Wednesday, 25 November 2015

Camping When Nature Hates You.

Camping is a queer concept to me.  I mean really, who in their right mind would willingly submit themselves to the elements if they are not homeless, raised by wolves or competing for a million dollars?  If humans were intended to live in the bush or mountains we would not have evolved to be able to build houses, nice hotels or invented electricity and room service.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do love to do quad biking, horse riding and I do appreciate nature’s absolute splendor.  But this doesn’t mean I want to spend a night in nature, sleep in a sleeping bag in a tent with God knows what crawling over me.  I have been camping twice in my life and this was enough times for me to realize two things:  One, I don’t like “roughing it” and two, I do NOT do camping.
About ten years ago hubby and I decided to go hiking with my sister, brother-in-law and some friends.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We would spend two days hiking up a mountain, walking about 10 kilometers a day.  That is like 6.2 miles a day.  The selling point for me was that we would not need tents as we would be sleeping in what they called “chalets” and they said there was electricity at both “camping sites”.  The only down side, I thought, was that we would need to carry everything we needed in backpacks with us.  Optimism never served well, and in this case optimism would once again dismally fail me.

On arriving on the Friday, the first “camping site” was basically a room with a questionable roof on it, holes in the walls that you could literally see through and stretchers to sleep on.  No electricity.  No indoor toilet.  That was the very first time I in my life that I saw an outhouse or as they called it - a “long drop”.  I was mortified!  It was nothing more than a hole in the ground with a toilet seat on top of it, smelled like shit and there were steam billowing out of it the following morning.  All I could do, when I eventually had to number two, was to go in there, hold my breath and pray that the whole thing didn’t cave in while I was in there.  In retrospect, I think that’s where my fear of public toilets comes from.

The following day we started with the hike.  Ten kilometers is fucking far, especially if you are carrying 5kg on your back.  Needless to say I cursed a lot that first day.  My sister, the drama queen that she is, also had a complete dramatic melt down three quarters through when she had a cramp in her leg.  She was a whimpering mess and wanted to be medically evacuated off the mountain.  Needless to say that didn’t happen.  The rest of the hike she was whimpering out loud and I was crying and cursing on the inside.  Eventually, what felt like an eternity, we made it to the second camp and things only got worse from there.

Again the “camp site” was no Hilton Hotel and by all means worse than the first one, again with the outhouse, cracked walls and stretchers.  With blusters the size of plums on my feet and smelling like a funky monkey, I realized hiking was probably the worst idea I ever had.  All I wanted was to take a long hot relaxing shower.  Then came another shock.

The “camp site” had a shower but it was outside in the bush and if I wanted a hot shower I had to heat the water in a thing they called a donkey on the fire.  “No hot water, no indoor toilet, no indoor shower, no electricity.  Why the fuck did I do this to myself?” I remember screaming.  I wanted to get clean so I heated the water, carried the donkey to the outside shower and hubby and I got in and opened the release valve.  First came the searing hot water then in came a snake.  I literally peed myself and that was the shortest and most traumatizing shower I ever had.  They said it was a harmless snake, but at almost a meter long it didn’t look harmless at all.  Besides nobody in our hiking party was a reptile expert.  We could have all died.

On day two we hiked back, completely paranoid about snakes, to the first “camp site” but this time I was motivated by one thing and one thing only - I wanted to get the hell out of there!  It took us about six hours to reach the “camp site” and we left immediately.  I have never gone hiking again since but I did end up going camping a couple of years later.

My parents’-in-law are avid campers.  They own a caravan and all the camping equipment one would need to survive in the event that the apocalypse should destroy all man-made structures.  They go camping often and they invite us along often.  I have always found creative ways to avoid camping and declining their invitations.  That was until the one day about 5 years ago when I couldn’t get out of it.

My in-laws got me to agree to go camping and until this day I can’t remember how they did it.  They promised me that we will have our own fully equipped bathroom and that we would not have to share it with other people.  They also said there would be electricity.  The only down side was that hubby and I would have to sleep in a tent.  How bad could it be, I thought?  What is the worst that can happen, I thought?

On arriving at the camping spot I was delighted to find that my in-laws didn’t lie to me.  We did indeed have our own bathroom, kitchen and there was electricity.  I needed electricity for my portable air-conditioned, inflating our double bed, electric mosquito repellent, ice machine and emergency light.  We helped the in-laws unpack and then set about pitching our tent.  Pitching a tent in your pants is one thing but pitching an actual tent is a whole different story.

Tents are complicated things and the instruction manuals that come with them, I firmly believe, are written by people who are high on drugs or drunk.  They make no sense.  After a struggle, some sweat and an averted mental breakdown the tent was semi decently erected.  Our bed was inflated, the air-conditioner was running and mosquitoes were fleeing.  The whole camping spot was set up and I must admit I was rather proud of myself.  Everything was done and as I was standing there admiring our handy work, I thought to myself “So now what.  We are here; we are set up, so what exactly does one do when you are camping?”  As it turns out – not much!

The only things we had to do were to go down a waterslide and drink.  I broke my rib on the waterslide that day and later that evening I got drunk on vodka jelly shots.  I would have broken my nose too had it not been for the emergency light outside our tent.  You see, vodka jelly shot, darkness and tent ropes don’t mix.  Much later that evening, I sobered up a little and we went to bed and that’s when it happened.  Back then my father-in-law use to snore, the sound of which could scare away wildlife in a five kilometer radius.  His snoring sounded a lot like a mixture between a diesel engine coming apart and a pig choking on its own esophagus.  It kept me awake for a long time.

