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".
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
A good day
I have very little excitement in my life at the moment, so bear with me.
I got a 'no'! I'm so happy. I finally got a reply for a job and it was a 'no'. Even though "Thank you for responding, however your application had been declined" is not the best news, it's progress. It's better than thinking my job applications are being sent into a void of unopened emails with CVs attached. I imagine a lot of my responses are floating around in space like the melodies of Will.I.Am At one stage I thought I'd have better luck posting my letters, and then I giggled at how preposterous such a thought was - to put this into context you have to understand that the South African Post Office's sorting office in Gauteng has been on strike for weeks. I sent my boyfriend a Valentine's Day card and he has yet to see it.
I know a lot of adverts say, "If we have not contacted you by such-and-such a date, consider your application unsuccessful." Which I'm sure is the best way to save time when it come to hiring and recruiting. But if you're someone like me, who has had little, in fact, no success when it comes to job hunting, this was a serious turning point. It was just so nice to have a little bit of interaction, even if it was an unsuccessful application. The fact that someone took the time to open my CV, give it a read and then send a reply containing 'no' was so much more motivating than the never-ending silence.
On another completely unrelated, but happy note...
I had such a pleasant day as a consumer.
Last night, I made my easy and loved falafels for the parental unit and myself. When I was near finish, my dad started loading the pita breads into the oven. In my house, we have better luck with the lotto than we do with pitas. For the last couple of months, the pita breads we have bought and thrown into the oven remain flat piece of hard crust on the outside and a soft doughy-goo on the inside. They never rise and yet we continue to favour these unsuccessful pitas over wraps. After many weeks of perseverance we had a most wondrous night! My mum had picked up a pack of Global Wrapps pitas.
My mum and I are huge fans of the brand. When we can, we will frequent their restaurants and order a haloumi and avo wrap and a BBQ chicken and potato wrap for my mum and I respectively. And on this particular Sunday night, we had struck gold with puffed up pitas for our easy Carte Blanche dinner in front of the TV. This week, however, was an entirely different experience.
So as I was saying, my dad had started chucking them in the oven when he noticed some of the pitas had turned into hosts to some unsavoury guests. Green patches of mold had come up on the sides of the last three pitas in the packet. And I'm not talking about a slight case of mold you would happily digest if it was the last slice of bread.
This was a full scale invasion of an ecosystem. So we ate the three best looking ones.
The very next day, I walked into Checkers, not to throw a fit, but to politely bring to their attention the green facts. I told them we ate three - we had to, there was no other starch in the house - and that we had double checked the date of expiry. I think I was quite polite in asking them for a refund and the manager was happy to do so. He was so happy to do so, he also gave me a fresh new pack. So, thank you Checkers for your understanding and fabulous customer relations.
Too many times, as consumers, we are immediately on the defensive. Even today, I was trying to remember sections of the Consumer Protection Act on my way there in case I'd have to drop some law knowledge - what little I know - on the manager. I've been a cashier and had a woman spew the line, "I know my rights as a consumer," across the counter. I've also seen a woman demand petrol money for her travels back to the store where a packer had forgotten to include an item in her grocery bag.
We are far too defensive and sometimes a quiet conversation can be a far more pleasant experience than the one that can be riddled with accusations. Who knows? You might get a free packet of pitas for your manners.
I got a 'no'! I'm so happy. I finally got a reply for a job and it was a 'no'. Even though "Thank you for responding, however your application had been declined" is not the best news, it's progress. It's better than thinking my job applications are being sent into a void of unopened emails with CVs attached. I imagine a lot of my responses are floating around in space like the melodies of Will.I.Am At one stage I thought I'd have better luck posting my letters, and then I giggled at how preposterous such a thought was - to put this into context you have to understand that the South African Post Office's sorting office in Gauteng has been on strike for weeks. I sent my boyfriend a Valentine's Day card and he has yet to see it.
I know a lot of adverts say, "If we have not contacted you by such-and-such a date, consider your application unsuccessful." Which I'm sure is the best way to save time when it come to hiring and recruiting. But if you're someone like me, who has had little, in fact, no success when it comes to job hunting, this was a serious turning point. It was just so nice to have a little bit of interaction, even if it was an unsuccessful application. The fact that someone took the time to open my CV, give it a read and then send a reply containing 'no' was so much more motivating than the never-ending silence.
