The Nearly Dead

Steve Jobs is dead.

So are all the members of ABBA.

Oh wait, hold on… they're not. Not even Agnetha, who hasn't been heard from since 1984.

It seems Bloomberg's publication of an obituary for Apple's founder and CEO, Steve Jobs, was a mistake….Le Massivo Mistake-o, as they say in Swiss German.

It seems the Bloomberg people were updating Jobs's future obituary – as one does on a slow day – when it was published accidentally.

I believe this kind of thing could happen far more regularly than it actually does. There are many people around who appear to me to be dead, or at least, undead.

Some examples:

-Michael Jackson (happy 50^th b-day, missy!)

-The whole of S.A's parliament

-All the cashiers at the Spar I patronise (and who, in turn, patronise me)

-Danish singers Michael Learns to Rock

-Essop Pahad

-Chris Martin from Coldplay

-My friend's family friend Bevan, who I'm convinced is a zombie

 

The problem is, anyone who tries to compose an obituary for the above-mentioned individuals is likely to die of boredom before completing it.

 

To end….a joke:

Two nuns are driving at night when they're pulled over by a vampire.

One nun says to the other: "Show him your cross"

So the other nun leans out the window and says, "Get out of bloody way, you git!!"

Stop the Shlock!

I attended an event last night which ended up being far worse than I anticipated. This was disappointing, however, as a number of factors were in place to save the event from itself: a super fantastic, amusing ex-colleague [comment here sometime – perhaps? Perhaps?? Perhaps!! J]; a current colleague who is a card…most of the time; food and alcohol. Those were all great. However, the actual event sucked worse than Business Strategy did during the year-long business course I undertook four years ago.

The event was hosted by a company, about which I should probably not say too much lest their people end up finding out how much I loathed their event, leading to their consequent withdrawal advertising funds from my place of employment, my ensuing unemployment and enforced retirement to a cardboard box in Hillbrow. 'Cos that's how it rolls, y'all.

Suffice it to say that the bigwig who hosted the 'show' just made love to himself for two solid hours, under the guise of celebrating the courage of a certain group of people.

Really, the guy should simply have called the evening "An Ode to Me" and then forced those in attendance to listen to some of his dire poetry while experiencing rapture of orgasmic proportions. It's easy to force people to be rapturous…just look at Ray McCauley.

These self-serving events put on by huge corporates must go away. Mind-altering substances could not improve this tripe.

To Feed or Not to Feed

Today I was copy-editing a study about infant nutrition, when I came across a real gem.
Here is the last sentence, verbatim:

"That study suggest (sic) that feeding VLBW infants during the first two months after discharge could be of particular interest at this early stage of development"

Pregnant readers (and those who've recently given birth), take note: feeding your infant may be of interest to you. Then again, it may not. Your choice, really.

Do let me know what you decide to do, please.

How I Don't Want To Be

One of my greatest fears is that I will turn out to be a certain type of person who I don't like. Yes, the possibility exists, too, that I will turn out to be a person who other people don't like all that much, but that bothers me less than the idea of realising the terrible fate of the unmarried, middle-aged woman, who has a persecution complex and feels she has to prove herself…similar to many of the members of Wedge, I suspect.

At a dinner last week with my family and various others, I came across a middle-aged woman called (for the sake of this story) Sue. She had been invited by the host because, as I found out later in the evening, as the host whispered to Sue in the geriatric fashion that results in everyone within a 10 metre radius overhearing, "There's no need for you to be all alone!" I'm sure this irked Sue – nothing worse than being pitied.

Back to earlier in the evening…

We sat down at the table to eat, and unfortunately I was placed next to Sue. Someone then mentioned something about the Masters dissertation I'm (theoretically, at this stage) completing. At this point, Sue turned to me and spoke for the second time that evening (the first time was when introductions were done): "I, too, am about to hand in my dissertation for my Masters degree. But it makes it so much more difficult when you work at the same time."

