Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Evacuate The Dancefloor

So true to my word and in keeping with my festive spirit, when I encountered a small group of 6 year old kids yesterday (who were campaigning and raising funds for Cancer Research), I made them dance for their donation. My sister said I was horrible and it was akin to prostitution... but it really couldn't have been that bad because two of them were laughing hysterically before they finally started shaking their little asses. They were so cute, I even took pics and made them promise to come visit me so we can dance some more.

I don't know what it is about dancing that makes me love it so much but ever since I was a child, I LOVED it. I think my first influence was Michael Jackson's "Billy Jean" Live in concert... the King of the dance floor. Then as I grew, I really really wanted to be a backup dancer for one of Janet Jackson's tours. The dancers always looked like they had the most fun on tour.



My love for dancing is the reason I love Britney Spears so much, because from the younger generation, she’s a superb performer, and I don’t give a rats ass that she lip syncs etc. because I want to see her dance and sing effortlessly, not huff and puff around on stage. Very very few people can command an audience the way she can (bar that infamous MTV performance where she was high). Christina may have the voice but she doesn’t come close on stage. However, the title of “Queen” of the dance floor would have to go to Janet Jackson. She’s like the black older version of Britney. Madonna comes in the top 5. I also find that very VERY few artists can sing and dance at the same time… and most who try SUCK. Chris Brown is one of the good performers. And with those moves, he can “Hit me baby one more time” :P

And so I would watch in awe, as these artists displayed their art with graceful, eloquent movements of their limbs, in such a manner that to my perception, it looked like they were liberated and tasted freedom every time they moved on the dance floor. And every time, I’d also want to be emancipated and liberated from the confines of life and just be free!



And I (I mean WE because I hardly ever dance alone, I have my crew of 5) must be pretty good (or exceptionally bad) because wherever we are and whenever we dance in our little group, the crowd initially gets out of the way to watch, or they want to dance with us. See, the trick to great dancing is synchronization because no matter how great you are, or how awful, or how WHACKED your moves may be it ALWAYS looks great if more than one person is doing it. And not to mention, it’s the best way to exercise, for real :)



In other news, I'm ardently against fortune telling i.e. foreseeing the future... for many reasons stated in my posts on jinn. But I have to say that I do believe that people from the same astrological sign share certain characteristics. This is something I've experienced and witnessed over time. That said, a friend sent me this on email to commemorate my birthday...

People born on the 30th, March:
There's a magnetic force field around March 30. Most people can't resist the crackle of lightening which accompanies this person. It's simply more fun being with them than not being with them. Even though they may possess physical beauty, they may spend their childhood pursuing ordinary delights without any seeming distinction.

Then one day this magic child puts down her butterfly net and sets out with a bigger one to trawl the skies, riding on stardusted wings until she reaches her chosen star. And still this ram seems less than notable to those who can't see the soaring creativity which makes this person special. Whatever this individual does works. Both sexes make everything seem so easy, that again, others can't understand their success.

Some will be painters, musicians, sportsmen, scientists and become household names. Others may not glitter on the world stage, but in their own locality they are well loved. This is the person who makes things happen in your town or village. He or she may run local authority or state departments. If there is no theatre or the church needs repairing, they build and mend. If a specialist hospital is needed, both sexes campaign until it happens.

What they say at certain moments in life, other people will remember for ever because these are the shapers of others' destinies. March 30 is always on the telephone because someone has rung for help, maybe to solve an academic problem, ask the name of the author of a favourite book, what colour to wear to a wedding, and, of course, who to marry. The glimmer about them is part sex appeal. They do not realise that the telephoners would like to be lovers, but settle for friendship because they know that's all they can have. March 30 mustn't hold on to these friends so tightly they can never be free to find someone who will love them back.

Sounds so glamorous innit. Whether it's true or not, I’ll still be dancing like no one is watching ;D

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

When Life Hands You Lemons...

Make lemon cheesecake. Seriously, it’s delicious. Fuck Tequila and sticking ‘em in your bra to make your boobs look bigger. I’ve had orchards of lemons thrown at me for the past 28 years and in true culinary style, I’ve made cheesecake. So here’s to another 28 years of the good stuff.  

 

This recipe is so easy it’s ridiculous. And the nice thing about it is that it’s not only delicious and fool-proof, it looks tres pretty too. And to spread the glee and merriment, I’ve decided to share unlike some of the koelies (no caps for them) I know that hog all the recipes because they are nothing without them… (hey it’s my Party, I will say what I want to).