On another completely unrelated, but happy note...
I had such a pleasant day as a consumer.
Last night, I made my easy and loved falafels for the parental unit and myself. When I was near finish, my dad started loading the pita breads into the oven. In my house, we have better luck with the lotto than we do with pitas. For the last couple of months, the pita breads we have bought and thrown into the oven remain flat piece of hard crust on the outside and a soft doughy-goo on the inside. They never rise and yet we continue to favour these unsuccessful pitas over wraps. After many weeks of perseverance we had a most wondrous night! My mum had picked up a pack of Global Wrapps pitas.
My mum and I are huge fans of the brand. When we can, we will frequent their restaurants and order a haloumi and avo wrap and a BBQ chicken and potato wrap for my mum and I respectively. And on this particular Sunday night, we had struck gold with puffed up pitas for our easy Carte Blanche dinner in front of the TV. This week, however, was an entirely different experience.
So as I was saying, my dad had started chucking them in the oven when he noticed some of the pitas had turned into hosts to some unsavoury guests. Green patches of mold had come up on the sides of the last three pitas in the packet. And I'm not talking about a slight case of mold you would happily digest if it was the last slice of bread.
 |
| Check it out! The green on the packet matches the green on the pita. Now that's branding. |
The very next day, I walked into Checkers, not to throw a fit, but to politely bring to their attention the green facts. I told them we ate three - we had to, there was no other starch in the house - and that we had double checked the date of expiry. I think I was quite polite in asking them for a refund and the manager was happy to do so. He was so happy to do so, he also gave me a fresh new pack. So, thank you Checkers for your understanding and fabulous customer relations.
Too many times, as consumers, we are immediately on the defensive. Even today, I was trying to remember sections of the Consumer Protection Act on my way there in case I'd have to drop some law knowledge - what little I know - on the manager. I've been a cashier and had a woman spew the line, "I know my rights as a consumer," across the counter. I've also seen a woman demand petrol money for her travels back to the store where a packer had forgotten to include an item in her grocery bag.
We are far too defensive and sometimes a quiet conversation can be a far more pleasant experience than the one that can be riddled with accusations. Who knows? You might get a free packet of pitas for your manners.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
An unemployed youth's nightmare
You know you're in serious unemployment trouble when you realise you had a Martha Stewart day. No joke.
I started off my day cleaning the kitchen. I always hear a couple of sarcastic comments from my mom when she arrives home and walks into last night's post-dinner mess. Granted, I could do a little more around the house, but this morning my parents were blessed with a daughter who rolled out of bed with a housewife attitude.
I packed the dishwasher, washed-up, wiped the sides and threw in a load of towels. I then showered, donned an ankle-length floral dress and I was off to the shops by 9:30am. I picked up all the pieces I needed for my baking and dinner plans. As soon as I was home, I was throwing on another load of washing and toasting oats and almonds for my granola bars.
Once I'd finished my baking - including washing up - I was on the net looking for tutorials on knitting. I'm not even going to try and explain myself on that one.
My only redeeming quality of the day came at 2pm when Finance Minister, Pravin Gordhan, delivered his budget speech. I was sitting in front of the TV with my knitting.
At 5pm, I launched back into full Martha Stewart mode and I was cooking my babotie before Master Chef Australia came on MNet.
I'd mentioned how Martha Stewart my day was to my mom and then I received this email:
I just realised I took pictures of my food and Instagrammed them, I'm twenty-something and I'm knitting, and I blogged about it. I'm becoming a hipster. And I'm going to include a photo of my dogs:
I need a job.
I started off my day cleaning the kitchen. I always hear a couple of sarcastic comments from my mom when she arrives home and walks into last night's post-dinner mess. Granted, I could do a little more around the house, but this morning my parents were blessed with a daughter who rolled out of bed with a housewife attitude.
I packed the dishwasher, washed-up, wiped the sides and threw in a load of towels. I then showered, donned an ankle-length floral dress and I was off to the shops by 9:30am. I picked up all the pieces I needed for my baking and dinner plans. As soon as I was home, I was throwing on another load of washing and toasting oats and almonds for my granola bars.
 |
| They do taste really good. |
Once I'd finished my baking - including washing up - I was on the net looking for tutorials on knitting. I'm not even going to try and explain myself on that one.
