It should be a crime for anyone who calls themselves a blogger to neglect their forum for so long. I do apologise. If there's the smallest possibility that I have regular readers, take solace in the fact that I do feel the same amount of guilt as I did when in high school I didn't write in my diary for a week. I'm back and I hope to continue entertaining you as best as I can.
I do have some exciting news as to why I have been MIA for so long. For those of you who are new to this blog let me catch you up on the latest happenings that are important. Since 10 April, I've been freelancing at Woman & Home magazine. But not the kind of freelancing that allows me to backpack through South Africa writing about where I've been and the people I've met. I was helping them out in the office with bits and pieces like fact-checking articles. I had been seated at the Beauty Editor's desk, before they'd hired Ashleigh and some of my regular readers might remember my hesitation in making that desk my own. Then Ashleigh arrived and the game of musical chairs began. I packed the lid of a Mondi Rotatrim paper box and like a drifter I didn't develop any ties to my new surroundings. My next destination was a former features writer's desk. The new features writer would be starting soon, so I made no plans to lay down roots. I was now being confirmed from week to week now, as opposed to monthly. This might sound scary to some in today's economy, but I embraced my inner nomad.
It was Thursday and the new features writer, Karishma, was arriving the following Monday. I spoke to the assistant editor about being confirmed for the upcoming week, but I was unsure of where I'd be moving to next. As of Monday, there weren't any desks left open in the office.
Whilst working on some fact checking, I was called over to the board room. I'm such a nervous personality amd I immediately started to sweat. I'll never forget my interview for school prefect. As I got up to leave the interview, I noticed an enormous amount of residue left on the plastic seat. To this day, I feel sorry for the poor soul who had to sit in that chair after me. The chairs in the Woman & Home boardroom are plastic too, but thankfully I was wearing a winter outfit, so I'd have some safety absorption layers if the flood gates were to open.
Luckily the meeting didn't take too long and after about 10 minutes I had been offered a permanent position as a features writer. Halala! I was still going to be living out of my Mondi lid, but I had a job. My desk was on it's way, but until then I was still playing musical chairs. I got the chance to inhabit my assistant editor's throne of a chair which was amazing. I also got a feel for the production desk, but it's about as functional as Apple iOS6 maps. It's a desk meant for scanning and that's it.
I now have my own desk which anyone is more than welcome to tour. If you're feeling really generous, you can always send a desk warming gift. Hint: a stationary tray is at the top f my wish list. In my bottom draw I keep a selection of teas. My extensive two tea collection includes Lipton's yellow label and green tea. My trusty tissue box has migrated with me and even though my desk is lacking in space, it has pride of place.
As of today, I've been at Woman & Home for three months and I've been permanent for a month. So I'm all grown up with a reasonable tax deduction at the end of every month and 15 days annual leave. Halala!
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Tax, Honesty and Steve Tshwete
So I'm in a bitching mood. But I think I have every right to be after I discovered casual labour, like myself, get taxed 25%. I'm barely earning the minimum taxable income annually to pay tax with a job that is not secure, but I have to be deducted 25%. My own assumption is it's an unfair tax law in place to weed out fraud. But when it is my only source of income, I get a little upset. You might argue that I should count my lucky stars that I still live at home and my parental unit covers a lot of my expenses. And yes. I do count myself lucky, but I think it's an unfair tax law for those who don't have their parents as a safety net. By the way, Sars, I'm still waiting for an answer to my query with regards to my 25% monthly deduction.
We just had the auction of Julius Malema's fabulous home. It knocked off R5.9 million off of Malema's R16 million debt to Sars. My issue is how did this bill get so large? How was he allowed to total up such a ridiculous amount? And if you think R16 million owed to the tax man is shocking, the late Lolly Jackson seems to be the king pin of tax evasion. With R100 million tax bill, I'm slightly peeved that 25% of my measly salary gets taken away.
So what's the lesson here, kids? I need to find a freelancers union.