After eventually falling asleep I was roused from my not so peaceful slumber by something tickling my face.  I brushed it away and dosed off again.  Then it happened again.  “Stop it honey” I mumbled to which hubby mumbled back “Stop what?

Just then the tickling went down my chin, down my neck and into my shirt.  I woke up, reached for my flash light opened my shirt and let out a petrified scream as only a twelve year old school girl can do.  I too am like Oscar Pistorius and scream like a woman when I am petrified.  There was a big hairy spider on my chest!  As I stared down at it in utter terror, its beady eight eyes stared back at me while its front feet were touching my nipple.  I felt sexually violated and petrified that it would bite off my nipple after it had finished molesting it.  Pandemonium broke out.  I survived.  The spider did not.  I lost three years of my life that morning and inhaled a whole can of Raid in the scuffle.  I still get nightmares.  We never went camping again after this.

Until such time as North Korea starts nuking the shit out of the world or when the Zombie Apocalypse happens and we are all forced to flee the city and find refuge in the mountains, I do not see any good reason why I should ever voluntarily go camping or hiking again.  No amount of bug repellent, vodka or inflatable and portable luxuries will see me leave the comfort of my home, or that of a hotel, to go and spent a night under the stars with the wild life, spiders, snakes and other hideous and possibly dangerous insect and animals.  Sure Broke Back Mountain made it look sexy, but in reality I would have had no problem quitting Ennis Del Mar as no high altitude fuck can be worth being dragged up a mountain to sleep in a tent and being crawled over and molested by spiders and snakes.  I find no shame in admitting that camping is not for me.  

Till next time.

Monday, 23 November 2015

Happily Ever After

Submitted by a reader... Thank you Persephone!

A punch
So off guard
Didn't see that coming
Lips cut
Didn't see that coming
My mind slips
Dark abyss
My comfort my solace
Hiding in closets
Hope he doesn't find me
Mirrors lie
This isn't me
Who is this stranger
Stranger with the black eyes... broken smile...
This isn't me.
This isn't my eyes
My eyes smile.
Used to smile.
My pain is irrelevant

I am irrelevant


Wednesday, 18 November 2015

The Gospel, According to Me

The Bible has been a best seller for all time and, obviously, the authors of the book did not make any money from it whatsoever. So who profits from the sale of the book and who agreed to that contract?

Well, the Bible is actually copyrighted and each company who owns that copyright makes money off it. In order to create a new copyright,  there must be substantial changes to the Bible - which means the Bible most Christians read today is not a true reflection of the original version. Which led me to wonder, which parts of the Bible have been changed and how did this impact on the first love story of all time in Genesis: the one between Adam and Steve? 

I have frequently been told that it was just Adam and Eve and not Adam and Steve in the Garden of Eden, when religious freaks try to condemn homosexuals to hell. Well, how the fuck would they know? Were they there? Also, which re-written copy of the Bible are they reading?

I believe Adam and Eve were not alone in the Garden of Eden and that Steve was also there (you are welcome to prove me wrong). You know, to give Eve options. We all know how women are. The one thing that could not be foreseen was the fact that Adam and Steve would fall in love and that Eve would become their much begrudged beard. Was Steve God's back up plan for Eve? Who knows. Was it planned that Adam and Steve would be gay? I think not.

Eve felt cheated out of her deal in the Garden of Eden and, naturally,  developed some resentment. I mean, who wouldn't? She did not have a guy - or even the option of becoming a lesbian! Was this because she was not skinny enough, her boobs were too small,  or maybe she had the personality of a hedgehog? Who knows. But the fact that she was lonely, did not have a lover and possibly developed some body image issues is very plausible. For most people that would be depressing but not for Eve; she was a woman on a mission. So she got her shit together and made a plan. She would tempt Adam to commit the primordial sin: eating the forbidden fruit. Apparently she got this tip from a snake which is highly unlikely because, you know, snakes can't talk. Her plan was all her own and kinda genius when you think about it.

As most of you know, in the Garden of Eden there was an apple tree which God told his creations they may not eat from. Which is stupid because it's like putting a treat in front of a puppy and telling him he cannot eat it. They were kinda set up to fail, if you ask me. Adam had great willpower and listened to Steve, who was the responsible one in their relationship. There were a lot of fruits in the garden, including them, and there was no reason to develop an appetite for apples - even if an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Not that there was a doctor with them but you get what I'm saying. But Eve was a temptress and knew exactly what she was doing. You see,  she had a short term and long term plan for Adam, who was the butcher one, Steve being more on the fem side.

Her short term plan was to roofie Adam and make him eat the apple so that they can be thrown out of the garden, hence getting him away from Steve. The long term plan was to get Adam to fall in love with her. So that is exactly what she did. Adam ate the apple and fucked up his relationship with Steve. He got thrown out of the Garden of Eden leaving Steve all alone with his spring collection,  made of flowers and leaves,  who he now had nobody to model it for.  Eve was cruel but her plan succeeded and she soon found herself in a brokeback marriage. It was not ideal but it was what it was. What happened to Steve nobody knows. You see, the authors could only focus on one narrative because the people back then didn't like to read and papyrus leaves were very expensive.

In the later printed copy of the Bible the publishing companies decided to remove Steve and the dinosaurs from the narrative entirely and tweaked the original version. Poor Steve was written out of the Bible and hence he never got the credit for decorating the Garden of Eden or for styling Adam with the newest fashion and Haute Couture. Basically he got screwed and dissipated into obscurity. 

