Don't call me "Babe"

In my former life as a teacher, I was called a number of things. To my face, however, I was mostly referred to as Ma'am - only when the kids said it they didn't use the apostrophe. Being a Ma'am started to get to me and it was one of the things I was happy to leave behind when I quit my teaching job.

I now work four days a week, co-ordinating the madly-creative-and-talented-but-not-very-practical people who run a prosthetics and special effects studio, and no-one calls me "Ma'am". Why do I not seem gleeful then? Why do I not skip about glibly, scattering confetti? Why have I not written a self-help book on How to Be Happy Like Me? Because now people call me me other things, to my face.

I deal with producers and production co-ordinators. This involves many phone calls and meetings, but mainly it entails me standing over the schedule like that angel with the fiery sword who guarded Eden after Adam and Eve boned it for all of us. I can deal with the requirements of my job, no problem. Seriously, after teaching senior high English, I can handle pretty much anything. This having been said, there is one thing I loathe.

Who I actively channel when I am at work.

I hate it when I'm on the phone with someone, discussing some work issue, and they call me "My Love". Don't coo "Angel" at me. Don't "Hon" me. I am remarkably few people's love. I am no angel and only my mother calls me "Darling". Nothing makes my rage flare up faster and hotter than this presumptuous and familiar way of address. Don't do it. It makes me want to leopard crawl down the phone-line and vomit in the eyeballs of the smarmy production git, who makes up for what he/she so clearly lacks in good judgement with generous dollops of fawning insincerity.

I don't know if it is the tone of my voice that makes it so. If we were speaking face to face, the chances are that you would not call me sweetie. Why do some people feel safe enough to be that familiar with me? I don't know if it's only production people who do this. Perhaps I am whiney, or perhaps (and my money's on this one) it has nothing to do with me or the timbre of my voice, but is because they are so used to dicking folks around that they have learnt that they get pretty much whatever they like so long as they coat their requests in saccharine endearments.

HAH! Little do they know that I would crawl over fields of Lindt chocolate just to get my hands on a party sized bag of Cheese Curls and a beer.

Seriously, I hold this form of address in the deepest, vilest contempt because it knocks me for a six. One moment I am focused on the task at hand and the next I am a wide eyed five-year-old girl looking at the phone in astonishment. "What happened to my unicorn, Papa?"

What these thoughtless and meaningless forms of address reduce me to.

 It diminishes me. It demeans me and makes me feel like an incompetent child. In one phone call, just yesterday, a woman persistently called me "My love". Three times, in one conversation, she slipped it in there. I felt the mercury rise and rise until it popped out and I exclaimed in frustration: "MY NAME IS JEN". I was rewarded with wounded silence and an abrupt end to the conversation. I still have to work with this person, but now it is awkward.  I can hear in her voice.

I'm not sure of the best way of dealing with people who insist on using these inappropriate pet names. If you have suggestions, please let me know. The way it stands now it is only a matter of time before I let loose on the offender and hurl insults at them not only regarding their unprofessional way of communicating but also their lineage, and their mother. I would like to avoid this scenario and the subsequent legal repercussions.

What I become.

The Best Places to Walk Dogs in Cape Town - Part 1

These are my two dogs. They take their walks very seriously and I am always on the lookout for interesting new places to walk them. The big one on the left is TheMaxx (named after my favourite comic book character); the one on the right is Trousers (I have no idea why we decided to call her that).

Pitiless reviewers of dog friendly spots all over southern Africa.

As a 100% Dog Person, I make it my mission to ensure that these guys have at least one good, off-the-leash walk/run per day. Living in Cape Town makes that pretty easy because there are so many excellent spots here. My dogs are a handful though, and we have had many an altercation with other dog owners, so I prefer the more peaceful places, where I don't have to bump into too many other people.

TheMaxx, 9 weeks old, contemplating his first poop on the beach.

Maxx is a delightful mix of Rottie, Chow and Alsatian. I got him from a TEARS volunteer when he was 8 weeks old. He's a great guy; peaceful and playful. He is really good with other dogs, except for Alsatians, and male dogs that try to rape him.

