Author: Chiromancer

Thinks she should give up self improvement in pursuit of vices.

Hit and Ms…

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Being one has never bothered me…but clearly my marital status is of great concern to people who really should know better. Perfect strangers and distant relatives all seem to think my private life is fair game. They labour under the misapprehension that being unencumbered must mean a) I’m deviant in some way or b) I’ve missed out or  c) I don’t mind intrusive personal questions.  Wrong on all three counts.

Them: Why aren’t you married?

At this point I have three possible responses depending on how riled I am, or how stupid they are…

Response #1:  Because I forgot!
Response #2:  Because George Clooney was unavailable last week!
Response #3:  Because in my spare time I sacrifice babies to the turnip god and shag elephants!

Or my other personal favourite…

Them: Is it Mrs or Miss?
Me: Actually, it’s ‘Ms’. There is no Mr B.
Them:…Oh…Are you a feminist?

For the record, ignoramus, ‘ms’ is the French abbreviation for Mademoiselle! It’s a bit more chic than ‘miss’. As a woman in my prime, ‘miss’ just seems a bit juvenile. Frankly I’m fed up answering rude questions about my love-life and deflecting wrongful assumptions about my sexuality, simply because I’m a modern gal.

This is annoying enough, but being one means you also have to deal with the unwelcome advances of neanderthal man.  You know, the type that frequents the end of the bar and spends his time wondering how women can resist his bald head and oversize beer belly as he wobbles to the slot machine. 

This was the conversation on a recent night out with friends at our local…

N-Man: Hi baby, wanna drink with me?
Me: The last person who called me baby left with his balls in a bag.  I don’t think so.
N-Man: Wassa matter, don’t you like me?
Me: No, you are ugly and your mother dresses you funny.
N-Man: Awww…come on, have a drink with me?
Me: No thanks, I’m not your type.
N-Man: Are you sure?
Me: Yes, I’m not inflatable!

And for the record, the distinguished chap who sent over a bottle of bubbly was the guy who scored the hit that night. Stupidity will never win fair maid, but champagne always might! 

Geek Goddess…

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This blog has been privvy to a few confessional posts, but it’s time for a planet-shattering admission. Mea Culpa. Yep. Me. Culpable. I’m guilty, I admit. It’s taken a while, but I’ve finally realised that I’m afflicted with  an uncommon strain of geekdom.

It’s so unfair…why couldn’t I have been whacked with the virtuouso stick, or infected with the cheerleader gene..? Oh no – the powers that be (presumably on a distant planet in a far flung galaxy) decided it was geek or nothing. Why the hell didn’t they bother to tell me?

I know, you are all probably rolling your eyes and wondering why someone who writes a real world blog that is about privatisation and other business boredoms, is hiding her inner geek behind a po-faced exterior. OK, I like science fiction and banking, but the two are not mutually exclusive, especially in today’s economy! It’s been a real shock for me!  I work up this morning and suddenly I knew what ‘cloud’ computing was. And no, it does NOT mean leaving your laptop in the rain! Moreover…yes, that was a word with 3 syllables. I might be a geek, but that doesn’t mean I grunt in binary…! More-o-ver…I actually know how to use social media…I have twits following me and I know my KLOUT score from my clobber. I want a Star Trek dressing gown and a Princess Leia beanie..and I’m excited about the prospect of zombie computing…and the fact that we are now able to send a satellite to photograph the surface of Mercury.  Oh, and of course I loved Avatar and the remake of Tron. Yeah, smug married people…you try and put that on a love.com profile and avoid the serial killers and the role-playing afficianados!

There is only one answer. Either I am in the throes of a deeply disturbing phsychotrophic crisis (a la Matrix) or else I should just embrace my inner geek and get with the IT programme…hmmm, perhaps is that the microchip in my head talking? Whatever, Schmatever! According to the aforementioned powers that be…it’s the geek who will inherit the earth!  You have been warned.