Then we get to Leviticus in which everything is a sin. According to this chapter everyone is going to hell - and their puppies and kittens too. And I mean everybody. In this chapter, you are also allowed to stone your neighbors to death, which I think many of us secretly wish we could do today. But that's against the law.  Everything sex related is a sin and pigs are evil, shellfish is from the devil and masturbation is a death sentence. Do you even know how many men and women are going to hell because of masturbation? That's like 99% of the population with the 1% being people in comas!

When Leviticus was re-written, the author(s) was in all likelihood in a bad mood and probably terribly hungover. Frankly, that is the only reason why he would condemn 99% of the population to hell, including himself. Hangovers are major assholes - they will do that to you. There are too many sins in Leviticus to deal with, as it seems to be the most hateful chapter in the Bible. So if you haven't read it yet,  skip it - it will ruin your day and you will go to hell. Ignorance of the scripture is no excuse but hey, when you have to start making lists of sins it becomes very annoying.

I wonder what the original version of the Bible was like. I also wonder when people thought it was ok to go and make substantial changes to it. Fiction novels are not supposed to be re-written just because you don't like sections of it. You don't see people going and re-writing the classics in our literary history. So why would the oldest fiction novel in the world be changed and copyrighted? The only reason I can think of is that is that it is meant to be used for sinister purposes.

Too often people use the Bible to condemn others, to justify discrimination and, in the past, even rationalize racism. The Bible has been changed to fit certain people's and organizations' agendas. The book people are reading today is the byproduct of bigotry, politics, religious oppression and justification of hate. The people in 100 years from now will read a completely different Bible than the one we have today. Who knows, there might even be transgender aliens in it. Unfortunately, we will not be around to see it. For now we are stuck with the most judgmental book known to mankind. It is a poorly written fiction novel, the original of which is nowhere to be found. Not even on the internet. I am probably going to hell for having written this - that is if hell really exists! 

Till next time.

Monday, 16 November 2015

When things start to sag

Growing older sucks.  And not in a good way.  Throw in early onset male menopause and you have the odds stacked so against you that I now totally get why Meryl Streep drank that potion in Death Becomes Her.  Only in real life there are no magic potions only hormones, exercise and diets.  All of which I loathe because hormones require needles, exercise make you sweat and diets are just a “socially acceptable” way of starving yourself.  You know, because anorexia and bulimia are “mental disorders”.

Having gained 7kg (15.4 pounds) in just over three months I can honestly say being fat isn’t fun.  I know that I have been joking that our pregnancy is the reason I have put on a few, as I am "with child" so to speak, but in all honesty most women I know do not gain that much weight during pregnancy.  So why did I gain all this weight in such a short period of time?  Well, according to my doctor (not the one that lives in the Internet who communicates with me through WebMD) it is male menopause and being in my thirties.  I almost killed him, but I didn’t because even though I am chubby I’m still too pretty for jail.  Do you even know what they will do to a pretty boy like me in there?

The final straw that broke the camel’s back happened last week Thursday.  Picture it.  It’s 6:30am at our gay petting zoo, the animals have been fed, I have brushed my teeth, shaved, applied my plethora of age defying creams, done my hair and got ready to get dressed.  I took out an outfit that I wanted to wear, put on my shirt and then tried to put on the pair of pants.  But it didn’t fit.  Then I pick another pair of pants.  That one was also too small.  I made a third attempt, this time I tried to suck everything in and almost popped a vein in my head in the process, but to no avail.  Then I started to panic.

You see, the larger size pants that I recently bought was in the washing and I only had two more pairs of pants left as options for work.  If these two didn’t fit I would be totally screwed!  I have never prayed when I was dressing myself but this day I did.  But my prayers went unanswered.  After I tried on all five pairs of pants I found myself sitting in the middle of a pile of rejection, in the form of pants, sobbing like an emotionally disturbed child.  I looked at my fat and screamed “Why do you hate me?” as if my fat would be able to answer me back.  Anyone who has ever been in that kind of situation will tell you that at that moment you cannot think rationally.  I also almost called in fat for work that day.  But I don’t think that is actually a thing, but it totally should be.   Needless to say I didn’t try it.

Luckily hubby saved the day.  I had forgotten that I bought another pair of pants that I have never worn because hubby hadn’t gotten around to hemming it yet.  So he promptly did and I was able to go to work, albeit it emotionally bruised and feeling rather defeated.  Later that day I spoke to hubby on the phone and he suggested that I go and see my doctor.  Which I did.  While in his consulting room I told him about my unexplained weight gain, that I did not eat more than usual and that he needed to help me.  Then he asked me when last I got a testosterone shot and I then remembered that it was more than seven months ago.  And apparently that was the problem.

Also, apparently those little tropical holidays I have been experiencing again the last three months were hot flashes.  The injection I had seven months ago only works for four months and the last three months my hormone levels took a nose dive again.  Now I am on a testosterone injection once every two weeks until my levels stabilize.  The doctor said that due to the lower testosterone levels I was gaining weight and once the levels are back to normal I will find it easy to lose the extra weight.  But being thirty something I should also remember that my body’s metabolism slows down and that is part of ageing and there is no pill or injection OR magic potion for that.

