Ommmmmmmmmmmm

Now bring your right foot over your left shoulder, push out your chest and stretch out your arms as your hamstrings feel like they're about to snap. Feel that? Good.

So today I started yoga. Everyone in the class was able to have knees parallel to the ground. Mine? Not so much. About halfway through the class, this pops, that snaps, next thing you know, I'm stretching and pulling muscles I never knew I had. But all cliches aside, I feel great. I feel taller. I want to sit properly at my desk instead the easy slouch. My mind, well, my mind is jello right now and I can't really think of anything really funny/insightful/enlightening to add.

Sorry. Will try do better next time. But right now, I need to keep my palms flat on the ground and stand straight up, keep those legs straight.

Dear Friendly Customs People

So my boxes arrived from the Middle East yesterday and I had to go and pick them up. But not something as simple as go in, sign for them, leave. No, that would be too easy. Go to Forward Air. Sign a form. Go to the airport (Terminal 2), stand and wait at the Customs office, sign another form. Told I would have to wait about an hour because they needed to go to Forward Air to actually inspect the boxes.

"But they are only personal effects" I told them. What I seemed to forget was that my form said my boxes originated in the Axis of Evil. And everything from that part of the world has to be checked with a fine-tooth comb.

So to help out the wonderful customs folks, I have decided to help them out a bit. Perhaps this will help:

Dear wonderfully-efficient customs officer, welcome to my boxes from the Axis of Evil. How very kind of you for taking the time I am sure you will. Before you check my boxes, perhaps I should give you a quick checklist of contents. Be sure to wear gloves:

Arabic souvenirs (including two daggers)
Several pairs of dirty socks
A coloring book
A model submarine
Fabric swatches
A bridesmaid dress
Half a bath towel

Don’t be alarmed, however, when you come across the following:

A flowering plant (not poisonous)
A light saber
A cattle prod (which unfolds into an ergonomic pillow)
Gas torch (dual usage as a reading light)
Marzipan scissors
Splatters of blood
A spear gun

Please feel free to help yourself to the following:

Melted chocolate
Water-purification tablets
Complimentary hotel shampoos & lotions
Perishable dairy products
Magazines more than two weeks old

While you’re scrounging around in my boxes, would you mind looking for the following:

My nail clippers
Knitting needles
My cigar cutter
Razor blades
My fake pilot disguise
Book about stem cell research

Perhaps you would feel better knowing that these boxes were packed by a religious official. The religion shall not be specified.

Unwanted guests

So you know how sometimes you get home after a really long day at work and the last thing you want to deal with is unexpected guests? This is precisely what happened to me two nights ago. I arrived home. And they were just there. Not one. Or two. But closer to one or two MILLION!

Tiny ants have taken over my home. They form a long trail along the skirting boards on the floor. They even have a marching band crossing my lounge into the kitchen. They are literally everywhere.

So last night I poured some Clorox (Jik), Pine-Sol and some vile-smelling concoction from the "danger" cupboard into a plastic bucket. I mixed it all together, poured in some hot water, snapped on a yellow glove, picked up the scrubber sponge and got to work. Because apparently a polite, "Excuse me, you've overstayed your welcome, please leave" doesn't work with them.

Die. Die. Die. They soon disappeared. Ha. That will teach you.

I woke up this morning. Apparently they're home-sick. All along the skirting boards. The marching band. All of them.

A friend of mine once advised me to take drastic action when dealing with unwanted guests. Bad smells. Giving them shopping lists. Little things like that to make them feel unwanted. Tonight I'll take a trip to Wal-Mart. Bad smells and shopping lists won't work on these critters. But a big ol' kick-ass can of Doom will.

If they don't pay rent, they need to get the hell out.

$600? Is that for the ENTIRE year?

So my electricity bill arrived. And was I ever shocked?! $600 (that's R4200 for those in South Africa). Um, what?

So I quickly decided to do an electrical appliance check. TV? No. DVD player? No. Electricity-sucking floor lamp? No. Then what? What on Earth could possibly be consuming so much electricity in my unfurnished home? Then it struck me, much like a brick to the head. I leave the airconditioning on during the day so my cats feel comfortable. Well no more, kitties! Sorry. Now I keep it switched off. Okay, so I leave the ceiling fan on - I don't want to get home and have to clean up dead cat.

