Define Normal, Please!

Normal being a relative term, I am beginning to wonder what the socially acceptable parameters of normal are.  The reason why I wonder is because I suspect I do not fall within those parameters.

In exactly one week from today I will be packing to go to Europe for a month.

After all our hard work (and I am taking some credit for it), Flyboy is one of the pilots representing our part of the planet earth at the World Championships.  We have our South African colours, tracksuits, shirts, caps, all with a little protea (I miss the bokkie).  I am going to get to take lots of photies.  It is all very exciting…

I am so NOT looking forward to it.  There are honestly few words to describe how much I really do not want to go.

Naturally the first part of the journey will be spoilt by that less than charming phenomenon called International Air Travel.  Now I know there are people in this world blessed with the amazing ability to corkscrew themselves into a comfortable position in an economy class coffin that doubles as a seat and wander off into Slumberland the minute their head falls back on to the headrest and their mouths fall open.  Sadly (for myself and Flyboy), I am not one of them.  I need a bed, I need my special pillow, I need my duvet, I NEED horizontal!

This of course means that sleep will be very limited and any REM status that is attained will be followed up with severe neck and back aches.  Being anywhere within a 10 kilometre radius of a sleep deprived yours truly is similar to playing with toxic waste.  There will be dire consequences.

Of course, there is also the assumption that the flight will be a safe one, that all those ghastly little niggles flaunted on Aircrash Investigation and Seconds From Disaster have been given the necessary attention and modification.  For some reason I always find myself in front of a telly shortly before I am to embark on a long flight and my aviation obsessed Flyboy seems to have a morbid fascination in wanting to know all the possible ways we could possibly meet our untimely ends.

It is not that I am afraid of flying, it is the possible crashing part of the programme that makes me somewhat uncomfortable.

So, let us assume the flight is a safe one, the customs officials decide that we look like charming Africans who will sod off back home after the visit to Europe and our luggage firstly, appears on the conveyor belt and secondly, contains all items.  One would hope the hell ends there - wishful thinking!

After luggage has been collected we will have to negotiate a large international airport, find our way to the LONG DISTANCE TRAIN STATION* and lug ourselves and our luggage (is that why it is called ‘luggage?’  Lug, luggage… makes sense) onto a train to some outlying little town.  All this while I am tired and crabby enough to bite the heads off newborn kittens.

The madness however does not end there.  No rest for the wicked tourists because the very next day we embark on 1500 kilometre road journey from one side of Europe to the other.  Attached to the vehicle will be a very long trailer and because of this, travel speed may not exceed a mind blowing 80 kilometres an hour.  Can you imagine driving from Jo’burg to Cape Town clocking 80 kilometres on the speedo, all the way?

At the end of the two day 80km/h mad dash we arrive at an airfield where we will spend three weeks.  Oooh, goodie!  Another airfield!

What is really breaking my heart is having to put my four-legged fiends in a kennels/cattery for a month!  Oh, I know, “they will be fine,” “they will be so pleased to see you when you get back” and all that but it isn’t normal to stick your children in jail because you are going on holiday, is it?  The guilt is killing me.

So, there you have it.  I am going to Europe, I am going to see at least three countries (albeit from a car)…  and I really don’t want to go.

That can’t be normal!

* Because of the non-tourist friendly website through which you book your train tickets, we originally booked our departure from the wrong station and donated 82 non-refundable Euros to two ghosts whom I hope will be comfortably seated.

Locked in Mystery!

Due to the fact that we live a way out of town, the Thursday weekly ‘town run’ is usually a bit of an ordeal.  Going to town involves a guitar lesson, grocery shopping, an obligatory visit with The Odd Couple and trying to find all those sundry items you couldn’t find at the first supermarket.

Added to the ordeal is the fact that by the time the journey to town is complete, the six cups of coffee consumed earlier that morning usually want out.  This means either a hunt for a public loo or an early visit to The Old Couple’s abode.  Fortunately, after having lived down here for so long, my bladder has GPS’ed the public loo locations so the hunting part is no longer necessary.

An added bonus of small towns is that the public facilities are usually clean and tidy.  Naturally, the loo facilities at The Odd Couple’s home are always perfectly acceptable with nothing untoward to catch the eye, except maybe the odd shape of the bar of soap at the basin.  I would love to know what they do to their soap to make it resemble an amoeba.

However, there is one aspect of a public loo that I cannot figure out.  And I speak purely as a frequenter of the ladies because, by nature of my gender, I cannot claim any knowledge of the male facilities.

Have any other ladies out there ever noticed the locks on the public loo doors?  They are usually in some form of disassembly or have been replaced on numerous occasions.

My question is why?  What happens that these locks are so badly damaged that you have to try and make yourself comfortable on the porcelain throne and stretch your leg out to keep the door closed with your foot?  Or previous badly damaged locks have been removed as evidenced by the multitude of holes in the door and replaced with a super duper double strength bolt?

Is the damage incurred when a damsel in distress flees an irate man, hides in the loo and quakes in her boots when he proceeds to kick the door in?  Do ladies lock themselves in, then forget how the lock works and require center management to come and break them out?  Do they lock themselves in, forget which way to unlock and then force it?

What could possibly account for the fact that the lock on a public loo is either broken or makes you feel like a horse in a stable because of the size and industrial strength nature of the replacement?

‘Tis a mystery which I would love to unlock!

Uninvited Guests!

You know what is worst than those invited guests who you don’t really want to entertain?  The uninvited ones.

Earlier this week I finally gave in to the feline annoyances and went to feed them.  Despite them both storming down the stairs in unison and nearly tripping me, only one arrived at the food bowls.