Look, I do know that we all are going to grow older and that our bodies will change as we do but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.  The fact that I have also noticed that certain parts of my body are on the verge of sagging freaks me out and I will definitely have a few things lifted, nipped and tucked down the line.  I started with Botox when I turned 30 and luckily due to this I have no frown lines, wrinkles or crow’s feet.  However, from the neck down that is a totally different story that I like to refer to as “Ground Zero”.  It’s like a natural disaster but only it involves fat and cellulite; the kind of fat and cellulite that you will eventually have to get sucked out of your body because they are stubborn motherfuckers

Growing older isn’t any fun.  There comes I time that you have to accept that the twenty something body you once had is gone forever.  The days that you could do fifty sit-ups and have a six pack has passed.  The days that you could lose weight just by fucking breathing is now a distant memory.  Many people I know embrace the process of ageing; they don’t mind gravity sucking their boobs and asses to the ground, the odd wrinkles, grey hair and the cellulite.  They accept it as the natural order of things.  But I don’t.  If we were meant to age gracefully there wouldn’t be things like facelifts, body lifts, tummy tucks, liposuction and Botox to mention but a few.  I’m not saying that I will do all these things or advocating that you do.  All I am saying is that I will try and defy the process of ageing for as long as I can afford it.  And as for my early onset male menopause, I have only one thing to say about and to it is and that is fuck you!

Till next time.

Friday, 13 November 2015

On being a casual foodie

Like most people, I claim to only have one real vice. To quote Lily Allen, I'm not a saint, but I'm not a sinner:

I fucking love food.

Like, really. Luckily my girlfriend is quite a foodie too, so I can safely say I live and breathe for delicious noms. Often she is the only one who will dare to join me in trying new combinations, like our recent breakfast of croissants with camembert, honey and fresh rocket (Arugula, if you want to be 'Murcan), so I believe we feel the same about food. I'm practically in a three-way relationship.

If I have the remote, the TV is on channel 175, and currently I have my new copy of a recipe book from The Great British Bake Off in front of me at least 8 hours of the day and I know exactly what I'm baking first. We love going to new restaurants and trying all sorts of different foods, and while there are some things I don't eat (coriander is the real devil's herb), I will try almost anything.

But I have some issues that mean I can't be a real foodie, apparently:
Firstly, I can't cook real food. I routinely burn things - I've set pans on fire cooking everyday things like fried onions - and I often forget to add essential ingredients. I can bake though, at least.
Second, what I can cook is usual teenage/student fare - French toast (I make killer French toast), eggs, potato hashes, that sort of thing. So when I cook, don't expect gourmet if any kind of heat is involved.
Finally, I love eating and using stuff real foodies wouldn't touch. 2 minute noodles with viennas and cheese? I may as well die of a foodgasm right now. Plus I nearly always use good ol' Moirs vanilla essence when it calls for real vanilla extract - nobody can really tell, right? Also, tomato sauce is my friend. That and Tobasco.

According to Geegee, too, I do not eat properly because I do not add cheese to every meal. So there we are, I am not really a foodie at all, I suppose...

Fortunately, though, I happen to be planning to marry someone who can really cook amazing meals. How often do you hear someone saying their partner cooks better than their mom? Well, my partner's cooking outdoes my mom's - tenfold. It may or may not be why I am marrying her.

So while I might not make it to my own cooking show, or become a food critic or a judge on Masterchef, I certainly am a foodie in the sense that if it has enough deliciousness, I wholeheartedly love it and will tell everyone I run into about how amazing it tastes.

Whether it's organic and locally sourced or if it comes from some questionable factory in a town I've never heard of.

Now excuse me while I return to my Salticrax and Marshmallow fluff - happy eating!

It's Friday the 13th so don't be an asshole.

It's Friday the 13th and for all those superstitious folk out there, take a Xanax and stay in bed.

I have never believed that there is anything sinister about these "unlucky" Fridays. How can I? I have three black cats who continuously cross my path on a daily basis. Sure my cats are assholes but they have never caused a ladder to fall on me, break a mirror, spill salt or made me forget to touch wood to avoid bad luck. Sure they have tripped me, scratched me (for no reason) and sometimes sit and stare at the wall making weird noises but all of this is just to enforce their authority in the house. They also do this to make us aware that we are the inferior species. Cats like to remind us that they were once worshiped as Gods until some son of a bitch ruined everything for them. So they are just resentful and not evil. Mostly.

Furthermore, touching wood has never helped me to get a parking bay closer to the shop, made me win the lottery or caused me to get a 90% discount on my Botox. In other words  - I do not believe in any of this shit.  And we should stop being assholes to these Fridays. We will give them an inferiority complex or worse - make them resentful towards us.  We don't want them to be pissed off because they are being teased by the other Fridays and make them send Jason after us, now do we.  So don't be a dick and enjoy your weekend.

Thursday, 12 November 2015

Cessation of Kin

I have not seen your face in forever
what would I say if I had to see you again? 
Would the disappoint engulf me
break me again like your empty promises? 
Or would I stand strong and just ignore 33 years of connections we used to have
Would childhood memories make me bitter
like the aftermath of how you disrespected me and others
Would it, could it ever be fixed
Millions of horrible memories
Could there ever be a plaster big enough to cover the gaping hole you left? 
This rotten flesh we have left to fester
will forever more be left to waste away
Rotting into oblivion
with bile coursing like rivers through our veins
Neither family, nor friends
Just an image of the bond we used to share
A memory that is now lost and soon will be burned forever 

Cocktail Hour - Winston Churchill

Since it's hubby's birthday this weekend I'm inviting one of his favourite historical people to our fantasy cocktail party in the sky. The man who kicked Germany’s ass with a hip flask in his pocket - Winston Churchill. Winston Leonard Churchill-Spencer was born into the aristocratic family of the Dukes of Marlborough and his mother was an American socialite. Winston’s parents did what most aristocrats did in those days – they left the business of raising their son to a nanny he called ‘Old Woom’. Rebellious and independent by nature he was a difficult student and the first book his governess managed to get him to finish was called ‘Reading Without Tears’. He had a very poor academic record and was often punished which just goes to show how independent thinking can get one into trouble and he is the poster child for showing that a bad academic record does not necessarily mean failure later in life.