Hmmm, so clearly the hard-worker assumed that I was merely a full-time student, messing around and skiving off. Definitely not as smart or focused or serious as she is.

Anyway, conversation continued as my family teased me about giving them all grey hairs a number of years ago when I decided to start working on my Honours research report three weeks before it was due. This prompted Sue's third attempt at conversation: "I thoroughly enjoyed my Honours, for which I got a first-class pass. There's nothing like the feeling of walking across the lawns knowing you've achieved a first."

The self-congratulatory stuff carried on intermittently for the rest of the evening until she left – mercifully – about 45 minutes before the rest of us.

I subsequently found out about her being a Wedge-ie yesterday, and it all made sense. Sue is the Wedge stereotype I described in my post last week – she's in her early sixties; lives alone; has no children; has to have the last word, and can never be wrong.

Anyway, I was left wondering if, in 30 years' time, *I* would end up being invited by elderly widows to join them and other families on Friday nights for dinner.

Not the most cheery of thoughts.

I dread the idea of having throngs of people feeling sorry for me should I not end up getting married and having children. And I dread, too, becoming a humourless old git who cannot laugh at herself, nor allow the possibility that numerous people out there can do what I do at least as well as I do, and most probably a lot better.

Why do so many women turn into this type of person? Why so rigid? Where's the fun? Why does it seem that their lives are balancing on a pinhead? Did they become these smug but insecure individuals because they didn't have their own families? Or was this tendency always in them, regardless of whether or not they married?

I need not to be like Sue. However, I also need not to get married simply because I'm 30, and everyone has already done it, and it's the only way people won't feel sorry for me.

 

 

Paperless Society My Eye!

My desk upsets me.
It is just a mountain of shit.

At the moment it contains:

1 x bottle of vitamins which allegedly improve cholesterol levels.
1 x package of effervescent vitamin tablets which result in nothing but expensive urine
1 x container of Omega 3 capsules, also allegedly meant to halt my soaring cholesterol, but which I suspect just result in what I   mentioned in the previous point.
1 x nearly empty bottle of hot chocolate
1 x nearly full bottle fruit squash
3 x naartjies
16 x Provita crackers

and

4 billion, 256 thousand, 467 pieces of paper.

Each day our cleaner/car washer/car guard D comes by my desk at around 4pm to empty my dustbin. I have now resolved to throw away one piece of paper a day. It should only take me a few more lifetimes before I start seeing the surface of my desk. A colleague has suggested that I simply burn the desk instead.

Sigh.

Names of the Games

Because I have a consuming love of ridiculous, bizarre, or just ironic names, when I came across this list, it just made me laugh like a drain.

The only name this guy has missed is DeeDee Trotter, an American runner.  

My favourite is He Weina, a Chinese gymnast. In Sotho, one of South Africa's official languages, this phrase can be loosely translated as "hey you!" usually followed by "stop it!"

He he he, love it.

 

So much effort, so little reward

Here's an update on my colleagues.

Before I get to that, I need to say the following: If my colleagues were to find these rather unfavourable descriptions of them, I would not be happy. However, I would not be devastated beyond belief… mainly because I suspect my colleagues would get a little pissed off and hurt at these descriptions but would, in all likelihood, let it go after I apologised to them for hurting their feelings, if they so desired. It is ridiculous to think that they might haul me into a disciplinary inquiry or a grievance process for publishing silly stuff about ANONYMOUS peoples' appearances on an ANONYMOUS blog - information that would be laughed out of court/hearings in an logical place. What I do is far worse than, say, some people who may write just one post about how mean some anonymous people are to EACH OTHER in a workplace. But I suspect that my colleagues are logical and sensible people, who can accept an apology for a slight, and continue on with their lives.

RIGHT!