But seriously, $600. Ouch. I guess it's off to Wal-Mart tonight so I can stock up on non-electricity consuming candles.

Oh, and just for clarification, that IS for the month, NOT the year.

You are welcome to Amerika!

So early today - or yesterday depending on where in the world you are - my young cousin boarded a metal tube with wings. In his suitcase was a stack of clothes, and I imagine some biltong and photos of family. And off he went. Destination? America. Reason? To attend college, of course!

I told his Mom to tell him to give me a call the minute, no scrap that, the MOMENT he landed. Come on people, it's a long flight, what all of 15 hours of crap airline movies and even crapper airline food. And it's not like the seats are designed with comfort in mind.

Design Engineer1: These seats look very uncomfortable. How about if we make them a little more cushiony?

Design Engineer2: What? Are you mad? Flatten them even more. The more flatten they are, the closer we can put them together.

Design Engineer1: But what good would that be for the international, trans-continental traveler?

Design Engineer2: No-one cares. We need to put more rows of seats. That means less cushiony. Got it?

And I am worried about my young cousin. All bleary eyed, staggering through customs & immigration, and they are not the friendliest of people. They sit around, drink coffee, send text messages, share an inside joke and then BAM! The sullen face stares at you.

"Purpose of your visit?"

"Um, I'm going to be attending college here."

*silence*

THUD as the stamp hits the passport.

GRUNT as the uber-friendly immigration officer ushers him forward.

Poor kid. Hope he calls soon.

Bonsaaaaaai

It arrived in the mail this morning and I was beaming like a proud father.

Finally, some peace and zen in my life. My lovely little Juniper something bonsai that shall be moving into my bathroom.

Tip of index finger to tip of thumb. Same on the other hand. Place upturned hands on knees. Back upright. And all together now .... oooommmmmmmmmmmmmm.

Where poor people buy expensive-looking things

Sliced bread. Electricity. Round wheels. And CB2. These must be the greatest inventions of all time. Okay, so CB2 isn't an invention as it is the most amazing idea in home furnishing.

No they did not pay me to say that. But a quick visit to their website will reiterate exactly why this must rate as the most amazing place to make your home look like you have style, like you live in the 90210 zip code. From espresso-colored beds, to white ceramic plates. This place was made just for me, I'm sure of it. And it's affordable. Well, sort of.

Each month, I scrape my pennies together and head over with a big glass jar.

"Please sir, may I have the ashton wall mirror with accompanying ashton bedside lamps? And I'll take the salt and pepper shakers. And the 8' x 10' lounge shag rug."

Prison Pen Pals

So there I was, putting pen to paper ... okay, I lie. I was typing letters to prisoners. Yes, the ones in prison. I feel sorry for them, so I write and let them know that the outside world still cares for them. I do not judge - unless of course they are charged with 1st degree murder, in which case my little pen quivers at the thought that Mr. Murderer over here might hunt me down when he gets out. Not a good idea, so I rushed off and got myself a PO Box. Ha. Clever.

But still, the whole idea of writing to someone who is convicted of murder, mmmm, I don't know how I feel about that.

But anyway, I wrote to a "lifer" - yes, that means he is in prison for life, no chance of parole. So, off I trot to the mailbox and send these letters off. Two write back. And then I wonder why the "lifer" hasn't. Did I maybe write something offensive in my letter? Did I have his address written down correctly?

Then it hit me, like an axe to the head. Take a look at the pic I have put up with this posting. Yup, that is on the postage stamps I have been attaching to the envelopes.

"So, how long is your sentence?"

"Life"

"Oh, you mean FOREVER?"

Oops

Building something

There are fewer times that a man feels more useful than when he is building something.

Nature has a way of compensating for this because place a man in a labour ward of a maternity hospital, and he is rendered useless. Ask a man his opinion on the colour and fabric of new curtains. Useless. But put something in front of him and ask him to build it, and he feels useful. In fact, one might say you’ve just made him king of the world. This is how I felt last night. I arrived home to find 7000 boxes lying out on my balcony. Ah, my bed had arrived. Along with 12 stapled pages of instructions. Pffff, who needs instructions? They are about as useless as directions. So I set about constructing my bed.