When Winston Churchill’s father died aged 45 he left Winston with the conviction that he would die young too and he’d better get on with making his mark on the world early in life. He started his career by applying to the Royal Military College in Sandhurst, failing the entrance exam 3 times even though he applied to join the cavalry rather than the infantry which was expected of him, simply because the grade expectations were lower and it did not require maths, which he disliked intensely.  The annual income, even combined with his allowance from the family trust, was far too little for a man of his extravagant tastes so he turned his attentions to becoming a war correspondent and soon he was making quite a significant amount of money on the side. Born with a speech impediment that some say was a severe stutter but in truth was only a lisp, Churchill had special dentures made to help his speech once he became a public figure. We all know who he was so I’m not going to bore anyone – or myself – writing about his political career and so on, if you really are interested in all that I have one word: Google. At age 90, 9 days after suffering a severe stroke he died on 24 January 1965, 70 years to the day after his father’s death.  He more than lived up to his own expectations of leaving his mark on the world.  Historian, Nobel Prize winner, Artist, Prime Minister, Writer, amateur bricklayer, butterfly breeder and the first person to become an Honorary Citizen of the United States, he lived life on his own terms and will forever be remembered for refusing to surrender.

Winston always liked to take a drink and legend has it that he suggested to his Colonel that he should see more of the war and asked to be sent to the front lines in World War 1 because battalion headquarters was dry and he didn’t have much taste for the tea and condensmilk they drank, but alcohol was permitted in the trenches.  That never changed – toward the end of his life he was once asked by an MP at a formal event if he would like a cup of tea, to which he infamously replied, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, I want a large glass of whiskey.’  Guess it’s pretty obvious what his tipple of choice was.  He always preferred it neat but I looked for a few refreshing cocktails that could be delish in this hot weather we’re having.


The grown up version of a Shirley Temple this makes me thirsty just looking at the ingredients.

1 ½ tots good bourbon
1 tot grenadine
1 ½ tots lemon juice
Soda Water
Lemon peel for garnish
Combine bourbon, lemon juice and grenadine in a cocktail shaker with ice and shake vigorously (work those arms ladies).  Pour into tall glass over ice, top with soda water and garnish with a curl of lemon peel.


Since Winston had expensive taste and also seeing as my Gentledyke likes to have ‘tea parties’ with fancy cups filled with Jack Daniels and Coke I thought this recipe was quite fitting.

3 tots Glenfiddich 21 year old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey
1 tot tea syrup*
2 tots fresh Granny Smith apple juice
Add the scotch, tea syrup and apple juice to a fancy teacup and add an ice cube.  Top with equal amounts of champagne and lemonade and garnish with a slice of lemon.  This recipe can be multiplied in a punch bowl for a crowd.
*Tea syrup
I cup of hot strong brewed English Breakfast tea
I cup sugar
Stir the sugar into the tea until it has melted and refrigerate.


Gentledyke said this was one of her favourite whiskey cocktails so I got the recipe from her and am most definitely going to give it a try. I know from personal experience that she makes a mean cocktail!

2 tots whiskey
1 tot cherry liqueur
½ tot Tabasco sauce
½ tot lemon juice
Shake the ingredients together and serve over crushed ice.

Cheers bitches!
GeeGee x

‘You have enemies? Good. That means you have stood up for something, sometime in your life’ ~ Winston Leonard Churchill-Spencer 
(30 November 1874 – 24 January 1965)

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

I am so offended! I don't have a STD!

Apparently having a urinary track infection (UTI) is quite normal especially if you are a women. Or so I have been told. I have no way of verifying that with clinical research. Also, if you are gay and have a UTI it is perfectly normal for a nurse to make the assumption that you have slept around while drinking excessively and that your UTI is in all probability is a STD. This  is what happened to me this week.
On Tuesday I woke up blissfully unaware that I had a UTI. That was until I had to pee. When I did I was in considerable pain causing me to negotiate with myself for how long I could hold my pee in before I would die. Apparently not long (holding it in, not the dying part). What made it worse was that I was also passing a kidney stone which is right up there on the "I want to die" pain scale.

As the day progressed and I noticed that there was blood in my urine and I grew increasingly concerned. I did not want to die of blood loss through my penis because that would not make for a good story at my funeral. "How did he die? Well, uhm he bled to death? How? Through his penis?

Naturally when you suspect that you have a UTI you see your doctor. Unfortunately mine was indisposed and could only see me in two days time. Which, when you have a UTI and about to pass a rock through your penis, is a fucking long time to wait.

I did not want to go to the emergency room for my UTI and kidney stone. You see, the problem was that the last time I was there I thought I was having a heart attack which turned out to only be severe heartburn. As such I can never show my face there again. So I opted to go to there pharmacy. It seemed like the lesser of two evils. Also, they did not know about my heartburn incident and would not judge me me.

When I got to the pharmacy and explained my symptoms they seemed quite accommodating at giving me something to make everything better. Well, that was until they heard that there was blood in my urine and then they treated me like a zombie asking for drugs. Feeling less confident to assist me (because they did not want to kill me) I was referred to the nurse. And this is where things went south rather quickly.