On to my next gripe. Why can't we just be honest? That already sounds naive and pathetic. But wouldn't it be easier? Wouldn't you save yourself some embarrassment? Look at our police commissioner Riah Phiyega. Her cross-examination at the Marikana Commission in April is the perfect example of where one should be honest. Her answers have been criticised as obvious attempts to avoid the questions. I find it incredibly upsetting this Marikana Massacre has not been taken seriously. Grow a back bone. Accept responsibility. People will respect you more for your honesty than your ability to dance around your answers and weave a response so riddled with over used euphemisms and clichés.
Guptagate has set the nation on fire and not long before that we had the Nkandla-gate scandal. All I hear are crickets. No one is willing to take the fall. And I'm not talking about the sacrificial scape goat. I'm talking about someone standing up and of their own free-will, directed by what's left of this country's moral compass, and saying, "It was me. I'm sorry." I'm tired of hearing I don't know and rehashed lines of Shaggy's 'It wasn't me'.
The Zambian deputy president's comments about our world class African country were refreshing. For once someone was honest, granted Guy Scott could have put a little more thought into the construction of such a statement. But for once someone put themselves out there and was honest.
I promised in my Customer Experience blog that if I moaned about something, I would include a compliment. Well for today's post, I'd like to follow David O'Sullivan's lead and compliment the Steve Tshwete Municipality. Surprise! It's not in the Western Cape! Located in Mpumalanga, this municipality has received a clean audit and they did this through depoliticising their administration. Leave your political affiliation at the door and do the job. Well done.
We just had the auction of Julius Malema's fabulous home. It knocked off R5.9 million off of Malema's R16 million debt to Sars. My issue is how did this bill get so large? How was he allowed to total up such a ridiculous amount? And if you think R16 million owed to the tax man is shocking, the late Lolly Jackson seems to be the king pin of tax evasion. With R100 million tax bill, I'm slightly peeved that 25% of my measly salary gets taken away.
So what's the lesson here, kids? I need to find a freelancers union.
On to my next gripe. Why can't we just be honest? That already sounds naive and pathetic. But wouldn't it be easier? Wouldn't you save yourself some embarrassment? Look at our police commissioner Riah Phiyega. Her cross-examination at the Marikana Commission in April is the perfect example of where one should be honest. Her answers have been criticised as obvious attempts to avoid the questions. I find it incredibly upsetting this Marikana Massacre has not been taken seriously. Grow a back bone. Accept responsibility. People will respect you more for your honesty than your ability to dance around your answers and weave a response so riddled with over used euphemisms and clichés.
Guptagate has set the nation on fire and not long before that we had the Nkandla-gate scandal. All I hear are crickets. No one is willing to take the fall. And I'm not talking about the sacrificial scape goat. I'm talking about someone standing up and of their own free-will, directed by what's left of this country's moral compass, and saying, "It was me. I'm sorry." I'm tired of hearing I don't know and rehashed lines of Shaggy's 'It wasn't me'.
The Zambian deputy president's comments about our world class African country were refreshing. For once someone was honest, granted Guy Scott could have put a little more thought into the construction of such a statement. But for once someone put themselves out there and was honest.
I promised in my Customer Experience blog that if I moaned about something, I would include a compliment. Well for today's post, I'd like to follow David O'Sullivan's lead and compliment the Steve Tshwete Municipality. Surprise! It's not in the Western Cape! Located in Mpumalanga, this municipality has received a clean audit and they did this through depoliticising their administration. Leave your political affiliation at the door and do the job. Well done.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Working girl
The last post took a while and this post is here to explain why. At the same time, this post explains why this post was so late. So, I'm killing many posts with one click.
I have a job! After four months, I have a job. So, I'm sorry to say, but my knitting has taken a back seat.
I am officially working as a freelancer at Woman & Home and if I impress the superiors, they might discuss something more permanent. Either way I have a job. So you can imagine the sorry look I get from Winston every morning as I leave for work. Both him and Juno (my mom's Great Dane) are highly unimpressed that they have been locked out of the house for the duration of the day - I think Juno's just unimpressed that she has the misfortune of being alone with Winston all day, but more of that in my next post.