:-)

Two of my colleagues are drunk. Apparently they had late nights last night and are still in the tipsy phase, rather than the hungover one. They are chipper, but I suspect they are suffering deep down. The good news is that everyone knows, including the bosses, and are ok with it. Hey, when you're drunk at work, you put in extra effort to pretend you aren't…could be their most productive day yet.

My other colleague's hair remains blonde-orange, as she ponders what to do with it. In a frightening turn of events, word has it that she actually is fond of her crowning glory's current appearance.

Another colleague is attending a wedding this weekend, and is schlepping 300 meatballs via car this evening, for the event. Apparently they have also been told they can bring their own cooler bags and alcohol to the event. For this reason, colleague's husband has decided he will wear jeans to the event.

That's it for now.

If anyone feels these comments are worth trying to destroy my life over, well, I would just ask you to think about it properly, and interrogate why you feel this is worth so much time and effort. Get a hobby - it will fulfill you more in the long run.

On Joining...

 

I would not consider myself to be a joiner, in the conventionally accepted sense of the word. I am not a member of my complex's body corporate; I belong to no sporting or recreational clubs (the gym doesn't count); I am on no committees at work (possibly because no such committees exist, though I'm quite sure there would be some enthusiasm expressed for the formation of a Committee to End the Unlawful Utilisation of Personal Mugs [CEUTPM], and one to promote the right to nap in the loo.)

 

Mostly, my lack of affiliation, as it were, causes me no anxiety apart from when I have to tackle that section on my CV which demands that I fish out every single bit of 'joinery' I've ever undertaken, and dress it up to be something fantastically amazing and world-altering when committed to paper. To date, the most I can manage is that I was forced to join PADI in order to qualify as an open water SCUBA diver. I suspect this fact won't bump me up the ladder from Worker Bee to CEO.

 

Recently, however, I joined an organisation in an attempt to garner some freelance copy-editing and proofreading work. At this point, I would like to digress in an attempt to explain the horrific typos, spelling and grammar errors you find littered throughout this blog. This blog is a mess, undoubtedly. It does reflect the real state of my mind – at times inarticulate and often pleasantly deluded that it's not as bad as it might be. I ask that you don't judge my capabilities by what you see on this blog- I can pull it together…when I'm paid to! ;-)

 

Agh, wha-eva!…Judge away!!!

 

 

Annnnnnyway…. So I joined Wedge. And boy, has it been an education in the pedantic. If I were to personify Wedge, the individual would look as follows:

 

·        +/- 65 years old

·        Male or female

·        Frowning, except when he/she spots a colleague's mistake

·        Lives alone

·        Has too much time and not enough to fill it

·        Goes through the Yellow Pages in order to find spelling and grammar mistakes for his/her entertainment

·        Listens ONLY to classical music

·        Cannot possibly EVER be wrong….ever

·        Has children who choose not to visit him/her

·        Needs to have the last word

 

In short, Wedge is Aubrey Tearle, the protagonist in Ivan Vladislavic's "Portrait withf Keys – Joburg and What-What."

 

In the two months or so during which I've been a member of Wedge, the following email barnies, comprising back-and-forths of minimum 15 Google-group emails, have occurred:

 

·        The fee one charges for proofreading (around 12 emails)

·        Whether it's HIV/Aids or HIV/AIDS (14 emails)

·        Where to place a full stop in a sentence (18 emails – apparently "at the end" is not a good enough answer)

·        About 20 emails blasting the hell out of a guy who sent a 1Mb file to the member list, while many of them are on dial-up….OH THE SHAME, OH THE HORROR!

 

To quote Rhonda from 'Muriel's Wedding'…what a bunch of cocksuckers! I'd be lying if I said I was not concerned about the effect this group might have on me. I've asked my friends to kill me if they ever see signs of this pedant infection overcoming me. G.B, please use your sword.