He does bark at vagrant men though, something I never taught him. I have no idea where he picked this up, but he does it every time. If I see one heading for us, I have to leash him up. TheMaxx's favourite game: chasing Trousers.

Trousers, the greatest mystery the world has never known

Only the Good Lord knows what went into Trousers' gene structure. We are fairly certain that she has some Staffie, some terrier, some jackal and a bit of goat. She is indiscriminately loving of all humans, but can be iffy with other dogs.

Her favourite game is to run, like a bullet, at dogs she sees on the horizon, bark in their ear, and run away. This, as I'm sure you can imagine, can be awkward. BUT if she has a rock or a pinecone between her teeth, she is blind to the presence of other dogs.

We took her from TEARS when she was already fully grown, and she has a history that we will never understand.

This week, I will be sharing my dogs' opinion of Sunset Beach. This spot is about 14 kms out of Cape Town, just off the R27, before you hit the Blowfish restaurant. As the name suggests, it is an ideal spot for watching the sun go down, and it also has that postcard view of Table Mountain. In the winter months it's even better because as you walk your hounds you can watch the whales living it up. The smug bastards.

View to the left

View to the right.

Why do my dogs like this beach? I'll tell you why:

1. Loooooong, uninterrupted stretches of firm sand for running on.
2. Lots of smooth pebbles for chasing.
3. Easy gradient into the water. The dogs can walk out for 20 meters in some places and still feel their feet on the ground.
4. Nice tall dunes - perfect for throwing tennis balls down.
5. Seaweed for chewing.

I like it because the walk is so beautiful. You can mosey on for hours, or just sit in the dunes. Depending on the time of day, day of the week and weather, there can be very few other people on the beach. This is a bonus because I can leave the pooches off their leashes and If someone is around, I can see them coming. I also like it because the dogs really get to stretch their legs. 

One problem I have with this walk is that most of my unpleasant encounters with other dog owners have been on this stretch beach. In none of the other places that we walk have I met such uptight people - that's why I avoid busy times and weekends. I believe that dogs pick up on their owners vibes, and if dogs are meeting each other for the fist time on neutral territory, stiff legged circling and butt-sniffing is to be expected. When owners get anxious and shouty these innocuous greetings can turn into fights.

When other dog owners freak out, their dogs freak out, and then mine do too. Unfortunately on this beach, people freak out. 

Does this look like the face of danger?

I remember once, seeing a perky gal approaching me as I walked my dogs with a friend and her dog. The bouyant lass was wearing a skin tight white top, without a bra, so we could both see her wall-eyed nerples which were obviously the result of an iffy boob op. She had a cute bull terrier on one of those long retractable leashes. Our three were off their leashes and went to say hi to the dog. The gal nearly had a fit, she screamed at us to put our dogs on leashes as they surrounded her and her pooch. Poor thing, it must have been an intimidating sight for her. Fortunately no harm was done, and the bull terrier was reluctant to leave his new friends, but the gal hauled him off with her.

Why I mention this: I never forgot her nips, just wanted to share, and now when I see a dog on a leash, I leash mine up so as not to cause the delicate human who is approaching to have an aneurism.

Drama Dog

I didn't really mean for this post to be a tirade about other dog owners. I get that no one wants their dogs to scuffle. If you have dogs though, and you walk them, I am sure that you long for peaceful walks as much as I do. It's approaching 4pm now, the universal time when mutts start stretching out of their nooks around the garden/house and come find you to remind you that it is Dog 'o Clock. I am powerless to resist.

Don't forget your poo bags.

How: a Zoiderg themed version of our first encounter.

I am writey. For the most part I prefer words to pictures, and I like a lot of words. This does not mean that I cannot appreciate brevity, or pictures. In fact, pictures of briefs are some of my favourite things. But I digress.