This post was inspired by ThinkGeek. And yes…I do want the Star Trek dressing gown…

Valentine…

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Given my rather jaundiced view of love, you would be forgiven for thinking this blog would be a diatribe about the perils of giving your heart to the wrong person.  Moreover, the actions of a recent, but now extremely ex lover –  he is definitely on my ‘I regret you and hope you die slowly and painfully’ list – made me wonder whether this blog should be fair warning to those tender souls who still think hearts and flowers mean something.

So far, so cynical…

Actually, St Valentine was a Roman martyr who was killed for marrying Christian couples around 269 A.D. and was stoned and then beheaded. Not terribly loving of Emperor Claudius!  Not a card or flower or soft toy in sight!  Nevertheless, I’ve decided that on a day which celebrates romance it would be fitting to share one of my favourite poems.   I read it at my sister’s wedding, and I reproduce here for everyone who has ever felt that toe-tingling, heart-stopping, crazy little thing called love.  Happy Valentine’s Day!

I carry your heart with me by E.E. Cummings

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you
are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

J is for…January

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I’ve spent most of January on holiday, first in South Africa and then at home in England.   In the shadows of a dog year  – 2010 was grisly for many reasons –  I had to think long and hard about this course of action.  Priorities, problems and people battled for mindshare, and…as I flew to my soul space on the West Coast, it seemed like an indulgent luxury to step off the treadmill and simply let go for a few weeks.

Still.  I celebrated the New Year after 3 days without sleep and partied until dawn.  I was uniquely privileged to lead the naming ceremony for my nephew. As we toasted him with champagne, we floated our origami wishes on an ebbing tide as the sun set. I saw a kinesiologist and felt lighter. I went bird watching in Verloren Vlei  and saw an owl. And an eagle! And the longest ever train in the world!  My sister and I went swimming in the cold Atlantic. Not once, but twice! I sailed on a Hobie cat in Fish Hoek and ate fish under the Milky way.  Wine and song were most definitely involved.  New Year’s resolutions were most definitely not.

Still. I’m so glad I did. Without resolutions, I’ve returned from family with a sense of optimism warmed by unconditional affection – and the South African sun.  Back home, I’ve rekindled longstanding friendships with people who see me as I really am – and continue to love me for it.  I’ve realised that saying goodbye means you can say hello to fresh experiences – and that you can enjoy new people, new places and new music without being hidebound by what happened the year before!

Now that February is tugging me back into reality, I’ve resolved (but not in a New Year kind of way) to emulate my nine month old nephew and view the rest of 2011 with unfettered curiosity. It’s an adventure. Love, light and laughter await.  So too, do challenge and opportunity. Perhaps every year should begin a month later…?

Wax on, Wax off…

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Sex and the City really has a lot to answer for.  Apart from the fact that nearly all my married friends think I live the high life – for the record, I’m mostly Miranda with the occasional habits of Samantha – this programme has made it  de rigeur to be fashion conscious in all aspects of one’s appearance.  Yep, fashion conscious from your Hollywood Blow-out to your Bollywood waxed bits. Ouch!  As if women didn’t already have enough pressure to conform.

Now, when protocol demands, I can be suited and booted, and I’m not averse to eye liner and a good dollop of lippie!  Like most women, I have partaken of the ‘I’m not going to sleep with him on the first date’ bikini, leg and underarm wax – but…only when the boy is suitable and a good kisser! In that order!

Still, I was mildly horrified this evening to see a programme describing something called ‘vejazzled’. No, not a Hollywood musical – I think the shrieks resulting from this procedure resemble caterwaul rather than cantata. Apparently this is all the rage. In fact, this modern travesty emanates from the porn industry, where wax off guarantees whack off.  Ouch, Ouch, Ouch! Only in the mind of a fat, balding, middle-aged sociopath with a camera and and an inferiority complex, can it be a turn on to wax your foo-foo into oblivion and then stick rhinestones on it!  OMG! Why?

Apart from the practical considerations – seriously guys, this must be like doing a velcro vagina or a broken bottle – how on earth do you cope with the regrowth. And what happens when the superglue dies and the shiny bits fall off?   And why would you do this on a first date…it’s the sticker equivalent of a neon sign that says ‘enter here’.  Tacky.  In all senses of the word! No.Thank. You!