My only redeeming quality of the day came at 2pm when Finance Minister, Pravin Gordhan, delivered his budget speech. I was sitting in front of the TV with my knitting.
 |
| I'm hoping to knit a head band, or it might become Winston's scarf. |
At 5pm, I launched back into full Martha Stewart mode and I was cooking my babotie before Master Chef Australia came on MNet.
 |
| And here's my babotie which I am quite proud of. |
I'd mentioned how Martha Stewart my day was to my mom and then I received this email:
 |
| Apart from the Print Screen and Paint job, this photo has not been doctored . I really did get an email about the best advice Martha Stewart ever received. |
I just realised I took pictures of my food and Instagrammed them, I'm twenty-something and I'm knitting, and I blogged about it. I'm becoming a hipster. And I'm going to include a photo of my dogs:
I need a job.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Customer experience
I have decided that
for every blog post where I want to moan about something, a compliment will be included. I don’t want sound like every other South
African who has access to a keyboard and modem and reduce my blog to the
workings of the News24 comments section. So instead, I’d like to remind us of
the good in this country in the hopes of encouraging a better attitude about
things. While at the same time, discouraging the acceptance of mediocrity - a point, I believe, Jenny Crwys-Williams touched on today during her show.
We often get so caught up in the negative – like Oscar Pistorius and
Reeva Steenkamp – and forget about the positive – Ramphele’s new gang and finally everyone else is talking about a different Oscar. Sorry, the Agang joke is so over done.
So I will start this
little post with my complaint and finish with a compliment.
Last Thursday night, I was
reminded of how the customer experience isn't always at the top of every establishment's list. My dad and I went to Fishaways in Midway Mews.
I loved the Fishaways in Grahamstown and figured I’d continue my patronage with
the one in my area. But after my experience I won’t go back and I won’t stay
quiet about it either.
As I greeted the woman
who took my order, I immediately felt like my walking in there was the worst
thing that could have happened to her that day. I felt completely unwelcome as
I tried to substitute the salad in my hake wrap for coleslaw – it offers a
crunchier culinary experience, where as the soggy tomato salad fails every time. I didn't get to enjoy the coleslaw and bit into a hake wrap swimming in tomato
juices.
Now, I might just
sound like some middle class arsehole pissed off about a stuff up to her order,
but that’s not where I get angry. I get irritated when I'm made to feel like an unwanted presence in the room. And this is not a problem that is localised to the
Fishaways at Midway Mews. It permeates every retail business in South Africa.
I
lived in the Eastern Cape for four years and I shopped at both Pick n Pay and
Checkers in Grahamstown. I have also shopped at both of those stores in Gauteng
and the customer experience is lacking. I’m not asking to be
treated like the Queen and her corgis. I’m asking to be treated like a customer who's patronage is good enough and valued. I hate feeling like I don’t
belong in a shop. The problem is many South Africans don’t have the option of waltzing into Woolworths where a simple ‘Hello, how are you’ is a given. Even as an
unemployed youth, I don’t have the option to shop at Woolworths – the only time
I’m there is to swap a gift someone has bought for me, usually for a larger
size after the Christmas season.
Don’t think that my
gripe is just with Checkers, Pick n Pay and Fishaways, it’s amongst all
retailers. And it's time to stop accepting mediocrity.
I know being a teller is tough – I've been there, done that & I
still have the t-shirt. I understand most of, if not all the pressures that
come with dealing with customers. You can get some real wankers who deserve a
kick in the teeth to remind them they aren't the Queen – but of course you
can’t do that. But there is the misunderstanding that a teller or cashier's job
is unimportant and one mustn't forget that they are the last stop before the
customer leaves with their goods.
On the plus side, I’m
still loving my customer experience with Mango. It’s almost three weeks later
and I’m still thinking about my return trip.
 |
| A perfectly sublime trip with Mango. I imagine this picture was taken while gliding over the Eastern Cape. This picture was, of course, taken in flight mode. Thank you, Mango! |
I can be an anxious traveler and
this was the first time I’d be given the responsibility of a hire car. I
worried about checking-in and whether I had the correct documentation and if my
bag was going to arrive on the other end – listen to me, I sound like I jet
across the country. Hardly.