Entering the working world has come with some fun experiences that I thought I should share with you. The first being traffic. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be travelling an hour each morning to work. But I'm still not used to the arseholes that plague our roads and my greatest fear is I may become one. I don't ever want to be one of those arseholes that speeds up during the orange and can clearly see there is a queue of poor right-turning drivers sitting halfway across the intersection at the mercy of your right foot on the accelerator.
So I've tried to keep a level head, by respecting my fellow commuters on the road. It does take a lot of energy and patience, but I find a good radio show does the trick in keeping me distracted. However, you have to be careful. You need to create the perfect balance of distraction, entertainment and critical engagement when you're listening to the radio in the morning. I usually flick between John Robbie's show on 702 and 5fm with Gareth Cliff in the morning. I find that I can listen to the headlines on 702 to provide me with a well-rounded knowledge of what I should know to critically engage with my world. After the headlines, I listen to Gareth and his team to put a smile on a shitty morning spent in traffic. I also switch to 702 if I'm getting annoyed with the increasing amount of dubstep breaking into the mainstream via the 5fm frequency.
But you have to strike a balance between the two. I find that if I listen to 702 too much, I fall prey to the "if I was in charge, I would" syndrome. There's nothing wrong with having an attitude of wanting to make the world a better place, but some times it can become counter productive. Our mindset changes and we tend to whine and moan, are blinded by our own opinions and retreat to our armchairs never to rise and take action again. So, I indulge my sense of humour and swallow a teaspoon of salt in the mornings when listening to Gareth. We always need to remain mindful of the society we live in, but we also need to be able to laugh at ourselves - especially in Joburg traffic when we are at our most volatile.
My next working world experience has to be the office coffee cups. For the first two days I remained chained to my desk, I only ever got up to go to the bathroom. I didn't take a lunch break and I didn't go looking for water. I ate lunch at my desk and rationed my supply of water in my green bottle. I wanted to make a good impression; show them I was a hard worker and wouldn't be slacking off in the kitchen splashing about in the office gossip pool.
By the third day, I decided to test the waters and made myself a cup of tea. And by the end of the week I was pouring myself water from the office water cooler.
I think I was concerned about some sort of coffee cup initiation.
I didn't know if there was some sort of process and I was definitely concerned I would be punished for using someone else's mug - and what I mean by 'punish' is the owner giving me dirty looks. Thank goodness my office doesn't have any of those things and all the paranoia was in my head.
My final working experience, which will be a long term one, is nesting. I'm in a temporary position at the moment. They've asked me to stay on for another month at the same rate. So no signs of a contract... Yet.
Because I'm only temporary, I have certain commitment problems at my desk. I know it's not mine to have and to hold, however, I have allowed myself a tissue box. I'd like to bring my pins and paper clips, but I don't want to be too presumptuous. I'm treating this like a new relationship, because we all know how it can be a tissue box one day and the next you've got a personalised mug, motivational quotes stick to the computer screen and a stationary kit occupying the top draw. So I'm taking this new job one step at a time. I'm being cautious, because I don't want it to be a one night stand.
I have a job! After four months, I have a job. So, I'm sorry to say, but my knitting has taken a back seat.
I am officially working as a freelancer at Woman & Home and if I impress the superiors, they might discuss something more permanent. Either way I have a job. So you can imagine the sorry look I get from Winston every morning as I leave for work. Both him and Juno (my mom's Great Dane) are highly unimpressed that they have been locked out of the house for the duration of the day - I think Juno's just unimpressed that she has the misfortune of being alone with Winston all day, but more of that in my next post.
Entering the working world has come with some fun experiences that I thought I should share with you. The first being traffic. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will be travelling an hour each morning to work. But I'm still not used to the arseholes that plague our roads and my greatest fear is I may become one. I don't ever want to be one of those arseholes that speeds up during the orange and can clearly see there is a queue of poor right-turning drivers sitting halfway across the intersection at the mercy of your right foot on the accelerator.