I’m certainly no prude, but I’ve decided a bird in hand is probably better than a bush that lights up when you remove it’s underwear.

I is for…Inspiration

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Regular readers of this blog will have noticed that ‘I’ is for interlude…

To be honest, I haven’t felt much like blogging for some time.  Life has been pretty rubbish of late. No, less than rubbish…rubbisher! Still, cataclysmic life events notwithstanding…I confess to have been a little stuck on the alphabet blog (my challenge to myself to blog about each letter of the alphabet).

…at any rate, I’d reached ‘I”. What to choose?  Individual.Yep, that’s me. Iconoclast. Check. Izzat.  Uh? Yes, the last word is a real one – not a cricketing term, it’s derived from Arabic and means reputation or honour. It also happens to be the last entry under ‘I’ in the OED. The OED? Clearly desperate times called for desperate measures. I can usually write my way out of a paper bag. Nothing sprang to mind. My blog muse was…incognito. Inaccessible. Impossible! Earggh!

But tonight, after a long conversation with a friend in …yep, you guessed it, Indiana…I realised that ‘I’ stands for all the inspirational women who are part of my life.  Friends, family and business colleagues – women who juggle childcare with challenge, heartbreak with homemaking, and divorce with devotion to a charitable cause. They are mothers, wives, sisters, daughters and friends. They are breadwinners and bakers. Cooks, CEOs and creatives. Photographers and peacemakers.  They are my support in tough times. I salute them!

Forest Fire…

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Wagner Dodge was a smoke jumper who was called to fight a fire in Mann Gulch, Montana in 1945.  Gulch wildfires are notoriously difficult to control – the safest route was for the fire team to make their way down the slope towards water.  But the fire jumped from one side of the valley to the other, and a wall of fire began racing up the hill towards the men.  They ran away.  Well, when faced with a wall of flame 200 feet high, what would you do…? 

Wagner Dodge didn’t run.  He realised that if he ran from the fire he would die. Heat rises.  Fire accellerates uphill.  Wagner Dodge stopped, lit a match. He made a circle of fire around himself, and laid down in the charred earth while the flames raced towards him.  Fire can’t burn what’s already been scorched.  This seemingly crazy, counter-intuitive and irrational action, saved his life.

I’ve given Wagner Dodge a lot of thought since mid-September.  My own forest fire has been of the emotional kind. Like an inferno, love sparks disaster and has the power to melt rocks. Just not the ones in my heart, the moment I realised someone I love was lost to me. There was only one thing to do. To save myself from total immolation, I took a metaphorical match to my heart’s desire and set it ablaze.  Fire can’t burn what’s already been scorched. 

The inspiration for today’s blog was Lloyd Cole.

Jaywalker…

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I almost got run over last week.  I’d just completed my dissertation (cue delirious relief).  Walking back from dropping the mammoth tome off on campus, severely sleep deprived and mildly euphoric (ahem…caffeine induced), I ignored the pedestrian crossing and stepped into the path of a speeding bicycle which missed me with nanomillimeters to spare. I think the cyclist got more of a fright than I did.

Some people in my life might consider it comeuppance – but I consider it luck. After all, it could have been a Rover instead of a Raleigh.  But it did leave me thinking…am I one of those people destined to end up on the wrong side of the road or am I a pavement pioneer? 

I’ve had almost 2 years to realise I’m not one for convention. It’s a hard lesson because I’ve spent a lot of time trying to conform to some unrealistic societal ideals … true love conquers all, you’ll need a pension when you’re old, don’t eat anything past its sell-by date…You get the picture.  I’ve come to realise the bit of the road I’ve chosen for myself is often winding, sometimes steep and nearly always going in a direction I don’t expect. And that’s on a good day!

I’ve had travelling companions, and I’ve spent great stretches walking it alone.  Sometimes I’ve carried a heavy burden. At others, I’ve skipped lightly across the paving stones hand in hand with happiness.  New routes always lie ahead. Binding oneself to can’ts and shoulds, and what ifs and what’s expected may help you hang with the crowd on the sidewalk, but it isn’t going to give you a great view of the world. This I now know…if I have a choice between the direct road and the scenic route?  Well…I prefer my walks on the wild side!