I was taking my
brother to Rhodes for his first year and we were cutting registration a little
fine, considering we were only going to be there on Sunday afternoon.
Everything went fine and I dropped my brother off and I was back at PE airport
the very next day. I remember walking in and seeing a large tour group from
Ghana here for the Afcon. They were on my flight to Joburg and were a pretty
large group. I was about to get into the queue with the avid supporters, before
a woman in an orange Mango top intercepted my trolley and was guiding me to the
express queue. I guess they figured they’d try and speed things up by keeping
the tour group to one teller and the rest of us to another teller. The woman at
the counter, also in orange, was very polite and chit-chatted while handling all my checking-in particulars. The previous
woman offered to take away my trolley once I’d checked in my bags. Boarding
was quick, I had a whole row of seats at the back of the plane to myself and I
made a new friend, Alex, from Ghana.
I know it was
something so small, but I felt like I was treated to the business or first
class experience of SAA and BA travelers. It was great and that flight still
puts a smile on my face three weeks later. Thank you, Mango.
Friday, February 15, 2013
A Little List
My Gran used to always say she had a "little list" for my dad. These were things she needed him to pick up at the shops and possibly do around the house. Her little lists became my mum's little habit and I figured it was a great heading for this post. As this is the first post of its kind on my blog, it might be a good idea to define it.
A Little List will be a collection of random thoughts. They are just some ideas about the world we live in summed up in a few short sentences on topics of an important and less important nature.
1. I experienced a great deal of satisfaction last week Sunday when I had a bath heated by our new solar geyser. That long soak felt like a big eff you to Eskom and the City of Johannesburg after we had two power failures in 24 hours.
2. In general, South Africans drive badly. In Joburg, I feel I'm under constant pressure to not STOP at STOP streets. Maybe it's just me, but I take pleasure in following the rules of the road, because it pisses drivers off.
3. What a fall from grace. Once the whole saga is over and whether he's found guilty or not, Oscar Pistorius is the only one who knows what happened. We will always question his actions and his story.
4. If you think about it, when your hazard lights are on, they are off half of the time.
5. From reality shows like Wipe Out USA to Beyond Scared Straight, the reality show screech is everywhere. Jenna Marbles makes a valid point about this sound effect:
A Little List will be a collection of random thoughts. They are just some ideas about the world we live in summed up in a few short sentences on topics of an important and less important nature.
1. I experienced a great deal of satisfaction last week Sunday when I had a bath heated by our new solar geyser. That long soak felt like a big eff you to Eskom and the City of Johannesburg after we had two power failures in 24 hours.
2. In general, South Africans drive badly. In Joburg, I feel I'm under constant pressure to not STOP at STOP streets. Maybe it's just me, but I take pleasure in following the rules of the road, because it pisses drivers off.
3. What a fall from grace. Once the whole saga is over and whether he's found guilty or not, Oscar Pistorius is the only one who knows what happened. We will always question his actions and his story.
4. If you think about it, when your hazard lights are on, they are off half of the time.
5. From reality shows like Wipe Out USA to Beyond Scared Straight, the reality show screech is everywhere. Jenna Marbles makes a valid point about this sound effect:
6. Do you think Julius Malema ever reads motivational quotes? You know, the ones that are set against a picturesque landscape like this one:
7. I wish I could reason with my dog Winston. Everyday I wish he could just understand what I go through at 4:30 every morning when he jumps on my bed.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The plaster metaphor
There's a spot on Allan Dale Road, between Harry Galaun Drive and Grieg Street, that I believe demonstrates the kind of approach we take when dealing with problems. This spot on Allan Dale is in a dip that receives a lot of water and, often enough, the excess water doesn't drain away. If anyone has had the pleasure of racing down Allan Dale, you'll know that those coming from Kyalami Race Track will make a wide berth for a pothole who sheds its winter coat every summer. This evil little bugger is only encouraged by the mass of trucks and 4x4s that wikkel on by.
However, after the rainy season, when the Highveld approaches the dry cold snaps of winter, men in overalls bring their tar and gravel to fill the hole and keep it snug as a bug for the cold months. But as soon as that first Joburg thunder storm hits, the tar washes off like the excess weight of a Matric girl about to go on vac.