So I've tried to keep a level head, by respecting my fellow commuters on the road. It does take a lot of energy and patience, but I find a good radio show does the trick in keeping me distracted. However, you have to be careful. You need to create the perfect balance of distraction, entertainment and critical engagement when you're listening to the radio in the morning. I usually flick between John Robbie's show on 702 and 5fm with Gareth Cliff in the morning. I find that I can listen to the headlines on 702 to provide me with a well-rounded knowledge of what I should know to critically engage with my world. After the headlines, I listen to Gareth and his team to put a smile on a shitty morning spent in traffic. I also switch to 702 if I'm getting annoyed with the increasing amount of dubstep breaking into the mainstream via the 5fm frequency.
But you have to strike a balance between the two. I find that if I listen to 702 too much, I fall prey to the "if I was in charge, I would" syndrome. There's nothing wrong with having an attitude of wanting to make the world a better place, but some times it can become counter productive. Our mindset changes and we tend to whine and moan, are blinded by our own opinions and retreat to our armchairs never to rise and take action again. So, I indulge my sense of humour and swallow a teaspoon of salt in the mornings when listening to Gareth. We always need to remain mindful of the society we live in, but we also need to be able to laugh at ourselves - especially in Joburg traffic when we are at our most volatile.
My next working world experience has to be the office coffee cups. For the first two days I remained chained to my desk, I only ever got up to go to the bathroom. I didn't take a lunch break and I didn't go looking for water. I ate lunch at my desk and rationed my supply of water in my green bottle. I wanted to make a good impression; show them I was a hard worker and wouldn't be slacking off in the kitchen splashing about in the office gossip pool.
By the third day, I decided to test the waters and made myself a cup of tea. And by the end of the week I was pouring myself water from the office water cooler.
I think I was concerned about some sort of coffee cup initiation.
I didn't know if there was some sort of process and I was definitely concerned I would be punished for using someone else's mug - and what I mean by 'punish' is the owner giving me dirty looks. Thank goodness my office doesn't have any of those things and all the paranoia was in my head.
My final working experience, which will be a long term one, is nesting. I'm in a temporary position at the moment. They've asked me to stay on for another month at the same rate. So no signs of a contract... Yet.
Because I'm only temporary, I have certain commitment problems at my desk. I know it's not mine to have and to hold, however, I have allowed myself a tissue box. I'd like to bring my pins and paper clips, but I don't want to be too presumptuous. I'm treating this like a new relationship, because we all know how it can be a tissue box one day and the next you've got a personalised mug, motivational quotes stick to the computer screen and a stationary kit occupying the top draw. So I'm taking this new job one step at a time. I'm being cautious, because I don't want it to be a one night stand.
Friday, April 26, 2013
... Now we're here.
In comparison to my last three blog posts, I'm going to be a little more serious.
Cheesy blog post about Graduation 2013 begins in three, two, one:
*Cue Gaudeamus Igitur*
I'm an absolute softie when it comes to moments of feeling immense pride. I blame the years of The Lion King conditioning therapy I went through as a child. I'm sure it hit all my sensitive spots, because whenever I sing the national anthem or attend a protest I believe in, I get all tearful. Just the other day, I heard Archbishop Desmond Tutu speaking in a news bulletin and I got all weepy. I'm slightly pathetic when it comes to moments of deep pride. So next time you see me at a rugby match, for your entertainment you can watch me well up with tears.
In my grad ceremony, I had to contain myself as I started to flick through the Awards, Scholarships, Bursaries and Prizes booklet. It was amazing to see how many names I recognised. I was completely taken aback by the number of people I knew who achieved noteworthy success at Rhodes. I was so proud of my friends and classmates who had accomplished so much more than what was expected of them. My mom immediately said to me, "So, what happened to you?" I asked myself the exact same thing.
But we all have our own successes. Although my name was not next to a prize, I still got my degree. I had reached an all important stepping stone in my life and I'm proud of that. And for others who also had a single mention in the Graduation booklet, we can't forget the effort they put in. For some being capped and hooded means so much. So to all the graduates who fought through financial issues, personal problems such as a death in the family, or simply needed to work harder at passing than anyone else, don't ever think what you achieved on that stage was anything less than a great accomplishment. Celebrate your success and always remember you walked across that stage because of what you did.