Last weekend, on a walk with the dogs in Newlands forest, my friend and I agreed to write our versions of how we met our respective partners. It is a question that always comes up when you start hanging out with new people. They look you in the eyes, steeple their lobster claws like Zoidberg and ask "So, how did you and ?? first meet?" Then comes the silence. Some well-rehearsed and slappable couples tell the story as a duet. Each knowing their lines and cues. They proceed to dance a perfectly timed ballet, complete with pauses, chuckles and loving glances. (At this point I vomit from my salt water stomach only)

When my human and I are asked this question, we both sigh. Not because we don't have a story - we DO have a story - but because it's always up to me to tell it, he doesn't add a thing. He is reluctant to do the dance, and I am tired of it. Now I am committing it to type and will hereafter direct any lobster-clawed inquirers to this post.

SO, back in the December of 2005 I was dating this guy and living in Johannesburg. One day he says to me: "Jenny, you hate your job, I'm sick of mine, let's quit and move down to Cape Town."
"Sure," says I, all wide eyed and excitable, "A road trip!"

Turns out that he needed to stay on a bit longer in Jo'burg, but he drove down to Cape Town with me on a Friday, in my ancient powder blue Ford Escort. In my car I had: a rolled up foam mattress; Ugg boots; short skirts; a big wooden trunk full of my stuff. The dumbass boyfriend drove half way through the Karoo in 4th gear. My poor old car was an early adopter and being ahead of its time it had 5 good gears to grind. Anyway, in a cloud of panting car smoke, we made it to Cape Town where I was to stay with my boyfriend's older brother in his commune until we found a spot.

HAH

I started working in a props studio, and the hours were looooong. When I hadn't heard form the absent boyfriend in a suspiciously long while my eyes started to wander. There were some gorgeous arty boys working in that studio, and they all had rock 'n roll*** hair. (I have a weakness for rock 'n roll boy hair) After I had a brief, heroin-infused liaison with one of them, my boyfriend called to say that he was doing quite well up in Jo'burg and wasn't going to move down, he said that I should go back up. Whaaaaaat?! I told him I had been with someone else. Boyfriend and I then ended it.

Later that day I was mixing up a two part plastic and this guy entered the room, a really hoopy frood. He had long dreadlocks, all tied up - Basquiat style - in a breast cancer awareness month sunflower bandana. His fingers erect and wiggling in urgent anxiety, in the manner of Captain Jack Sparrow's. He looked me in eyes and asked: "Hither, wither, thither is the fucking spatula?!".

That was pretty much it for me. Thereafter it was merely a matter of time. A mention of a dirty dream here, and damsel's plea to help her pop a bearing in order to wear the casing as a ring there, some furious flirting, and in just a few months we were inseparable and have been ever since.

My husband's version: "Yeah, we met at work"

Balls to brevity.

***ah, the old 'n or n' or 'n' conundrum. I prefer to introduce the conjunction with ', and let the final letter fall by the wayside. I will not coddle or suffocate that middle N with punctuation, nor will I send it on its way with an after-thought apostrophe. The essence of rock 'n roll being what it is, I feel that the middle child needs its space, and if it's a bit rebellious, if it goes against the grain, more power to it.

Things that I have liked this week

I have had a weird week. These things have helped me. Thank you missmoss.co.za for your "these things".

This picture of Nick Cave with a Bad Seed. 

This particular staircase. 

This summer dress.

 This post, from thisisnthappiness, a blog which pleases me.

Mark E. Smith Guide to Writing Guide

• Day One: Hang around house all day writing bits of useless information on bits of paper.
• Day Two: Decide lack of inspiration due to too much isolation and non-fraternisation. Go to pub. Have drinks.
• Day Three: Get up and go to pub. Hold on in there a style is on its way. Through sheer boredom and drunkenness, talk to people in pub.
• Day Four: By now people in the pub should be continually getting on your nerves. Write things about them on backs of beer mats.
• Day Five: Go to pub. This is where true penmanship stamina comes into its own as by now guilt, drunkenness, the people in the pub and the fact you’re one of them should combine to enable you to write out of sheer vexation.
• Day Six: If possible, stay home. And write. If not, go to pub.

This photo of someone I used to know.

This picture. It has suited my whimsical mood this week.

So has this picture.

This album:

I am super fussy when it comes to female vocals, but Jenn Wasner's voice is just right.