I got into the nurse's consulting room and explained what was going on. I just wanted to pass my kidney stone in peace and have my UTI sorted out. So she made me pee in a cup. This would have been fine had I not been experiencing pain at the time. Knowing that I really did not have a choice I reluctantly I complied.

She took the cup with my penis blood and urine and stuck a stick into it and looked at it and then looked at me and said "Hmm there seems to be a lot going on here" To which I thought "No shit lady. Why do you think I am here?" But I didn't say that because I am a gentleman. She said that I definitely had a UTI and then proceeded to ask me if I had been drinking over the weekend to which I responded in the affirmative. This however pissed me off as she made it sound as if I had gone on a drinking binge which was so not the case. And then the part came which really offended me.

"Is your partner also experiencing the same kind of symptoms?" she asked. "Because if he is he would also need to come see me". This made it sound as if my UTI was a STD and that I got it from my husband. I rather rudely responded to her that he wasn't having similar symptoms and that we are not sleeping around. Why I felt the need to explain that to a total stranger holding me pee in her hand is beyond me. But I did it anyway.

Apparently, in her experience, people only come to see her with such symptoms when they are too ashamed to go to their regular doctor because they do have a STD and know it. I found the stereotype I was being boxed into offensive and I was even more upset because it was painful when I peed. It seems that if I am in pain and I don't get drugs to make it go away that I too become rather judgmental: I thought that she was being a bitch which in all probability was not really the case.

After being treated like an alcoholic serial orgy inclined homosexual I got my antibiotics and left. It still hurts when I pee but at least it is not as bad as it was. But at least it no longer feels like I am giving birth to satan through my dick.

I have never used the word penis this often in any of the blog posts I have ever written. So if you are offended by penises I am sorry. It is just that gay guys know a lot about penises and for that I apologize too. Well, not really. But it is what it is. My UTI is being treated and is healing and I passed the kidney stone with great effort. I am still alive and not peeing blood anymore which is a win in my books. I am still offended by the nurse's assumption about me and gay guys in general but I will get over it. However, I will never see her again because I do not plan on getting a STD and if I had one I'd rather see my regular doctor. I prefer being judged by people I know.

Till next time.

Monday, 9 November 2015

Since we're talking about pet peeves...

...I have many. Too many to list, and they change with my mood.

Today, for instance, my pet peeve is once again stupidity; or rather, a lack of common sense. I saw a review on Facebook of one of my new favourite ice cream parlours. I put a screenshot on the Facebook page for this blog if you want to see. This may be leftover rage from the amount of posts I've been reading on Not Always Right, but I managed to hold my tongue. There, at least.

You have to be a special kind of stupid to manage to fail to see that everyone is doing something specific to get what they want in a tiny restaurant, of all places, and still expecting your (retarded) way to be right and then berating the staff about it in such a public manner, albeit a very cowardly one.

This is not to say I don't have brain farts sometimes as a customer or in other areas:
The other day we went to buy some fresh honey from a farm and, between the useless employee who probably has trouble understanding what a "bee" is and how it makes this gold stuff that people keep wanting to buy, and my own moment of spazzing out from my fear of public speaking (I have far too few grey hairs to have stopped giving a shit what people think of me; to me most days feel like those dreams where you show up to work naked), we got nowhere - I stood there shrugging and making braindead caveman noises even less articulate than those I did as a grumpy teenager. My girlfriend got cross with me, I ran back to the car and we now have two jars of mystery honey from God-knows-what kind of flower. At least she undersold it and we got it cheaper than we should have - at least, we suspect so. Whee.

Sitting at my doctor's waiting room today, though, a man wanted to make me move (to where? The place was full!) so he could put the chair I was sitting on into the hallway so his wheelchair-bound son could sit there. Note, this was after I'd shuffled out the way to allow them more space to pass, since he'd tried very hard to squeeze through the wrong side, which is not very accessible to wheelchairs due to an ill-placed pillar (unlike the other side of the same room; it has two doors, one right outside the disabled bay). I refused to move because I am physically unable to stand up while I wait. He landed up putting his son, who looked about 8 and very scared, in the hallway and disappeared for a bit only to go through to the more wheelchair-friendly side and somehow manage to worm his way into one of the comfortable arm chairs (with a prime spot for a wheelchair within arm's length) and fall asleep. What. The. Fuck?

At least, I suppose, I do make it a point to differentiate intelligence from level of education. Some of the most retarded people I've met are in the medical fraternity. Go figure.
Well, that may be a bit biased on my part because I believe the medical fraternity as a whole is kind of retarded. But that's another post.
The point is "educated" does not amount to "smart". Our most esteemed neighbouring country's president (that one that will live forever) has a buttload of degrees. Doctorates, even. I'll let that sink in a bit.
Conversely, some of my very intelligent friends who never did get into academia have really been a ready supply of thought fodder about why we go to school in the first place. Again, another post!

I do have some... Not-so-clever friends. Above all, they taught me all about cutting the idiots out of your life who increase your risk of heart disease. Oh, and some patience, I suppose.

I've had to learn to tone down my inner Grammar Nazi; not to comment on those Facebook posts, and especially not to challenge someone's "intelligence" , especially if they're trying very hard to come across as more intelligent than you - and themselves - it breaks their hearts if you manage to destroy their belligerence! But some people are so far beyond stupid I just want to slap them through the face. When I'm feeling generous. These you can't just ignore because the sheer stupidity of their statements makes the global average IQ score drop every time they go online, and we can't have that.