Anyways. This is what you’ll need:
1 pkt Tennis Biscuits (Or Digestives to you poor saps overseas who are deprived :D)
100g Butter (Or as required)
2 pkt’s Lemon Jelly (Known as jello to my American buds. Any flavor would do, but you forget this is MY party and we’re having Lemon ok! ;P)
500ml Fresh Cream (Really, do I have to explain this?)
250g Cream Cheese (No need to be picky about brands here)
½ tin Condensed Milk (100g icing sugar with ½ tin Evaporated Milk can be used as an alternative but why would you want to do that?)
A few slices of Lemon (Or whatever fruit flavoured cheesecake you decide to make)

Crush the Tennis biscuits, melt the butter and form a moist crust. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes at 180 degrees centigrade, I think that’s 350F (I’m too tired to calculate the conversions for you pommies). Take one cup (225ml – 250ml) boiling water and pour contents of first packet of jelly, along with a teaspoon of plain gelatine (some of you moulanas will want to use agar-agar or china grass, that’s fine too). Stir jelly and gelatine and set aside to cool. Whip up 500ml fresh cream, then add 250g of cream cheese to that. Add ½ tin condensed milk (sorry I don’t know the equivalent for this in  first world terms), as well as the cooled jelly&gelatine mixture. Whip some more then add the mixture to the cooled crust and wait for it to set. In the meantime, add another cup of boiling water (225ml – 250ml) to the other packet of Jelly (do not add gelatine here). Let it cool and once the cheesecake has set, add fruit of your choice and pour cool jelly over. Refrigerate until set and voila! This was so good, I had to have a slice at 2am last night (or this morning should I say).

I’m making every effort to enjoy this time in my life. These are the peak years for me… a time where I not only feel my best mentally, psychologically and emotionally, but I look my best too. I have a sense of self that’s always eluded me for years, and for that I’m grateful. So yeah, I will be celebrating all week long… not because I’m one year older… but because of who I’ve become and really, I look at some people and there’s no one else I’d rather be.

I look forward to the years ahead because I believe the best is yet to come. I know that there are still many lessons I will learn on this journey called life but I’m grateful that I have the chance to learn them, that I’m not stuck in the dark like so many I know… I'm grateful that I’m ALIVE. And I’m embracing that… grabbing life by both horns and forging ahead. I will be dancing in the streets today (only stopping long enough to pray)... I want to see all the kids faces as dance up to them.

I smell change in the air. If anyone wants to see what I’ve gotten for myself, go here.

“With an iron-clad fist, I wake up and French kiss the morning”

Monday, March 29, 2010

MARCH

Once upon a time, in a land far far away (when My So-Called Life and Animaniacs were the best things on TV and you could still buy something for 10 cents) I used to have my own large magnificent room that I ruled over. I spent many of my days residing in this room, relegating myself to a comfortable seclusion. Then I moved out and went to London, and the Bank of Mother re-possessed my lovely room and sold it at an auction, to the only bidder being my youngest sister. Upon my return, I received news that I no longer had my own sleeping quarters and had to share with me sis which was all part of a secret parental ploy to get us to move out.

Anyways, for this month’s challenge, and as a tribute to the 28 years I’ve been on earth, I’ve decided to give my life a makeover. One of the aspects in my life that needed a makeover was this room I share with my sis. We’ve been discussing it for months, just waiting for the right opportunity to knock on the door. We both agreed that whatever makeover we decided upon had to come cheap… because there’s no sense is spending large sums of money on a room we both don’t intend on staying in forever. With the probability of moving out on the horizon (for both of us), we decided that it would be best if we got creative, and spent as little money on our creativity as possible.

Since we both had very difference ideas and couldn’t come to an agreement with regard to a colour scheme, we eventually decided to go with a sober, more "adult" black and white template, broken up with bursts of colour. And in no time, the project took on a life of its own and everything just flowed and came together almost effortlessly. Tired of the clutter and keeping in mind that we may need cheap storage units for all our crap (including all our reading material acquired over the years), we decided to go with a clean, clinical chic look and this here is the result...

BEFORE: I didn't take any before pics really... just one or two pics while we were working. This is just a semblence of what it was like before. Dull and drab (only because it's taken without the flash) and very cluttered.



