimes though, you can’t help it, it’s too easy (because they’re wearing uniforms) and what would the world be without labeling? (I’m going straight to Anthropology hell). Back to labeling, there were Metro policemen and paramedics (uniforms and gruesome medic talk), the stuntman (his nose looks like a toddler made it from clay, seriously) his sidekicks (checking the bike, making comments about the angle of the fall, the wetness of the road, that kinda thing) and then the director (skinny jeans, beanie, nerdy/arty glasses, expensive shaggy haircut), oh and his sidekicks (similar uniform, hustling behind him, talking in f-stops, apertures and likewise Go-Pro lingo). See why this is sooooo easy? But no actors tonight (dammit, one label I would have loved to do).

Off we go to the site for the shoot and I get to ride in the green ambulance!! No, not the hangover kind you buy from the garage close to your house the next morning, a real green ambulance, like this:

Whooooooo, it is awesome if you are not bleeding, dying or working in it. And an xperience by itself (insert one mighty smug smile right here).

We arrive at the scene of the accident (to happen) and it looks like something from a movie (pun intended). The tunnel is green, like the entrance to another world…and I’m in happy snappy heaven!

Then the stuntman gets dressed, safety gear and all that kinda stuff, takes a few practice rides up and down the tunnel, while the technical people strap the cameras to a helmet, the sidekicks all confer in their respective lingo’s and the paramedics find out if said stuntman might be allergic to anything. The atmosphere is loaded, the expectations are high. On with the camera helmet for another practice run;

More adjustments to the camera, a water-truck wets the road, the paramedics stand by, last gear check a deep breath aaaaaand…

That gut-wrenching bang and then silence for a few seconds before the sidekicks shouts for the stuntman. He answers he’s OK, the medics rush forward to make sure all is good. The bike is broken, the cameras are not (to everyone’s surprise, for both the bike and the cameras) and it would seem they got the shot. But the stuntman turns out to be slightly banged-up too and what does the madman ask when he’s told his collarbone is broken? “Did we get the shot? Is it looking hot?” then to a sidekick,  “I think I let go of the break too quick, that’s why I shot up into the air and against the barrier, sorry boet.”

So, I get to ride in the ambulance again, in the front this time, and it’s still too damn cool if you are not bleeding, dying or working (insert another smug smile). We have to search for a hospital with an open bed (just like that movie with that actor about ambulances in the dark, you know which one?), maybe it sounds a bit more dramatic than what it really was (I don’t care this is my story and my xperience, shurrup), the next hospital could help us…

All in all, I got to ride in an ambulance (once, twice, thrice, three time’s a passenger) without being a victim (that is cool), saw the making of a stunt scene in a movie (xperience 89) and got to spend some time with the coolest people in Jozi. And I have the photo’s to prove it all. Hey Couz, when’s that next adventure??

 

Of myths and the highly improbable

Chapter 2 Xperience 87

Please be advised that you are reading this post at your own risk. If you are in any way squeamish about feminine hygiene, move right along to another post.

Ok, that done, let me first explain what made me blog again after months of silence. After moving to Jozi and starting varsity at the ripe and ready age of thirty-something, I found so far nothing profound to write about. That is until today. (Once again, please, move along if you don’t like any blunt explanations of the female anatomy).

One always hear of urban medical myths such as tonsils growing back, or read in the tampons pamphlet about the chance of strings coming loose (highly improbable!) and gold in the streets of Jozi (Egoli).
Well, a year or so ago I went to the doctor with bad bronchitis and a worse sore throat. It turns out I had tonsillitis on the tonsils removed almost three decades ago…myth one busted!
Then today I went to the loo to replace my tampon, something I’ve been doing every four hours during every menstruation since puberty, in other words, I’ve used a lot of these.
But today, when I pulled the string, that was all I was awarded with. For a few seconds I stared at the limp detached piece of string before I realised… the highly improbable happened again.
Now the next question was, how to retrieve the lost tampon. I know the right answer is Go To the Emergency Room, but here’s the thing; I’ve recently moved back in with my parents. Even though my dad has pretty much heard and seen almost everything living with 3 women, I just couldn’t march into the kitchen and demand to be taken to the doctor and explain why. Oh, and my 3 year old niece is visiting, imagine explaining this to her!
So after reading the damn pamphlet
again to make sure that this doesn’t happen in every packet, I calmed my nerves and decided to try and retrieve it myself. I would try 3 times and if not…I’ll call for help. It so happens 5 is the magic number. I won’t freak you out with details, but I have invented 5 new ways of describing those little pieces of cotton.

Sorry to make a comeback from below the water line (horrible pun), but the way things are going I might be blogging about gold soon…

 

Romeo, oh Romeo make way for the swans!