I don't speak like a smart person (I think). Hell, I don't act like a smart person nine times out of ten, and there are many ways in which I'm not smart at all.
But please: if you are genuinely not blessed with the gift of common sense, unable to read purely because of laziness or if you don't understand basic social protocols such as buying your ice cream by selecting your flavour yourself at the counter, don't spread your stupidity all over the web - or in real life, for that matter; there are children watching and, of course, those of us that have to suffer in silence because good etiquette doesn't allow us to mace you.

</Murasaki> (to contrast the wonderful Emily)

The Blame Game

Hello my Beauties,

I’ve had quite a few run-ins with a disease over the last few years and it seems to be infecting a lot more people than I thought possible. It’s called ‘The Failure Disease’ and unfortunately it can’t be detected by a CAT scan and it has no physical symptoms for one to notice before you allow sufferers into your world. Common (excuse the pun) symptoms to watch out for are:

·         They are shameless spongers and no matter what you do for them or how much you help them out the point will be reached that it won’t be enough and unless you are giving them exactly the same lifestyle you have you’ll be the cunt in the story.
·         They won’t have a pot of their own to piss in but are more than happy to sit back and have others support their sorry asses yet they will also be the first in line to point out and/or make fun of somebody who is doing their best to make an honest living if said living is considered ‘beneath them’.
·         They seem to think they are so motherfucking special that the world owes them something just because of who they are.
·         They are ‘oh so superior’ on social media and often attack others when in reality they’re the kind of plebs who think Spur is fine dining.
·         They cannot for the life of them think for themselves and always need to be spoon fed when it comes to doing anything work-related and seem to forget that the only time spoon feeding doesn't irritate the bejaysus out of one is when you’re feeding a baby.
·         They cannot control their emotions; they will react like a teenager going through the worst part of puberty at the smallest thing. I’m talking tantrums, tears and mini-meltdowns and 5 minutes later it’s all smiles again. God gave you a mature brain. Use it.
·         They constantly brag about what they used to have and usually if you pay attention you will quickly notice that there are discrepancies, however tiny they may be. It’s very hard for liars to keep track of their lies and despite the fact that since brain op my short term memory is fucked (so fucked that Hubs calls me a fancy goldfish – a Fantail) it’s like a super power of mine to pick up on those little discrepancies, then I suddenly have the memory of an elephant.
·         Whenever they get confronted with something and they don’t have an answer they will cry, and I mean CRY - the kind of crying that involves floods of tears, sobbing and snot bubbles, usually on the shoulder of whomever confronted them. Then the poor person who had crocodile tears cried on them is left to deal with the drying streaks of snot that look like an army of snails attacked them while they weren’t looking.
·         Blaming others. Honestly, few things grate my tits as much as someone who enjoys playing ‘the blame game’, few things! You know the type, they are the ones who never own their shit and will always always find someone to pin things on, whether it be losing a job, fucking up a friendship or a business relationship or cheating on their partners; those motherfuckers will always find someone else to lay it on.

All of the above sometimes makes me want to move to whatever planet these people live on because there must be rainbow pooping unicorns that piss glitter there too. Most of us have lost everything at some point in our lives, some more than once, but the difference between winners and losers is how often you stand up again. There is no shame in being financially challenged but sitting on your ass and having a million stories about why you’ve got nothing, each and every one involving someone else? Damn right there is shame in that. A LOT! And seriously, if you’re going to spin a lot of bullshit, at least have the fucken decency to think up better stories, don’t treat people like they also have double digit IQ’s… mmmkaaaay??

Behind my own curtain I’ve seen and/or experienced the following and I’m pretty sure a lot of you would recognize one or two of these examples:

Blame Game: "The branch failed because my boss wasn’t doing his job and I had to move back to Head Office when the branch closed and our whole lifestyle had to be thrown out the window, he’s such a cunt."
Reality: Branch was opened specifically for Blame Gamer (hereafter known as BG) to run but BG was so useless s/he couldn’t organize a piss up in a brewery so unsurprisingly branch failed.

Blame Game: "After company closed I was completely written off and abandoned in a different country by my boss. He’s such a doos."
Reality: BG was offered a job in new company but declined, stating they have been offered another opportunity. Said opportunity fell through so naturally BG would blame Boss for the fact that they had their dick out and nowhere to put it.

Blame Game: "Boss cut my salary and I stuck around for ages with nothing in return and he still expected my loyalty. He’s a real asshole."
Reality: Boss closed company and instead of retrenching everyone he gave employees the opportunity/choice to be part of new start-up, which would include a shareholding once company took off. BG seemed to think a new company would be an overnight success and didn’t realize it took cojones which s/he seriously lacked. Business isn’t for pussies people, that’s why there are only 500 people in the Fortune 500! It’s not called the Fortune 2 000 000.

Blame Game: "I fucked around because my spouse was a real killjoy, never letting me have my friends over and always wanting to know exactly where I was when I was out jolling. It’s their fault we got divorced, not mine. S/he’s such a bitch."
Reality: BG thought s/he could still go out partying every night once married without spouse knowing where they were or who they were with. BG also expected spouse to entertain friends until the early hours on week nights while they trashed the belongings paid for by spouse and treated said home like a student commune when spouse had to be up early in the morning to be at the job that supported BG’s lifestyle. Maybe next time BG will use a condom when having sex with a bloke so BG doesn’t get caught – dudes leave evidence behind!