AFTER:

Thanks to enthusiastically tapping into my crafty side... and a couple of hours later...

These were just pieces of wood when we began. Thanks to alot of paint, they've become art-deco-avant-garde-y-abstract pieces of art to brighten up the room. Nothing says "the world is my canvas" like an empty frame.

This chest of drawers got more than just a lick of paint. We decided to experiment a little too...

We've kept the template black and white ie. all the basic furniture and accessories. The room is dotted in splashes of colour with purely decorative pieces. The only piece of furniture with colour are the drawers above, and even so, the entire canvas can be painted over in either white or black. The method behind this madness is that the room could alter it's decorative state according to the colours and accessories that are in fashion or according to changing tastes... without having to alter the entire room. The basic black and white is the foundation.

These stow-away boxes are somewhat kitsch, but they're nifty and added to the room's template. But the primary reason we decided to get them, aside from fitting into the template, they were so cheap.

Another cheap accessory in the form of a bin for the room.

A white lamp stands in the middle aside two storage units which holds books, candles... the usual stuff one keeps at the bedside.

This cheap rendition to the Damask trend is reversible ie. this print is white on black and on the reverse side it's black on white. The same with the printed pillowcases. The red fleece throw is super comfy and breaks the black and white nicely me thinks.

There are alot of elements here, texturally speaking. There's porcelain, wood, paper, glass, ceramic and metal... all of which are either decorative or used to house our clutter. The handles on the drawers were replaced and the counter-top painted black. The basket on top of the drawers was painted orange adding some warmth to the room.

The room's curtains. Initially we were skeptical about going with the black lining, but the white one did no justice to the white floral print. The next pic shows how it looks during the day, when the curtain lining is opened to bring in the light.


Overall, it was an enjoyable experience and didn't cost us more than R1500... which is just over US$200, EUR150 and GBP135. For more on the crap I keep inside these decorative boxes, go here.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Rich & Famous

No person can be sincere if he wants to become famous. The sign of a sincere person who would like to become famous is that he does not realise (that he has this inclination); if he is rebuked concerning that inclination, he does not get angry or try to defend himself, rather he admits it and says: ‘May the mercy of Allah be upon the one who does me a favour and tells me about my faults’. He is not filled with self-admiration and he is not unaware of his faults, rather he admits that he may be unaware of some of his faults. And this is a chronic problem. Prophet Ibrahim AS (Abraham), narrated by Taloot (Siyar A’laam Al-Nubala’ by Al-Dhahabi)

Beautified for men is the love of things they covet; women, children, much of gold and silver (wealth), branded beautiful horses, cattle and well-tilled land. This is the pleasure of the present world’s life; but Allah has the excellent return (paradise with flowing rivers) with Him. (Qur’an: Al-Imraan, 3:14)

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

For The Love Of Money

Zaynub is more of an acquaintance than a friend. She married Bilal almost 8 years ago in a lavish ceremony attended by over 600 guests. But long before they got married, Bilal informed her that he doesn’t earn much and that he has a financial responsibility to his ailing geriatric mother because he’s the eldest and the only son. But he promised Zaynub that he’d take care of her needs and she was so in love, shitting hearts and rainbows, that she agreed to the arrangement and even supported it. For the first few months, she didn’t expect anything from him but things came to boiling point when, in the 6th month of their marriage, she felt entitled to a monthly allowance for shoes and clothing.

To keep the peace, Bilal took on extra hours at his job and tightened his already tight budget to acquiesce to her request. But over time, designer clothes became more expensive and when her allowance didn’t cover all her expenses, she demanded more money. Over-worked and suffering from exhaustion, he refused telling her that she did not “need” a R5000 dress. In the meantime, Zaynub was pissed and resented the fact that Bilal refused to pay for her medical bills because according to him “there is nothing in the Shariah” (Islamic Law) to state that he has to pay for her medical bills. To make matters worse, he felt it necessary to not only take care of his mother financially, but two of his sisters too because their mufti husbands did not think it necessary or Shariah compliant to support them either.

So the question is who is in more need of a solid kick up the ass? My answer is both of them. She deserves it because she has to stop WANTING and being a materialistic bitch and realise that his obligation to her is to see to her NEEDS and not her WANTS, and she doesn’t need a R5000 dress to impress the Joneses when a R50 one that covers her ass and keeps her warm will do. He needs it because he can’t go around making fucked up decisions, using the Shariah as an excuse for not wanting to support his wife’s necessities because he’s too afraid to stand up and be the man especially when he’s too busy playing Santa with his over-indulged sisters.