Xperience 86

How do you get 4 woman to dress up in high heels on a wintry night in the middle of the week, have them pay for their own tickets and drinks with not one word of bitching? Two words; Swan Lake.

Some people might roll their eyes, wander over to the fridge to get some beer while making jokes about men in tights and what not. Or my personal favourite from my dad, calling it Die Vrekkende Swaan (the Dying Swan) and naming a list of better cultural things to do, thank goodness my mom shares my interest in this one.

After my previous attempt to book ballet tickets and ending up at a strange version of Romeo & Juliette with some dancers in it, I made double sure this is the real deal. With men in tights – dancing – lots of women in white dresses – dancing – and the real music score by Pyotr Tchaikovsky – not dancing (well maybe in his grave).

Artscape was packed, we sipped our Zonnebloem and discussed every outfit walking past, also wondered what some of the men were promised by the women in their lives to see the ballet without complaining. But all of that was forgotten when the lights dimmed. The overture, played by the Cape Philharmonic Orchestra, set the scene I breathed in and only let out during the interval.

I’m always blown away when I see a live music act or original art in a gallery. But nothing really prepares you when faced with a group of artists who spend their whole life on perfecting an arabesque, pas de deux, pirouette and a whole glossary of movements that’ll break any normal body. The fact that you can hear their toes (because that’s pretty much the only part of their bodies ever touching Mother Earth, or Mother Stage if you want) above the music, on the beat of the score amplifies the physical torture they’re putting their bodies through. But, as in things torturous, it was absolutely beautiful, worth every second of their training.

 

Format or forever live in technology hell

Xperience 85

It so happened that my beloved laptop, Bob, crashed last week. Now saying that he crashed insinuates some kind of fast, self destructive movement, when in fact he just stopped… Yep, it was happening (although slowly) and then it didn’t. Took me about an hour (and 3 harbour’s worth of sailor language) to restart the damn piece of plastic.
And to answer the Big Q. Yes, I backed-up, exactly 7 days before. Thank goodness for good ol’ paranoia, but maybe that should hit more than once a week.
When the computer wizz kid collected the now useless door stopper, he just had to say it “Didn’t I tell you last month some time you should format your machine?”. I almost made a useful door stopper out of him…

By Tuesday (last week) I got Bob back. Same old body, but brand new Windows 7 and I started again from a side to get it back to my lovable piece of machine. What a mission… Do you know how many little thingy-ma-bobbies you download in a year?

Today my trusted BB failed on me. It got slow (and I have a feeling I’m going to get judged here and I have horrid flashbacks to last week) so I rebooted it for a change. But instead of the sickly yellow screen before my beautiful background… I got a little black pic and some stupid software reload 502 (or something around there) message.
So I did what everyone else does, restart again and got the same result. I abused my knowledge of unmentionable vocabulary and threw myself to the all knowing wizard of life – Google.

The news was dire…re-install the handheld device’s software.
Now see this isn’t that bad. Didn’t I go through tech hell a few months earlier (check it out, it’s got an xperience number and all) to download the desktop software (too much soft stuff around for my liking)? I did, yes sir. And where is this hard earned software? Gone! Into format wasteland, gonners!

By this time no words, no matter how vile, could make the situation bearable.
Back to Google, get the software, download, install, restart, update, install, restart, plug in handheld (I forgot to mention, drive to friend’s house for USB cable), let the juice run and wait, chew nails while hoping the back-up of BB survived the laptop crash, find back-up, restore back-up, reboot BB.

Positives to this day includes, BB desktop software re-installed on laptop, got new OS on BB handheld (therefore the new FB app). Negatives today includes, unnecessary strain to already over active ulcer, downloading a few million apps for BB, rebooting said BB a million times.

What have I learned from all this? Use faxes and doves. Or format your pc when the damn wizz kid tells you too and there is always some new way your phone will screw you over.

By the by, this post was written on the darn BB… (Who’s the wizz kid now?)

 

Donating some bits…

Xperience 84

The doctor rushes to a weeping family telling them that their loved one’s liver just gave out. Most probably due to said doctor pumping way to many meds into the poor kids body whilst trying to figure out why she’s having seizures and boils on her feet. Think I’ve gone nuts? Nope, just another episode from one of those totally addictive medical shows you download from your friends (not that I do that, just for the record).  And always, just as the poor girl is about to die, they find a viable organ stolen from some hospital… and find out all the boils and seizures are caused by an acute tonsillitis, seriously? Sometimes even I have to roll my eyes and pour another glass of Chardonnay.

After a few glasses I do start wondering, where on earth will I get a liver (the one I’m currently compromising) if my tonsils pull a fast one on me or, without getting all morbid and heaven forbids, something really bad happens. Sure, I could go the cloning way, but on my salary (bwa-ha-ha) I’ll get the budget-budget option and end up with a little toe (mine, but worth nothing if I need an internal organ). These kind of thought also leads to the next one, what if a family member needs an organ (this while I put the empty with my recyclable stuffs). Thank goodness a long day of receiving massages and generally just rotting on the couch under a mountain of novels took its toll and I fell asleep.