As a local living in the vicinity of this pothole, I know this little process has been on repeat ever since I can remember. And what the people who repair the road don't realise, or maybe they do and it's not their department, is that there is a small river underneath this part of the road where drainage is clearly very poor. And each year, they stick a plaster over this pothole instead of addressing the underlying problem.
I feel this small problem is reflected in areas like our education system, where the concern is on the Matrics and their pass rate, but what about the earlier phases of education? We're doing everything to increase the Matric pass rate by looking at helping students in Grade 12, but maybe we need to make a little more effort with our earlier grades. By the time Matric rolls round, there is less than a year for exam preparation; when we could have avoided this pothole by ensuring children have the skills to cope with highschool.
Of course, I am merely glossing over all the issues with our education system which has been ranked 132th out of 144 countries according to the World Economic Forum's Global Competitiveness Report 2012-2013.
Another one of our problems we seem to approach with a small band aid in the hopes of fixing everything, is the massive number of road accident deaths after every Festive season. Between 1 December 2012 and 8 January 2013, 1 465 people died in the 1 221 fatal accidents recorded. This means 37 people died each day during the silly season. The cartoon plaster in this case saw the number of deaths drop by 10 - note the absence of a percentage sign.
According to this report from eNews Channel Africa (ENCA), the Road Traffic Management Corporation (RTMC) started their campaign late and the leading cause of road accident death is alcohol. I agree that drunk drivers and drunk pedestrians are a major concern, we also cannot excuse a whole host of other issues that take place on our roads. The easy things the cops can look out for are drunk driving, speeding and poorly maintained vehicles, but there are hardly any officers around to punish bad driving. It's easy to snap a pic of a speeding motorist and send them the fine in the mail, it's harder to nab a bad driver for dangerous over-taking.
From what I witnessed when I drove to and from Plett this New Year's and the countless trips I've taken to and from Rhodes University, there are a number of drivers who over-take when it is far too dangerous. On my way back from Plett, I witnessed a driver in a BMW X6 overtake six cars. To a lot of long distance drivers, solid lines, blind rises and sharp turns mean nothing to them.
So, to the RTMC and traffic officers, please stop reaching for the Elastoplast box on the shelf. Sticking more officers in the shade to collect pictures of speeding number plates is not the answer.
On the whole, we need to start tackling the underlying problem. Potholes, our education system, road deaths and many other issues deserve more attention as opposed to the plasters you keep in your first aid kit. There's more to these issues. If you don't agree with me, just frequent Allan Dale more often and maybe you'll understand this metaphor.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
In with the new, and out with the old
The worst clichè ever, but I promise my headline writing will get better as I get back into the swing of things.
I have decided that the one and only resolution I should make this year, is to be who I say I am. I say I'm a writer and yet, I don't do enough writing to claim such a status. My last blog post was over a year ago. So, I need to turn my talent into a habit again. I've italicised 'talent', because it is my view and I think I can write reasonably well on a good day.
But down to the real business as to why I'm blogging again. I'm unemployed and just like David Bullard, I'm going to sit at home and bombard the Internet with my opinions. And, I need to treat this space as a possible hiring point.
In this day and age, an online audience is a valuable commodity for journalists. My current Twitter following is 254, which is not too shabby for someone who is unemployed. I just have to hope that they aren't bots, otherwise that would be embarrassing. My online following, however, has to increase to make me a more viable candidate for hire.
So I am here to write, to be who I say I am. And, most importantly, to welcome you to the new Underground and Off the Record blog.
I have decided that the one and only resolution I should make this year, is to be who I say I am. I say I'm a writer and yet, I don't do enough writing to claim such a status. My last blog post was over a year ago. So, I need to turn my talent into a habit again. I've italicised 'talent', because it is my view and I think I can write reasonably well on a good day.
But down to the real business as to why I'm blogging again. I'm unemployed and just like David Bullard, I'm going to sit at home and bombard the Internet with my opinions. And, I need to treat this space as a possible hiring point.
In this day and age, an online audience is a valuable commodity for journalists. My current Twitter following is 254, which is not too shabby for someone who is unemployed. I just have to hope that they aren't bots, otherwise that would be embarrassing. My online following, however, has to increase to make me a more viable candidate for hire.
So I am here to write, to be who I say I am. And, most importantly, to welcome you to the new Underground and Off the Record blog.
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