I’m not going to mince words here or beat around the bush. Here’s the deal. We all like nice things right? We all love the idea of living in luxury… or at the very least the idea of being able to afford to live in luxury… even if that luxury is monotone and minimalistic and simplistic at its very core. I mean, who doesn’t want to drive a nice car? And who doesn’t want to be able to jump on plane and fly off into the Bahamian sunset without giving a second thought to pesky issues like unpaid bills and next months rent? But unless you live in a palace in Brunei, it’s a given that not every single person is going to be rolling in the green… or in South African terms… with the Buffalos and Leopards.

BUT… when you’re in a relationship, where do you draw the line with your spouse? How much is enough? I can tell you this much, amongst MOST of the SA Indians/Asians (most South African's in general, but SPECIFICALLY the Indians here), money forms the foundation of their relationships. Most of the men love their women and children with money and the women aren’t any different… the “I-love-you-so-much-you-need-to-drive-around-in-a-flashy-car-s” is not uncommon… because let’s face it, most of them are devoid or incapable of expressing any real human emotion aside from being bitchy (yes that’s the men going on like women for you) and aside from the snot and tears churned from the standard melodramatic Bollywood flick. So much of their identities are formed around what they own, that they don’t know who they are without their possessions.

I have to wonder, if it’s a genetic predisposition to want to not only acquire but flaunt so much wealth; wealth that’s automatically attached to a false sense of status and authority; all in a desperate attempt to escape the squalor that most of their ancestors came from. Lets just imagine for a moment,  that you come from shit and you had jack shit… now you have to prove yourself to the world… make a statement that you’re not shit and that you’re actually worth something in monetary terms (because you can’t flash your character see and personality doesn’t buy status so it becomes redundant). And so money becomes part of their identities and forms the basis of how they value themselves. And the more they have, the more they want. And the more they want, the more they acquire; and the more they acquire, the more they waste. It’s a fucked-up-never-ending-cycle I tell ya… and most of these people are the ones who will preach about Islam, conveniently forgetting those laws against excess and extravagance.

I’ve blogged about this before. Now I love money as much as most people do, and for over a decade I’ve said that money will NEVER make you happy but a lack thereof will DEFINITELY make you miserable. But it does not define who I am. It doesn’t make me any more or any less of who I already am. It just allows me to enjoy certain aspects of life that are only attainable when you have money. Nutella does not grow on trees. And the fuel on every Boeing 747 going to Greece does not come from rainwater (although we wish it did). Most things come at a monetary price and yes we need money, but it's not everything. There is a huge distinction people often fail to make... the distinction between what we NEED and what we WANT.

But the real question that everyone needs to ask themselves… IS THAT HOW YOU DEFINE YOURSELF? Does having money, or the lack thereof, determine WHO YOU ARE in society? Does it dictate the estimates of your self-worth? If it does, then there’s no point in going on and you should just do the world a favour and kill yourself. Please. Right now. Seriously. I can loan you my Dad’s semi-automatic, but I want it back when you’re dead. Mother Earth does not need people like you. Mass consumerism has already wreaked havoc and ruined her endocrine system, almost irreversibly. Thing is, all the money in the world won’t buy you Class, or Respect, or Manners... or most importantly, some real estate in the land of Contentment. Chew on that.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I'm Sorry But...

Due to the personal nature of this post and security concerns, I have to do this over here. If you don't have access and would like to, please email me at azmarita@gmail.com. 

An open mind, honesty, non-judgement, discretion and an email is essential (no chancers or anons)... the purpose of which is to protect my personal information.  Access is granted to everyone who is honest. However, please note that this message comes attached to a WARNING: Not so much for the faint hearted.

Apologies for the inconvenience... here have some cake for your troubles:


Thursday, March 18, 2010

Qisma

I drink my coffee and grin at Zayd’s happy countenance. ‘Why, brother, do we expose ourselves to such things instead of staying in our homes like sensible people?’

‘Because’, Zayd grins back at me, ‘it is not for the like of thee and me to wait in our homes until the limbs become stiff and old age overtakes us. And besides, do not people die in their houses as well? Does not man always carry his destiny around his neck, wherever he may be?’