How to use chopsticks

 

While eating sushi last night, I noticed that the restaurant has tried to teach people the proper use of chopsticks by printing instructional packaging for the wooden sticks we are forced to use in sushi joints. As an aside, why do you think it is that most sushi places opt for these disposable, splintery sticks rather than the pretty, smooth ones fancier places use? Surely it must work out more expensive to buy hundreds of these kinds of utensils a month rather than simply washing and reusing nicer ones?

 

Anyway, my buddy and I noticed the instructions and tried to follow them. :

 

"Place stick between thunb and index finger and rest on between the third and the fourth fingers"

 

We encountered one major hitch, however...neither of us had any 'thunbs'. So we used our fingers, like heathens.

 

Later on in the evening, we had a fortune cookie each. I was most disappointed with my fortune, which implied that I was going to have happiness all my life. Too much of vagueness for my liking.

 

I need things like:

 

- You will find a pile of discarded Simpsons series lying by your car

- Chocolate will be found to have absolutely no negative influence on 'bad' cholesteral levels, and improves 'good' cholesterol

- The dwarf who nearly drove into you this morning in his massive BMW will get a R10 000 traffic fine today

- The colleague who keeps saying things like, "an email I sent myself from Gmail hasn't come through to me," while looking at you expectantly for an answer, will realise that this is not something you can explain nor assist with, and will stop asking such inane questions henceforth

 - Publishers will only publish three books a year for the next five years, so I can catch up a bit.

 

Now THOSE are fortunes!

Avoiding Neighbours

 

Over the past six or so months, my relationship with my neighbours has improved. After a particularly rocky start to my life of living in a complex, which had me storming down to three different neighbours' flats in various states of attire unsuitable for public viewing, things calmed down. In fact, one might cautiously label our infrequent interactions 'politely uninterested'. Dat's da way I likes it, brother. 

When the one crew pitched up outside my door earlier this year to announce that they were engaged, and that they were having an impromptu party that night, I smiled and congratulated them, and felt all warm and fuzzy about being able to have a civil relationship with the woman who shrieked and drilled holes in her wall one, eventful morning at 7am. 

When the neighbour formerly referred to as Satan, showed up at my door to beg to use my extra parking space on occasion, offering that he now took care not to slam the hell out of his front door at 3am in mimicry of a grenade explosion, I agreed benevolently. 

And when I stormed down the stairs in my white terry gown (which gives me the appearance of a cube) buttoned up to my chin with clown buttons, in order to yell at the screeching children, I felt vindicated when I noticed the terror in their eyes. I felt sure these children would avoid the crazy lady upstairs for years to come. 

Not so. 

In fact, the little horrors are trying to befriend me. Twice last week the two girls – one eight years old and the other nine – accosted me as I returned from work and told me they wanted to come visit. Fortunately I was going out, so I said I couldn't. Then I made a fatal mistake … I asked them their names and what grades they were in. I EXPRESSED INTEREST!!!!!!!! One of them then asked if I'd be able to tell them apart, which I admitted would probably not be possible. 

Friday afternoon. Arrived home from work. No sighting of The Visitors. Breathed sigh of relief. Half an hour later…knock at the door. I am embarrassed to admit that I did not answer the door. I remained quiet until they went away. It reminded me too much of Andrea, who lived across the road from me when I was 10. She harassed my sister and me senseless when we moved into that house, to the extent that we would hide away from her when we saw her approaching the gate. Funny, we never spoke after that…. 

Why do these girls want to be my friend? Maybe I should let them in for a visit- they'll be bored stiff in 10 minutes: no DSTV, no Playstation, no garden. Hmmmm, maybe if I get them to fold my laundry they'll never come back.  

No, the risk is too high. Tell me how to get rid of them, people, please! Children terrify me.

changes

Hi everyone

Due to some puerile shit going down with people who can't separate business from personal issues, various blogs are going to be doing some moving.
However, please please please email me for the new addresses as I would love you to keep on reading.

Email address is dbawiw@gmail.com

Thanks all, look forward to seeing you wherever we go.