Come Saturday afternoon when the Garden Party was over, I was a little sad. Martin and I were walking back to his car when he asked me if I had enjoyed my Grad. I felt a little bit like my 8 year-old self the evening of Christmas Day: it was all over. Granted, I still had Grad Ball later that night, but it couldn't compare to the other events of the day. I was sad that I'd be leaving Grahamstown the next day after all the exciting ceremonies and parties that lit up that sleepy little town after Easter vac. I think this sombre mood had a lot to do with me falling in love with my grad gown and hood. I wanted to take it home and swoosh around in Joburg with my academic attire - again, just like my 8 year-old self on Christmas day with my new roller blades.
So in the spirit of reaching one's goals and being able to say "I made it", this track from Drake was a grad theme tune my classmate Mina suggested:
Cheesy blog post about Graduation 2013 begins in three, two, one:
*Cue Gaudeamus Igitur*
 |
| Rocking that red hood. |
In my grad ceremony, I had to contain myself as I started to flick through the Awards, Scholarships, Bursaries and Prizes booklet. It was amazing to see how many names I recognised. I was completely taken aback by the number of people I knew who achieved noteworthy success at Rhodes. I was so proud of my friends and classmates who had accomplished so much more than what was expected of them. My mom immediately said to me, "So, what happened to you?" I asked myself the exact same thing.
But we all have our own successes. Although my name was not next to a prize, I still got my degree. I had reached an all important stepping stone in my life and I'm proud of that. And for others who also had a single mention in the Graduation booklet, we can't forget the effort they put in. For some being capped and hooded means so much. So to all the graduates who fought through financial issues, personal problems such as a death in the family, or simply needed to work harder at passing than anyone else, don't ever think what you achieved on that stage was anything less than a great accomplishment. Celebrate your success and always remember you walked across that stage because of what you did.
Come Saturday afternoon when the Garden Party was over, I was a little sad. Martin and I were walking back to his car when he asked me if I had enjoyed my Grad. I felt a little bit like my 8 year-old self the evening of Christmas Day: it was all over. Granted, I still had Grad Ball later that night, but it couldn't compare to the other events of the day. I was sad that I'd be leaving Grahamstown the next day after all the exciting ceremonies and parties that lit up that sleepy little town after Easter vac. I think this sombre mood had a lot to do with me falling in love with my grad gown and hood. I wanted to take it home and swoosh around in Joburg with my academic attire - again, just like my 8 year-old self on Christmas day with my new roller blades.
So in the spirit of reaching one's goals and being able to say "I made it", this track from Drake was a grad theme tune my classmate Mina suggested:
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Growth spurt - and I'm not talking about height
"Why do people say 'grow some balls'? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding." - Sheng Wang
WARNING: This blog post may carry disgusting content. The scenes in this post contain blood and vomit. If you're already gagging at the thought of what might be ahead, find someone else to read ahead of you to give you warning. Or swallow a spoon of cement and grow a vagina.
As I've gotten into my 20s, I've realised how people discuss being an adult more and more with comments like, "You know you're an adult when..." or "You know you're getting old when..." I think all those statements are superfluous and you might agree with me after I tell you my story.
This post is not blaming anyone. In fact, the people that should be blamed are car manufacturers, but we'll get to that point in a bit. I just want to say that I don't want to scare anyone and put them off giving blood. I think it's an important part of being an active citizen and if you can do, give it a go. The South African National Blood Service (SANBS) are a great group to support, because it doesn't cost any money - you only need to give up half an hour of your time and a unit of blood. The other group I want to shield from blame is Subway. I love you Subway. I am in no way blaming you for what happened. I think it was a series of unfortunate events.
My plan for the day was to pick up some food for the Easter weekend so the parentals wouldn't have to rush out and think about dinner. Then my brother, Matthew, and I were going to go donate blood, because it's Easter weekend and prime time for blood transfusions thanks to some of the worst drivers in the world unfortunately owning a car and having a driver's license. So, we thought the SANBS could do with two units and we went off to donate.