The word Zayd uses for ‘destiny’ is qisma – ‘that which is apportioned’ – better known to the West in its Turkish form, kismet. And while I sip another cup of coffee, it passes through my mind that this Arabic expression has another, deeper meaning as well: ‘that in which one has a share.’

That in which one has a share…

These words strike a faint, elusive chord in my memory…

‘… For he has learned that to be without greed is to be without fear – and that if man goes beyond fear he goes beyond danger as well, knowing that whatever happens to him is but his share in all that is happening…’

‘My share in all that is happening…’ I think to myself as I lie under the friendly Arabian stars. ‘I – this bundle of flesh and bone, of sensations and perceptions – have been placed within the orbit of Being, and am within all that is happening… 

“Danger” is only an illusion: never can it “overcome” me: for all that happens to me is part of the all-embracing stream of which I myself am a part. Could it be, perhaps, that danger and safety, death and joy, destiny and fulfillment, are but different aspects of this tiny, majestic bundle that is I? What endless freedom, O God, hast Thou granted to man…’

I have to close my eyes, so sharp is the pain of happiness at this thought; and wings of freedom brush me silently from afar in the breath of the wind that passes over my face. ~ The Road To Makkah by M. Asad

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Coz That's How We Roll...

It’s that time of the year again, when I get to party guilt-free for an entire month (well it’s more like eight weeks now) thanks to a few hundred birthday celebrations, including my own. March people rock boulders, so it’s all good. April people come in a close second. This year celebrations have been extended to include bouncing bundles of joy, new additions to the family and friendship circles as well as a bridal shower of note.

So I’m in the midst of planning the party of the century with my girls right (more on that over here), when it occurs to me that I’m bored of the same-old same-old. There are no fresh party ideas or theme’s to enthrall me and I find myself thoroughly bored with every suggestion put on the table. Everything’s become so last season… been-there-done-that… or know someone who did it… or just plain BORING!

And then it hit me like lightening (no I didn’t get hurt, just electrically charged), what if I made up my own fucked up themes that were totally arbitrary and the epitome of outrageous? My mind went into overdrive and here are a few of my ideas:

I thought it would be great to spend my 28th birthday with a twisted themed party called The Wedding Fight Club. Indulge me will you, and imagine this… me in a stunning wedding dress, flawless makeup and my hair done and neatly piled on my head, framed with an exquisite tiara. The entire image would be the embodiment of perfection, except for the butcher’s knife (fake of course) sticking out of my chest and the blood splattered everywhere on my face, arms and the white dress. I want to look like Cinderella with a Tarantino twist.

A cleaner, prettier version of this:


All my girls would wear ugly 80’s inspired shocking pink bridesmaid dresses that are torn in various places and they’d each have to wear their hair tosseled, with missing accessories and either a fiberglass cast on a leg or an arm, a blue/purple eye and various other cuts and bruises while limping on broken stiletto’s and holding ruined bouquet’s etc. to simulate an image of an after-fight. I want to put him in a tuxedo with a few buttons torn off the shirt, the sleeve ripped off from his jacket and a gaping laceration running across his cheek and the groomsmen aka other male party guests will be adorned similarly, donning fiberglass casts, bandages, neck braces and other injury-related apparel.

The birthday cake would be a beautiful wedding cake that looks like it was tossed out on its ass… literally turned upside down. Guests will get to take home party favours like broken plates that have to be glued together to spell out “thank you for sharing this special day with me”. For fun, there’ll be bride and groom piñatas, hanging by their necks from a tree and a few baseball bats for guests to take their shots and we could all rock out to various renditions of Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance”. A perfect ending would be to drive away into the sunset in a convertible with the top down, windscreen smashed to smithereens and a huge sign saying, “Just turned 28”. How cool would that be?!?

Or how about a party where everyone comes as an eating disorder? Like Ana-Rexia.

Or one of the seven deadly sins? Imagine coming to the party as “Lust” and being wrapped in yards of cellophane to closely resemble a large condom.

One of my favourite ideas is a Shower theme where everyone gets dressed up and adorned with various accessories and appendages to resemble their showers at home. The party would be held in the rain where soap, body wash, shampoo, conditioner and other sanitation products like loofahs, sponges and towels are handed out as party favours. Jacob Zuma would be on the guest list so getting the entire street cordoned off won’t be an issue. Snacks would include comfort foods like pizza and cake, served with an array of hot drinks under small tents set up on the side and the playlist would include songs like “Shower the people” by Babyface and James Taylor as well as “My girlfriend’s shower sucks” by Goldfinger. Now how cool would that be!?!