But this morning the universe poked me in the side when I saw a link to the Organ Donor Foundation and hey, did you know it’s Orgust? So I registered, easy peasy. No doctors, no blood samples (hopefully yet, I’m sure I can still feel last night’s Chardonnay) and all in 5 minutes.

This almost feel like my first recycling trip, I can’t see a difference today, won’t tomorrow (hold thumbs), but somewhere in the future I hope I made someone’s day a whole lot brighter…

 

Doing it the Thai way…

Xperience 83

There seems to be a massage from just about every corner of the world, from swedish to african to rain forest (I kid you not) to the east (in all it’s colourful glory and variations).

Last night at a braai I mentioned to my friends that I’m going for a Thai massage today. One of the guests asked me if I’ve been before, when I confessed it’s a first for me she laughed and told me to be receptive for a strange xperience. I couldn’t help to remember my spray-on tan xperience…

With this in mind I pitched for my appointment 10minutes early as advised when I made my appointment. After supplying some information, the kind lady asked my shoe size (?), handed over some pyjamas, consisting of a pair of thai fishing pants, a loose top and flip flops (I had an Aaah moment) all in crisp white.
I read up a bit before, so the pyjamas was no surprise.

Jeremy collected me after a brief wait on one of the most beautiful Art Deco inspired couches. Walking up the stairs to the semi-private or semi-public (one of those half empty, half full glass situations, you decide) treatment area, Jeremy asked the question again. I understand why he’s asking, but started feeling like I should loudly clear my throat and declare, “Hello, my name is Charlotte and this is my first Thai massage, mmmmmkay??”

As I mentioned, the area is semi-private with shoulder high dividers which can be lifted and moved depending on the requirements. Each little area has a mattress on the floor which is used for the massage. It’s a strange xperience walking to our corner and seeing other clients receiving their massages, been used to a more salon style, private massages.

Thai massage is a real deal treatment, there’s nothing girly about it and it’s hard work using pressure points. Working from your toes up to your crown, I really moved between heaven and some discomfort when my problem muscles were sorted out.

They suggest you have a bit of a lie-in afterwards and a cup of tea downstairs. Unfortunately I couldn’t due to another appointment I stupidly made just after. Do yourself the favour and follow their good advice, by the time I got home I could hardly keep my eyes open and had the best nap ever. Working toxins out is hard on your body, so be gentle afterwards.

Now I’m having a look at my diary to schedule my next appointment… Enmasse remember the name, I forgot it once and it took me months to find it again. It’s worth every cent and you’ll most probably feel you got one hell of a bargain when you leave.

I like it the Thai way now…

 

The Pie Crown

Xperience 82

My dad used to call a pie & coke a shortcut to heartburn, let’s face it, he’s right. Every now and again I used to ignore his advise, threw a Gaviscon pouch in my bag and went for it. The worst part though, like McDonald’s, it’s never as good as you imagined it to be.

When I discovered the Kickasspies (fondly known as Chickenasspies in my office) at Jardine, now Jason, I had a good feeling about the future of pies. These pies had more filling than pastry, more taste than a hundred of those flatties you buy at the supermarket (and that other pie place) and everyday there is a different mouthwatering filling. Oooh, did I mention, no heartburn? Might be the fact that for a change someone out there realised pies are worthy of good ingredients? Nah, can’t be that, maybe because it isn’t mass produced? Whatever your political view regarding pies, for a change they are better than you hoped or imagined.

Just a quick note to Jason and any pie baker out there. Veg & Lentil is not a suitable filling for a Friday. That’s the kind of filling you do on a Monday or Tuesday, when you are still under the delusion that you’re keeping to whatever diet or life plan you’ve chosen. On Fridays you do the Morrocan pie or the braised Impala shoulder, you know something worthy…

It’s because of this very unfortunate choice of filling on Friday, that I decided to give the place on Long Street a try. I’ve read about the Down South Food bar and their new pie shop and saw them a while ago when making new keys. A small little hole, with friendly honest service, find them.
I did feel a bit like a traitor, walking back past my favourite bakery with a new pie in my hand…but hey, who eats veg on a friday??? (Ya knaaaaauuuuw!)

I had the pork belly & apple (stuffed to the brim) pie. It was good. As good as Jason’s pies? Hhmmmm….., almost. But it was only one pie…and how long will Jason be able to hold on to the Pie Crown? I think it’s time to start a pie war, what do you think?