Son et Lumiere…

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I know exactly when it happened. My first love affair. Passionate… Enduring…  All consuming… Well, I was nine.  Yes. I know what you cynics are thinking, but you are sooooo…wrong. It was not a dog, cat or hamster…the lover in question happens to be a city.  Bricks and mortar, but so much more.

Frankly, I blame my parents.  After all…if they hadn’t gone to Paris for their honeymoon, I might have focused my affections on Skegness! God Forbid! Anyway, they chose Paris instead. The epitome of chic in the sixties. Thank God…and thank Yves St Laurent!

I realise this might appear strange to all those well-travelled EU citizens out there. But to a shy, spider-legged girl growing up in Africa, Paris seemed impossibly sophisticated.  This affection for a capital I had never seen or visited grew, but remained unrequited until university.   It was there that I discovered my second love…French films. For those of you who eschew subtitles – just look away now and don’t bother to read any further!

 In 1895 the Lumiere brothers were the first to present projected, moving, photographic, pictures to a paying audience of more that one person. I think that qualifies as inventing cinema and probably explains why French films are pre-eminent in my own mind. By the time I graduated, I’d watched about 100 French films. The ones I love most, were set in Paris.  They usually involved complex, slow moving plot-lines and starred couth, dark haired men. Men of few words, but great passion.  They wore pressed blue shirts and dined and smoked in wood-panelled bistros. They rode vespas and had complicated personal lives. Well… it’s my fantasy so I’m allowed to dream!

Last week, I set off for Paris.   I had breakfast with Matisse and Picasso, lunch in a wood-panelled bistro on the Seine.  A good spot for watching suave men and elegant women as they sashayed past on their way to work…to assignations…and the Rive Gauche. I spent the afternoon getting lost in the Marais, but finding myself…in the architecture, the light, the sense and sound of an old city. I fell in love all over again.  Paris, j’taime!

Mostly…

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I have decided I am definitely the bad seed. Why? Well, for starters, I am soooo…grumpy!!  If the gods that currently prevail – Internet, Mammon and Ohm..or is that OMG! I’ve won a computer for being the 1,001,979th person on the internet!!! – were to conduct a poll, they would find that my responses could be filed in the ‘mostly’ category. As in ‘Mostly Grumpy’…

It’s true. These days. Mostly. I’m grumpy! I’m writing an Msc dissertation. It’s a big deal. I’m sleep deprived… It’s important to me. It makes me like a bear with a sore head. Grizzly! Still, there are floods in Pakistan and terror in the Western World.  I have no excuse other  than nature. Yep, it happens to be genetic!  My sisters and I share a common characteristic. We are not what you would call ‘morning’ people…We wake up, we nod, we need our tea… Beyond that, if you are expecting erudite conversation – forget it!!  That is a pleasure only scheduled for p.m. hours and good lovers…

This is a familial trait that has been commented on by boyfriends (ex and present), husbands, friends and our own mother, who (bless her cotton socks) has been gifted with an astounding ability to be alert at 5.30 a.m….Yes readers, you heard me right – 5.30 a.m.!! Before sparrows have a chance to break wind, never mind sing!!  How on earth has she coped with a family of Owls? 

Now don’t get me wrong…if there is a special purpose we – my siblings and I –  can gee ourselves up to be ‘ok’ in the morning. We’ve climbed mountains, trekked Nepal and surfed South America on this particular vibe… but otherwise – WE JUST NEED OUR SPACE !  AND OUR TEA!!  AND TO BE LEFT ALONE!!! My long-suffering brothers-in-law J and M will be nodding at this point!

Clearly my sisters and I have inherited the paternal gene.  Though of course this is now spreading through the family – apparently my lovely nephew is also grizzly in the a.m….hmmm, he sort of looks like me…Is this Karma keeping time?  I wonder!  Mostly.  But not often…