The Hermon children are both useless at donating blood, because we both passed out. At least Matthew got though a full donation before fainting. I, however, had to fight to keep myself going and I wasn't going to stop until I filled that bag. Besides, I was pretty much all the way there, before the room started to look like a snowing TV set. It's at this point that I'd like to say a special thank you to the woman working at the SANBS donor centre at the Colony Arms. Two lovely ladies who patiently waited for Matthew and I to reach maximum up-right walking capacity before letting us go on our merry way.
So we got in the car to pick up some meat and Matthew had a hankerin' for KFC. We were on our way home and in the middle of an intersection when my Subway 'sub of the day' decided to come back on stage for an encore. I carefully lent forward so as not to aggravate the beast about to roar out of its cage and picked up Matthew's KFC meal. I gently placed his meal to the side and buried my head in the paper bag now sitting on my lap. I had readied myself just in time as the six-inch sub filled the bag along with a Bar One I had eaten earlier. But let's not forget, this was a paper bag.
I should have gotten out of the car as soon as possible, because that paper bag had no stamina. Everything started to seep out of the bag and down the sides of my thighs. The structural integrity of the bag was in no way capable of safely securing the contents of my stomach. It leaked all over my jeans, handbag (which was poorly placed on my lap, underneath the bag), onto the shopping at my feet and all over the passenger seat. With each round-about, there were three, I winced as the mixture of bile, sweet onion sauce and chunks slid down my legs.
I climbed out of the car to find my jeans covered. Matthew had to spray me down with a hose. I quickly washed up in the shower, threw all my clothes into the washing machine and set to work on cleaning my car. This is where my complaint with car manufacturers begins. Cars aren't built to be cleaned. Although, Toyota seem to be advertising some new ice-cream proof seats, but to be honest, a car that can be easily cleaned after a vomit comet would not just have my curiosity, but my full attention.
This little paragraph is directed at car companies: Think of the money you could make. If the kids of today are built anything like myself, then they are most likely prone to car sickness. Anything longer than a half hour drive could've resulted in a multicoloured nightmare for my parents. Holiday trips were carefully calculated: I had to be placed in the front seat after the breakfast stop and I'd remain there until we had reach point B. So if there's a car out there that can easily be cleaned under the seats and between every nook and cranny, you'd have soccer moms and road-trip dads all after one.
And this is where the "You know you're an adult when..." kicks in:
Like I said, I spent many years being the car sick child on long trips. And in general, I think we all have horrible memories of missing our calls with the big white telephone. But after they've wiped your face with a damp cloth and you've had a drink of water, our parents would just say, "Go back to bed, honey. I'll clean this up." In my case, it was always my mom who got up in the middle of the night to clean up the un-Godly mess that could only be made by Satan's spawn.
Now, however, that abhorrent mess with the power to make you gag even after you've heaved all you could heave, is your responsibility and no one else's. It's all yours to clean up and no one is interested in coming to your aid, as my brother demonstrated in his lack of interest after hosing me down. So I gathered my supplies for the long hard journey into adult hood.
I don't think people realise just how momentous cleaning your own vomit out of your car is. I've cleaned up my own chunder messes, but to actually scrub down your car and scrape up the chunks blown is quite a life changing moment. First of all it's your car. Second, it's your mess. And third, no one will ever be cleaning up after you again. This moral to the story will of course be shot out of the sky by those who can't stomach cleaning up their own sick.
After I'd packed the bicarb and vinegar away, and rolled down the windows, I went to my room and retreated into the foetal position. I felt so ashamed after the mess I had created, but then I remembered something that made me feel loads better. While I was cleaning the car, my dog Winston reminded me of how gross dogs are. He took to my chunks of mess like his four o'clock meal time. In that moment I realised that no matter how disgusting I felt, there's nothing more gross than the habits of our K9 friends. Cue link to the Oatmeal's "My Dog: the paradox".