We’ve already experimented with a few other fucked up themes… story and pics over here, these are for real yo.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Other-Worldly

Because sometimes, what you don't know WILL hurt you and you'll find that ignorance is NOT bliss. More here.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Cougar-licious

I’m often told (by various people in various situations at various times), that I look like or remind them of Demi Moore. Now this just affirms my belief that there are more delusional people roaming the earth than I've given credit to; and that just because most of us can see, it doesn’t mean that we’re not blind.

All could-be’s, would-be’s and should-be’s aside (inside & out and that includes him as well)… if being a Cougar means looking like this at the age of 47… if that’s what it means to be a Cougar... then where the hell do I sign up?!

                                             People.com


“The real trick is putting yourself around people you admire, that’s why I married my wife. My wife & I have an agreement in our marriage, & part of that contract is that we are going to shine our lights on each other. My relationship with Demi is so solid, we’re so communicative about the way that we’re feeling, that we don’t allow space to come between us. ~ Ashton Kutcher

Monday, March 8, 2010

It's NOT Love If...

I posted something similar to this last year sometime. The difference is that while that post was taken from an email I wanted to share, this one is based on real-life scenarios I’ve either seen on TV, witnessed from friends or experienced myself:

It’s NOT love if… you spend every single waking moment wondering what he’s doing.
It’s probably… voyeuristic cravings brought on from seriously neglecting those precious hours allocated to stalking people on Facebook.

It’s NOT love if… you’re picking out the wedding colours, booking the hotel for your honeymoon and naming your 3 children together, 2 minutes after meeting him for the first time.
It’s probably… a cocktail of raging hormones, delusions and desperation.

It’s NOT love if… you want to cut him up and eat him so that he’ll be with you forever.
It’s probably… Cannibalism or Pica, an appetite for all types of weird shit.

It’s NOT love if… you call him pretending to be an employee from Standard Bank, offering him a credit card just so that you can hear his voice.
It’s probably... chronic social issues and more desperation.

It’s NOT love if… the mere mention of his name makes you want to rip off his clothes and pole dance in his underwear.
It’s probably… too much testosterone produced and secreted by your adrenal cortex.

It’s NOT love if… your entire world revolves around his existence.
It’s probably… the fact that you have no life, no hobbies, low self-esteem and a poor self-image.

It’s NOT love if… you find yourself eating all the crap from his plate just because he touched it.
It’s probably… uitgevreedheid (greediness) because you’re a pig swimming on the gluttonous side of life.

It’s NOT love if… you try to be-friend his mother in the hopes of getting closer to him.
It’s probably… an indication that you’re in the early stages of Psychopathy.

It’s NOT love if… you tell him that you can’t imagine a life without him, preferring death over such a fate.
It’s probably… Münchausen Syndrome, playing the victim in a desperate attempt to garner sympathy and attention.

It’s NOT love if… you want to lick his skin because it looks delicious.
It’s probably… malnutrition or a lack of calcium in your diet.

It’s NOT love if… you interrogate every single person in a 5 mile radius of his home, wanting to know every single detail of his life.
It’s probably… unresolved issues of repression and passive aggression, most likely resulting in some kind of physical, emotional and psychological harassment lawsuit.

It’s NOT love if… you have weird sensations in your abdominal area, akin to butterflies flying rampantly.
It’s probably… indigestion, nothing a little Gaviscon can’t fix.

It’s NOT love if… you stutter and confuse your words and sentences, saying one thing and meaning another, while trying to talk to him.
It’s probably… undiagnosed Dyslexia and some or other speech impediment.

It’s NOT love if… you interpret every word that comes out of his mouth to mean “I love you”.
It’s probably… a mild form of mental retardation.

It’s NOT love if… you give him your last Rolo.
It’s probably… Histrionic personality disorder characterised by a pattern of attention-seeking behavior, including an excessive need for approval and appreciation, persistent manipulation as well as inappropriate sexual provocation and seductiveness.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Size Matters...

... apparently… or so they say. When we were in Cape Town this past December, my sisters and I had a very interesting conversation with one of our uncles (I’ve explained the nature of our relationship before, he’s not really my uncle but they’re like family). Now if you don’t know this man, you’ll think that he’s two olives short of a Martini, or in other words, a fucking nutter. Eccentric, very straightforward and blunt to a fault, my uncle is one HELL-of-a-character. There is NO ONE like him on this earth.