And this album too:

(Musée Mécanique -Hold This Ghost)

This ridiculous thing, who knew?

This book:

My brother punted it to my sister-in-law who pushed it on me. She is a book-pusher. I tend to avoid self-help books in the same way I avoid sitting close to strangers on public transport, but this book is a gem. It opens with a piece about how Adolf Hitler studied art and how we haven't seen any of his art work, probably because he probably found it easier to start World War ll than to face a blank canvas. 

I fear the blank page daily.

Remembering this wall in Paris.We spotted it when we were up in Montemartre.

 Invader is a guy who puts up space-invader mosaics in random spots around the world. There is a theory that he works from a master map and if you link all his mosaics together you can shape a giant space-invader over a map of the countries he has invaded. I can't see it myself, maybe you can?

http://www.space-invaders.com/sominv.html

.

Finally, my dog. He is a good dog.

Beardy Man

Hy husband and "Moe", the school-yard yard bully from Calvin and Hobbes, have this in common: overactive pituitary glands. Their mutant master glands insisted that they would both start shaving as soon as they went onto solid foods.

Because I only met my husband when we were in our twenties, I was not privy to any childhood trauma he suffered as a result of his premature beard. Moreover, any trauma on the time line of his folicular development I feel has been felt purely by me. Guys with beards seem to be respected by other guys. Unless you're Zach Galifianakis.

Before I go any further, I would like to point out that I do not oppose the beard. I harbour no resentment towards it. When I first met Louw it was his incredible hair that I was drawn to. He had thick ropey dreadlocks and a trucker moustache. In a matter of days I was putty in his hands. What I did not know back then was that this moustache would roam around his face, morphing its form as the fancy took him.

In the 6 years we have been together, he has sported lamb-chop sideburns that Elvis himself would have whistled at; the aforementioned trucker 'tache; an ill-conceived stalactite that grew straight from his chinny-chin-chin and was repeatedly bleached and dyed green; a fu-manchu; a full beard that saw nary a razor nor pair of scissors for nigh on a year and finally a neatly groomed but equally impressive full-facial shrub of which the crowning glory was a gleaming moustache with 2 inch curls on either end.

My issue with facial hair can be summed up by Peter Parker's uncle's cautionary words: "With great power comes great responsibility"

I have lost count of the number of times I have seen other men coming up to my hub and saying "DUDE, doooooooooood, that is the most incredible/phenomenal/impressive/amazing beard/moustache/set of whiskers I have ever seen. Can I touch it?" In these exchanges, my human grows calm, maintains eye contact and graciously accepts the compliments - in much the same way as a cat, sunning itself on a window seat, will accept a brief and respectful belly rub.

Now that the "great power" element of my husband's facial coif has been established, we must discuss the need for "great responsibility". This issue raises itself in times of feasting, and kissing. Sometimes the two do not exclude each other. He says one of the reasons he married me was for my high absorbency, but I feel he sells himself short here. His beard, when dunked into a litre jug of beer, can leave the glass half-full (or half-empty if you're a dour douche) when raised up again. What I object to is when once raised from the jug of beer, the beard leans in for a kiss. The pressure applied in this kiss leads, every time, to me sporting a beery beard smeer down my front. As I am sure you can imagine, in all scenarios and with all food types, while this is a real boon for the dabber it is not ideal for the dab-ee.

Of late, I have taken to packing a light lunch and a headlamp when searching through the undergrowth of my beloved's face, for the mouth I long to kiss. I fear that the local fauna and flora that thrive there may not always welcome alien lips, so when I have located his elusive smoochers, I plant a quick one, and retreat as fast as I can so as to avoid predatory or defensive attacks.

I cannot explain how good it feels to get this off my chest. You will only truly empathise with me once I upload photographic proof* on my husband's mandibular anomalie. Until then, rejoice as I do when he disappears into the back garden with the electric shaver, muttering threats about "takin' these moustaches out back to shoot 'em".

*possibly because of interference brought about by the wirey nature of his bristles, I am having a heck of a time uploading this enlightening proof.