WARNING: This blog post may carry disgusting content. The scenes in this post contain blood and vomit. If you're already gagging at the thought of what might be ahead, find someone else to read ahead of you to give you warning. Or swallow a spoon of cement and grow a vagina.
As I've gotten into my 20s, I've realised how people discuss being an adult more and more with comments like, "You know you're an adult when..." or "You know you're getting old when..." I think all those statements are superfluous and you might agree with me after I tell you my story.
This post is not blaming anyone. In fact, the people that should be blamed are car manufacturers, but we'll get to that point in a bit. I just want to say that I don't want to scare anyone and put them off giving blood. I think it's an important part of being an active citizen and if you can do, give it a go. The South African National Blood Service (SANBS) are a great group to support, because it doesn't cost any money - you only need to give up half an hour of your time and a unit of blood. The other group I want to shield from blame is Subway. I love you Subway. I am in no way blaming you for what happened. I think it was a series of unfortunate events.
 |
| A picture perfect seen before all hell breaks loose. |
The Hermon children are both useless at donating blood, because we both passed out. At least Matthew got though a full donation before fainting. I, however, had to fight to keep myself going and I wasn't going to stop until I filled that bag. Besides, I was pretty much all the way there, before the room started to look like a snowing TV set. It's at this point that I'd like to say a special thank you to the woman working at the SANBS donor centre at the Colony Arms. Two lovely ladies who patiently waited for Matthew and I to reach maximum up-right walking capacity before letting us go on our merry way.
 |
| There goes my blood and my vision. |
I should have gotten out of the car as soon as possible, because that paper bag had no stamina. Everything started to seep out of the bag and down the sides of my thighs. The structural integrity of the bag was in no way capable of safely securing the contents of my stomach. It leaked all over my jeans, handbag (which was poorly placed on my lap, underneath the bag), onto the shopping at my feet and all over the passenger seat. With each round-about, there were three, I winced as the mixture of bile, sweet onion sauce and chunks slid down my legs.
I climbed out of the car to find my jeans covered. Matthew had to spray me down with a hose. I quickly washed up in the shower, threw all my clothes into the washing machine and set to work on cleaning my car. This is where my complaint with car manufacturers begins. Cars aren't built to be cleaned. Although, Toyota seem to be advertising some new ice-cream proof seats, but to be honest, a car that can be easily cleaned after a vomit comet would not just have my curiosity, but my full attention.
 |
| Credit and many thanks for this picture and now meme is owed to Quentin Tarantino for the awesome script and film, Django Unchained. |
And this is where the "You know you're an adult when..." kicks in:
Like I said, I spent many years being the car sick child on long trips. And in general, I think we all have horrible memories of missing our calls with the big white telephone. But after they've wiped your face with a damp cloth and you've had a drink of water, our parents would just say, "Go back to bed, honey. I'll clean this up." In my case, it was always my mom who got up in the middle of the night to clean up the un-Godly mess that could only be made by Satan's spawn.
Now, however, that abhorrent mess with the power to make you gag even after you've heaved all you could heave, is your responsibility and no one else's. It's all yours to clean up and no one is interested in coming to your aid, as my brother demonstrated in his lack of interest after hosing me down. So I gathered my supplies for the long hard journey into adult hood.
I don't think people realise just how momentous cleaning your own vomit out of your car is. I've cleaned up my own chunder messes, but to actually scrub down your car and scrape up the chunks blown is quite a life changing moment. First of all it's your car. Second, it's your mess. And third, no one will ever be cleaning up after you again. This moral to the story will of course be shot out of the sky by those who can't stomach cleaning up their own sick.
After I'd packed the bicarb and vinegar away, and rolled down the windows, I went to my room and retreated into the foetal position. I felt so ashamed after the mess I had created, but then I remembered something that made me feel loads better. While I was cleaning the car, my dog Winston reminded me of how gross dogs are. He took to my chunks of mess like his four o'clock meal time. In that moment I realised that no matter how disgusting I felt, there's nothing more gross than the habits of our K9 friends. Cue link to the Oatmeal's "My Dog: the paradox".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)