Firstly, he’s in his mid 40’s but for some reason, he thinks we’re buddies… that I’m one of the guys. So whenever we go out (& it doesn’t matter whether it’s in a restaurant or at the market) and he sees an attractive girl, he’ll nudge me with his elbow saying “Kyk dié goose, look! look! *nudging & pointing* Sy’s mooi né?” (look at her, she's pretty). I’m always giggling and saying, “yes she is, but I don’t look at girls!”.

On one of the days we went traipsing around the Cape in his Chrysler with the V8 engine, revving and setting off all the car alarms as we drove by, Mother wanted to buy some fresh fish so he pulled off the road and parked on the pavement (facing a wall). While Mother and aunt went a-haggling (the Chrysler has a HUGE interior so Mother, my sis and myself were seated at the back, while little sis sat in the middle of aunt and uncle up front) we were engaging in some light conversation.

I can’t recall exactly what we were talking about, but before we knew it, there was this guy who unzipped his pants and started peeing on the wall. So my uncle hooted and told him to have some manners and that there were ladies in the vicinity. This guy dismissed him and said that he’s not bothered that there are women around and that “it means nothing” to him. My uncle then said (more monologuing to himself) “Kyk-die vark met sy klein piel” (look at this pig with his small dick), and my sisters and I were off, sniggering as usual.

After that, conversation just seemed to flow. Actually, it was more of a monologue because my uncle spoke while my sister and I were trying to pick ourselves up from the floor of the car, after having fallen over each other in the back seat, clutching our stomachs from laughing so much, wiping away the tears rolling down our faces (this is a common occurrence when you spend time with this man). I was convinced that I was going to die laughing that day. Poor little sis up front had moved from the middle seat to the passenger seat on the side, sliding down in her seat (while waiting for aunt and Mother to return), blushing something crimson, grinning and shaking her head, while the two of us at the back were trying to regain our composure. Strangers would have thought that we were both having epileptic seizures at the same time.

Absolutely dead serious, my uncle gave us a detailed account of how he observes other men when he uses public restrooms, out of sheer curiosity, and then compares the sizes of their winky’s, often confronting them. Their conversations usually go something like this:

Uncle: (asking the one falling short, in his Capetonian accent, frown & genuine curiosity plastered on his face) “Hey, why’s it so small?”
Guy: (in another Capetonian accent) “FUCK YOU!”
Uncle: “But why’s it so small?”
Guy: “Jou ma se p@#$!!” (your mother’s vagina in crude Afrikaans)

I can never forget that frown and curiosity on his face as he narrated the story, very matter-of-fact and even now, as I recall it, I still laugh like I did when we were there. My uncle then went on to say that he finds it very unfair that women don’t get to see their future husband’s genitalia before they get married, because they never really know what they’re getting out of the deal. He said he can’t imagine that a woman has to invest so much of her time and emotion in a guy just so that he can disappoint her on her wedding night.

He carried on monologue-ing: “Imagine, it’s the wedding night and everyone is gone home and she’s so excited and gets all dressed up sexy waiting to meet Mr. Anaconda, then out comes die klien wurmpie (a small worm) huh? And she must be thinking ‘what the fuck am I going to do with that?’. What kak is that? Tsek”(what shit is that? fuck off).

My uncle then went on to explain that when his 18 year old daughter wants to get married, he’s going to insist that the guy drop his pants so he and my aunt can evaluate the package (this is where my parents get all their ideas from). Then he’s going to tell his daughter “Right Aashieka, tell me, what do you want? Small, Medium or Large?”.

I can tell you this much, I only ever see them once a year, sometimes once in two years. And every single time he doesn’t disappoint because his eccentricities and brand of crude humour never ceases to amaze me.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Confidence Is Sexiness

I was initially going to make this about some of the men I’ve met in my life, but I’m going to include the women too because they’re no different. I meet too many people who lack confidence, in fact I will even go so far as to say that most (note I said most NOT all) of the people I meet are either insecure, arrogant or indifferent.

Insecurity is insecurity, no matter how we try to spin it and the message it sends out is that you’re weak, defenseless, vulnerable, needy, probably clingy and broken. She put it beautifully (there's a reason she's part of my department of social welfare). No one wants someone who’s broken. You don’t walk into a shop and pay full price for half a table, or a broken kettle. So why would you want to commit to a lifetime with someone who’s only giving you half of who they are, when rent and overall maintenance costs remain the same? Sounds like a raw deal to me.