 

Creating Monsters

Xperinece 81

I have a slight obsession with Giovanni’s and their espressos. Most of my friends and I suppose anyone reading this blog knows it (if you didn’t, now you know something new). The girls in the office are convinced I have a problem and made me a bit self-conscious of my apparent problem. So I have abstained for a while (the longest 40 days ever!).

Ronel then asked me to join her for a coffee at Giovanni’s, I rushed as quick as I could to my favourite deli. Like a true junkie, I had a quick one before Ronel arrived for her new xperience and Pandora’s Box is now wide open again.

I ordered for us, mostly by catching the barista’s eye and holding 2 fingers up in the air. In this bar, they know my poison. With a flourish I presented Cape Town’s best espresso to Ronel and was rewarded with a worthy reaction. Like a connoisseur she commented on the smell, colour amount of foam and lastly the taste, by this time I was zoned out and enjoying all this in my own little private coffee paradise (jeez, maybe I do have a problem?). As espressos go, they don’t last long. After the last sip Ronel gravely announced that Jason’s coffee just won’t do anymore and her eyes wandered again to the counter. At that moment I it came to me, I might have created a monster.

Her newly created monster status was confirmed when she ordered a cappuccino and I went for my 3rd (40 days people, 40 days), I decided to poke the monster and suggest we take a walk inside the deli when done with our coffees… I succeeded right there in making Ronel Main Monster (insert wicked laugh here).

The next day while I was enjoying my new book and espresso in the corner of Giovanni’s, I wondered if I should phone Ronel, to join me. I didn’t, thinking maybe I need to give her some time, for the poison to do its work. It turns out I didn’t have to worry, she was sitting in her apartment trying very hard to ignore the call of the perfect espresso.

My work is done here, let one of them point a finger again at my little habit…

 

Mama Mia I would rather do my washing by hand

Xperience 79

Now I know this may sound a bit colonialist and bratty, but I’ve always had my own washing machine.

Living with my parents we were blessed enough to have a washing machine and a tumble dryer, something my mom said was a necessity when raising babies in the area of cloth nappies. Later when my sister and I moved out my parents bought us a washing machine and fridge. Though apparently when my parents went shopping for a washing machine, they told the sales person they need something for a severely domestically handicapped person (me and this is politically correct for “she’s got no freaking idea how to do washing’). A machine, where their daughter could chuck (their words) her clothes and detergent in and the machine does the rest. I got it, LG is wonderful. I “chuck” my stuff and detergent in the machine, press the power button and collect it again after it sings (honestly, this is not an ad). For a few years our apartment looked like a Chinese Wash house, as things can take up to 4 days to dry in winter here, until my dad gave us a second-hand tumble-dryer (have I mentioned my dad is the best??). By this time my sister moved to Johannesburg and it was just me…. bliss.

My friend mentioned the other day how much she enjoys doing her washing at a laundromat. The main thing here is to first realise, this laundromat is not any laundromat, but one located conveniently next to Rafiki’s, one of Cape Town’s most renowned restaurants and bars. I couldn’t help to mention I’ve never done mine in a public space and right there a new xperience was born.

In the morning I gathered all my washing in my baskets, grabbed my detergent and softener and threw it in my car’s boot. The whole day I prayed no-one breaks into my car and steal all my clothes except for the set I’m wearing.

Ronel and I went of to the laundromat and boy-oh-boy, what a warm, friendly, nice smelling place with some seriously handsome guys right next to a bar! Forget dating sites, bars, clubs and speed dating, ladies, do your washing here!

To avoid throwing my name away and looking like a complete blond-under-cover, I copied Ronel’s every move, until I ran out of cash, dammit, my machines work on love…and off we went hunting for a FNB machine (an extinct species of bank in Kloofnek and surrounds by the way).

After a cider, while waiting for our stuff to dry, and folding (yeah mom, folded) my intimates and scores of scarves in public (by the way, most of my socks kept on making a run for it…trues bob, ask Ronel), I see why people do this every week. You get to drink, ogle some handsome guys and if you take a friend, can have a fabulous time. Yeah, sign me up again.

Xperience 80

Normally this wouldn’t count as an xperience, but this is just too bizarre not to talk about.

Firstly, to every critic out there who gave a thumbs-up, half a thumbs-up or even an affirmative shrug in the direction of this movie, may the rest of your movie experiences be plagued with ill-timed advertisements.

I have for years quite successfully avoided watching Mama Mia. Come on, Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan singing and dancing to ABBA? So I spent some money (I would’ve given that to charity) and rented the damn movie.

Please put this on record. This movie is utter Sh…t. I could not finish it, Pierce Brosnan should not sing…ever. And Meryl’s Oscar should be taken from her, melt down and made coasters of. Thank goodness I had the clarity of mind to also rent Moulin Rouge, a real musical.

Quite honestly, I would rather do all my washing by hand in cold water, than to sit through another Mama Mia (who the hell did the sound?).