I ask myself two things at the end of each day; did I do something productive and did I conduct myself with integrity and honesty? None of us are perfect and we all fuck up, sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose, but if you can constantly be disloyal and dishonest to your friends/co-workers/employers/employees /partners (whether in life or business) you are going to get exactly the life you deserve. You may think you’re clever and give yourself a little pat on the back every time you get away with it but people really aren’t stupid and at some point the day is going to come when their eyes open wide and they see you for exactly who you are and then you’ll be pretty fucked - sideways with a cactus, without KY.

We don’t always feel super productive or creative but even if you just get a head start on that room or cupboard where you hide your shame (you know the one – it’s where things you hide that are messy just seem to get a life of their own and multiply like weird alien life forms) you already feel you’ve achieved something, however small it may have been. We also don’t always feel particularly super close to our friends/co-workers/employers/employees/partners but what the fuck is up with blatantly being able to sit there with a smile on your face while you’re either busy screwing them over or plotting how to screw them over? I’m sorry, I really don’t get that. Maybe my mask is full of cracks because I cannot maintain that kind of two-faced behavior for more than a day. I only ever manage that in an emergency and then I feel dirty. As much as I may hate it, that’s what life is about sometimes and I do have the cojones to do what needs to be done thankyouverymuch.  I don’t have time for weak minded people since I have come to realize how dangerous they can be. Sheeple cannot think for themselves and are very easily turned; sometimes it’s so obvious that when they speak you can actually see their puppeteer’s hand up their asses moving their mouths like a ventriloquists dummy (well waddaya know, another pun!) in your mind’s eye. To those puppeteers I say, good luck to you dude/ette. May the best wo/man win, just remember that true winners never start a battle but they always win the war.

That’s it for now my Beauties, I think I’ve said enough to help you recognize those with ‘The Failure Disease’ and if I helped even one of you get rid of a succubus in your life my job here is done!

Live well, love much, laugh often and always remember to dance!

GeeGee x

Tom Petty - Change The Locks

Friday, 6 November 2015

We are so much more.

As some of you know, I stopped blogging for a couple of months. I even considered quitting for good. The main reason being that I am so much more than my social media persona. There are so many more layers of myself. Most of us project a very different image of ourselves on social media and it is rare when your social media persona is congruent with the essence of who you truly are. So why do we do this?

Over the years I found that the person people like to read about on my blog is only one tenth of who I am. In reality it is very difficult for me to be a fucking delightful person All. Of. The. Time. After a while it feels like this is all that people want from you. That this is only what people want to read about me and my life. We never project a true image of ourselves on the internet. We don't post the truth when we are really depressed. Instead why pretend everything is fine. That all is ok when it is not.

I think we do this because we are scared that if we reveal that side of ourselves that the people on our friend list will judge us. It seems that most of us seek approval and acceptance on social media which is a shame. We don't want to sound weak. We don't want people to know our true thoughts and feelings. We want to present a facade to the world. We want to appear to be the person people want to see in the cyber world. We pretend we are better than what we actually are.

Let's face it, life is not always a ray of sunshine. Sometimes things are rather shitty. We might have issues at work, in our relationship and/or with our families. Yet, on social media, it is very rare that we will reveal this. And the people who do we see as attention seeking or pathetic. They are the people who depresses us and the people we see as complainers and we judge them for sharing. Furthermore, we also judge them for "over sharing" and this is why most of us don't share our troubles and only put on that fake social media smile.

I have found that I have done this quite often on social media. I have always tried to be delightful and funny on my blog. I wanted people to laugh, I wanted people to smile and brighten their day. I wanted, and still do, people to like my blog.

The truth is that this is only a small part of who I am. I rarely blog about my struggle with depression and anxiety. Like I said before I didn't blog about this because I did not want people to judge me. I also know of quite a lot of people who will be judgemental. But the truth is we do not share this part of our lives because we are either ashamed of suffering from mental illness or we are afraid that if people knew they will see us differently. We don't want to share that part of our lives with people, especially not total strangers.

It has been said that many comedians suffer from depression. Often this is a side of themselves we do not see or would not even believe to be true. After all they are so funny and energetic on stage. We have come to accept that they will make us laugh and assume that they're always like that. We don't want to know about their issues off stage because, god forbid, that will make them seem less funny. The same goes for us - bloggers.

People don't want to read on social media about your shit depressing day. This is why we, most of the time, I never share it. The person we present ourselves to be on the internet is the person we want to be. The person we want other people to believe we are.

I have decided that I will no longer confine myself to the persona people want to believe I am on the internet and social media. I will own my life. Sure I will still not completely reveal all of myself because there is a thin line between privacy and revealing too much. Certain things should remain private. But I have decided to not always appear to be the comedian and delightful person you would like at your dinner party because that is not who I am. I am the person who would rather spend the night at home than go to a party. The person who do not like crowds because they make me anxious. The person who isn't always happy and content. I am who I am and if people do not like me, well then they can go fuck themselves.

Coming to this decision probably comes with age and maturity. It is also quite liberating when you have made this decision. I do recommend it for most of you. Be who you are. Be who you were born to be. We are more than our social media personas.

Till next time.

Wednesday, 4 November 2015

Adoption: Our Journey

November is Adoption Awareness Month. This has a very special meaning for us. If it wasn't for adoption we would have never been blessed with our beautiful son. Adoption is not an easy road to travel. It has many emotional ups and downs but in the end of the day it is all worth it.
Our adoption journey is similar to many other LGBT families. Sure there might be a few small difference, here and there, but essentially we all have traveled down the same road. If you are thinking of adoption and want to see what it all entails (from when you decided to adopt until you are a parent) you can get a glimpse by reading about our adoption journey.