Place part A alongside part B and use the Allen key to screw in part C to part D. Then flip part B over and attach part Z to part T via part D. Not too hard now otherwise...oops. Oh well, useless chip of wood that anyway.

But I always find it fascinating that at the end of the building “king-of-the-world euphoria” process, one stands with one’s chest puffed out, admiring one’s handicraft with immense pride. And then that pride balloon is popped when one looks to the ground next to this masterfully-built thing and sees what I saw in the attached pic.

Yup, leftovers. A few part Fs just lying around. “Where’d those come from?” one asks. Maybe they were extras, you know, just in case you lost one or something. And that chip of wood that broke off? Not my fault, the wood is obviously inferior. I must contact the company and tell them that for $300 I expect better quality. Even if my newly-constructed bed only stands 10 inches off the ground.

Why I love Mondays

How often is it that one can say they genuinely look forward to Mondays?

Okay, that was a little over the top. I don't look forward to Mondays. But the weekly bribe of fresh bagels goes down really well. Blueberry bagels for those fruity types. Wheat bagels for those in need of some bowel movement assistance. Rat's ass bagels for those who don't really give one ;-)

But honestly, bagels and coffee go down VERY well first thing on a Monday morning. Especially when they're free - the bagels, not the Mondays (those are never free, you pay for them with Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and sometimes Friday).

Why most Americans suffer from a Cranial Rectum Inversion

Let's face it, this is not the most aware society in the world.

It's said that Americans are only interested in what's happening here, between New York and Los Angeles. And sometimes they like to read about the scuffles that take place between the ever-friendly INS people on the border with Mexico. But why is it that when you ask an American about what he thinks with regards to the political instability in the Middle East, or even, hell, AIDS in Africa, they have their heads firmly planted right up their buttocks? Do they think that with their head up there, they won't be able to hear me asking that question? Or is it more a case of they don't want their blatant ignorance to be exposed?

According to my other good friend, urbandictionary.com, the expression to have one's head up one's ass means: 1. The condition of being absolutely oblivious to surroundings 2. Acting like an asshole. Personally, I believe most Americans fall into both 1 and 2 at some point. On the home front, for example, most remain oblivious to the goings-on around the world. China? What is that? Mexico? Yes, the 53rd state. They have their own problems to deal with. Idol banter from neighbors. Picking up the kids from soccer practice. Deciding with microwavable meal to eat tonight. And then you get the American tosser who saves up for years during high school and college, buys a backpack and decides to "do" Europe.

It's this American that falls into urbandictionary.com's 2nd explanation.

Have you ever had the misfortune of meeting an American abroad? No? Just sit down in a cafe somewhere and listen for the loudest person in the room. Chances are, he/she will be an American. If you can't find one in your cafe, take a short walk to the nearest Burger King/McDonald's/Starbucks. Americans are terrified to try anything new so they tend to congregate around familiar settings. Quite stupid really because then Ossama and his lads have a better chance of making them targets when they're all huddled together like cold sheep.

My favourite favourite 'head-up-his-ass' American is the one who walks into a shop, wants to buy something and asks the shopkeeper the price. When the shopkeeper replies in German (because we are, after all, in Idstein - a small town in Germany), our American friend, in all his ignorance, shouts at the shopkeeper and demands he speak English "like we do in America!" If his head wasn't already so far up his ass, I would have personally shoved it up there myself. What a douche bag. Thrashings for you, tosser.

But don't get me wrong. Not all Americans abroad are like this. Take for example the wonderful young Oregonian I met in Turkey. She was a little quieter than her counterpart in Germany, but still that swang came ringing through, and when asked if she was American, she appeared to be a little nervous, bit her lip, then declared, "No, I'm Canadian!" Thrashings for you, you liar! As if that's not bad enough, those poor Canadians get such a tongue trashing from those heads-up-their-asses Americans for not being as good as them, but all of a sudden, they're in Europe and they discover that the rest of the world LOVES Canadians. And absolutely ABHORES the ignorance & arrogance of Americans. So how convenient, "Oh, I'm Canadian." Yeah right. Canadians aren't loud. Canadians actually know what the hell is going on around the world. And Canadians DON'T have their heads up their asses.

End of rant.