Arrogance on the other hand, is situated on the opposite side of the spectrum and contrary to popular belief, is not the preferred alternative because all arrogance really is = insecurity + resentment + anger. So it’s equivalent to insecurity, or maybe even worse. What arrogance tells the world is that you have issues, huge mofo-chip-on-both-shoulders-issues. And no one wants to be around someone who has a false sense of superiority, who’s overbearing or angry and emo all the time. It becomes emotionally exhausting and mentally draining and literally sucks the life out of a room.

Indifference is just a branch on the insecure family tree. Indifference is to insecurity like lemons are to limes. It says that you don’t care enough about yourself to make an effort. And no one wants someone who doesn’t care enough about themselves to make an effort, because if they can’t muster enough enthusiasm in their own lives, how are they going to make an effort to sustain the relationship?

The key here is balance. If one looks at the centre of this spectrum, between insecurity and arrogance lies confidence. Gym membership: R3000 per annum. Gear from Gap & LL Bean: R1000 per month. Hair cut from Vidal: R250. Confidence: PRICELESS! There really are some things that money can’t buy.

People think that they need to be physically attractive to be sexy. NOT true. I’ve met guys that have absolutely NOTHING going for them in the looks department, but their confidence and energy makes them OOZE sexual appeal and the girls just fall all over them. Sexiness is NOT how you LOOK, but how you FEEL about yourself. With the right amount of confidence, you could dress like a fucking hobo and still be desirable. That kind of energy just carries itself through to others and when you’re intrinsically confident, people want to be around you all the time.

Don’t know how many of you watch “Man” on SABC3 Friday nights? I’ve only seen 10 minutes of one episode and it was clear that from all the straight guys there, the ones lacking self-esteem and confidence have the most trouble meeting women. Kudo’s to that black dude who just walks up to all the blonde-skinny-white-Barbie-chicks, chats them up and either leaves with them or gets their numbers. His self-assurance is really what attracts them.

But what is confidence? In my view, it’s a certain sense of self… you know who you are, you’re comfortable in your own skin, hell you may even like who you are and even if you wish you had smaller ears, it doesn’t change your perception of yourself. Some people get so hung up on stupid things like “I hate my nose” and it eclipses everything that’s good about them. If you’re confident enough, you could have a nose like Pinocchio and no one would notice because there’s a certain radiance that permeates through the souls of confident people. And when you have that kind of self-assurance, you’ll find that people are so mesmerized by the light that they don’t even see the imperfections.

So here’s my thought for today… if you want to be admired for who you are… if you want to be beautiful… if you want to be sexy… if you want to be desirable… if you want to be wanted; then stop wallowing in self-pity, stop second guessing yourself, stop degrading yourself, stop thinking you’re worth-less. Love and Respect yourself (this is gospel people, and I might sound like a broken record but let it sink in). Stop running and hiding from yourself like a coward or a thief in the night and have the courage to embrace who you are (warts and all) instead. You owe that much to yourself.
Stop. Thinking. Shit. It starts with your thoughts and perceptions. Stand up and start seeing what you’re worth. See the beauty and the light, become the fucking light (I sound like Iyanla on Oprah, it’s so corny and tacky that I’m about to puke rainbows). But that is the TRUTH right there!

So many broken lonely people everywhere (and I don’t exclude myself) it’s actually pathetic and very unnecessary. And NOBODY is perfect, so it's senseless to be expecting perfection from yourself and everyone else. Now, let us all grow some balls and deal with it.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Feedback

I’ve been using all my spare time trying to add some structure to this blog and it’s coming together slowly but surely. The problem is I’m an information hoarder and while I have no issues throwing away my clothes and shoes, I’m a little less enthusiastic about throwing away links and always think that if I get rid of one, I’m going to miss out on something great.

An even greater problem is that I can’t seem to simplify this blog any more than I already have. So I’d like some feedback please, comments and suggestions welcome. What do you think of the new layout? Is it ok or too cluttered? Feel free to add your feedback in the comments section, c-box or on email if you’d like.

For everyone who requested access to my new blog Off The Record, please let me know if there are any problems accessing the site. You can email me at azmarita@gmail.com.