On investigation I found Ciller Cat standing in the lounge, resembling a cat statue, staring at a spot next to a couch.  When I peeped around the corner to see what was commanding her attention, I was treated to the sight of an uninvited guest, slithering under the couch.

So, I did what any red blooded, rural South African woman would do.

I ‘phoned Flyboy to come home and get the damn thing out.

Do you blame me?  I give you Mrs Puff Adder:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thekattbox/2540579857/

PS:  No, we didn’t post her to anyone. 

Strange Place This!

Have any other South Africans ever tried to explain our little tip of Africa to foreigners? What do you say when someone asks you “Why do South Africans treat their own people so badly?” There is no short answer, is there?

Is it just me or do we live in a really bizarre place?

Just reading the online news today, there is a story about residents of a township (the one where that poor man was burnt alive) who are angry at the media for portraying them as monsters. Well, hello?

Then of course you read the story about the young residents of Durbanville Childrens Home who donated their precious few toys and personal belongings to the children languishing in makeshift camps and living on the charity and assistance of the people who are trying to make a difference.

The mind just boggles at the absolute conundrum that is the collective mix of South African culture.

This was hammered home earlier this week when Flyboy and I spent two days in Slaapstad. While standing in a supermarket I found myself having to poke Flyboy in the ribs and tell him to stop staring. This was right after I discovered that I too was staring slack jawed at the Rastafarian couple.

It’s not that I have a problem with it. It’s just that we just don’t see things like that here in the armpit of the country. Leaving the borders of the Eastern Cape is rather like going to the circus - it thrills you, it’s new, it’s novel, it’s colourful and amazing. And you wonder if you are still in the same country because you don’t recall having your passport stamped anywhere on the drive down.

Honestly, I am a 100% bona fide Country Bumpkin!

The Eastern Cape is truly the province that got left behind when it shouldn’t have been. This was confirmed again this morning when, in a fit of greenness and fear of global warming, I decided From Now On We Will Recycle. Ha, easier said than done!

The first logistical nightmare is the fact that we live 45kms from civilisation and 100kms away from “real” civilisation - in other words where people actually work for a living and don’t walk around with surfboards under their arms all day. Not to worry, the items for recycling will have to be carted to 100km away civilisation. HA! Easier said than done!!

Try and find one recycling depot in Port Elizabeth for glass, cans and plastic!! Well, there is nothing on the internet… oh, yes, the internet. I forgot. People around here haven’t really cottoned on to the internet as an advertising tool for their businesses.

*sigh* I will have to do this manually. Now where is that Yellow Pages….

I Love Squid…

Once again The Katt Box has been rather quiet and with good cause.  Firstly I honestly haven’t had much to say because there has been just too much going on, in my head and in my space.  Secondly, I have been enduring what seems to be a squid infestation.

Yes, squid and I don’t mean the calamari steak type.  A week or so ago I found a delightful ’self-help’ article in a women’s magazine.  Normally I don’t read self-help articles (basically because I know some people, namely myself, are beyond help) or women’s magazines (the ”Get a bikini bum in three weeks” articles are becoming a bit stale).  However in light of the fact that The Odd Couple moved house, I got to bring home all the items which they just didn’t feel like packing.

In the Woman & Home (see, definitely not something I would buy) January 2006 publication is a lovely article entitled “You Have the Right to Remain Silent” penned by a lady with a lovely sense of humour, Martha Beck.  The entire article struck a chord but there was one bit that hit home harder than the rest.  If I may quote:

“Squid is my word for people who seem to be missing their backbones but possess myriad sucking tentacles of emotional need.  Like many invertebrates, squid appear limp and squishy - but once they get a grip on you, they’re incredibly powerful.  Masters at catalysing guilt and obligation, they operate by squeezing pity from everyone they meet.”

Oh, admit it!  Everyone has had a squid or two in their lives at some stage or another.  These are the people who complain about their boss but never do anything constructive about it, the people who complain about their relationships but a year later you are still hearing that he/she is involved with an inconsiderate cow/jerk.

This article came to my attention after having spent a particularly trying morning with a friend who is going through more than just hell on earth at the moment… correction, for the last two years.  As he (finally) walked out the door it became painfully clear that all the good, logical advice which has been laid at his feet was for nothing.  His announcing of his intention to try and make amends (when he hasn’t done anything wrong) with the cause of his own personal hell made me want to grab the fridge and bludgeon him to death with it.

The sheer mental exhaustion morphed into physical exhaustion and the simplest tasks took extreme amounts of superhuman effort on my part.  Needless to say, by the time my weekly guitar lesson swung around I found myself having to apologise profusely to my long suffering guitar teach because I hadn’t touched my beloved guitar once in a three week period (okay, I had ‘flu as well at some point).

Now, my guitar teacher also has a degree in psychology (I tend to be a ‘quality’ kind of girl when it comes to selecting teachers).  After a (bad) rehash of Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven we had a long discussion about squid.  After I regaled him with my tale of being a squid magnet, he said something very true - it is one thing to be a good listener but if six months later you are still hearing the same story, it might be time to get nasty (this strategy is the suggested one in the aforementioned article).

My problem is I have yet to learn the art of being nasty.  But life is nothing but a learning curve, isn’t it?  Which is something squid should maybe try and learn - in everyone’s life there are bad things you cannot change ever or at that point.  There is no point in continually complaining about it - if you can change it, change it.  If you can’t, shut up, accept it, deal with it and stop annoying everyone around you!

So, to the folks out there who can cry on a friend’s shoulder and then get on with life, I salute you, I applaud you.  With regards to squid… perhaps one should adopt the Hannibal Lecter approach:  ”I love squid, they taste just like calamari.”