The Busboy

Lying wrapped in the darkness, representing everything your Mother warned you about.

Feet tangled in a duvet of white lies, your promises now nothing but doubts.

Opening closets for the Bogeyman, nightmares playing pictures in head and heart.

There are your whispers on the wind, tearing perception and reality apart.

 

Gazing from wet eyes, I see your life painted in vivid greens and pinks.

Laying in my world, seeing colour but never letting it touch my skin.

Because there’s no colour creeping into my pores, neither affecting nor seeping.

An apparition in swirling grey mists of cigarette smoke, ghosts silently creeping.

 

No one else believes, so why should I? I hurt just as much as you now, can’t you see?

Beliefs no more, mascara streaking the happy ending of what could be.

I’ll breathe it all in, until I drown and cut palms with nails, watching redemption drip.

Witness frail faith falling, I wish I could rip it out, instead feeling the cavity of a heart unzip.

 

So now I’m walking around in my head, my heart gave me notice a long time ago.

I couldn’t afford the rent, it was in too good a town, so they told me to go.

Shuffling for quarters, hustling for ways to pay this expense.

Desolate as a beggar, but here in my head, I’m begging every me to spare some sense.

 

So I’ll take my payment- I’m pleading for your sin; laden my shoulders with your shame.

Blanket me with your demons and hurt, let them burn me with their flame.

Give me pain and grief, for it’s all I have to eat. Give it all, not just sympathy scraps.

My worth in gold, nothing but buttons and stones in a dirty pavement cap.

 

I’ll be your busboy and carry your baggage, dirty laundry upon my shoulders in a suitcase.

It’s what I deserve, because I took that chance, knowing the outcome in the first place.

Then you took your pain, gift-wrapped it in gold gilt, and you made it mine.

And then you sounded the closing curtain call, and draped it over our time.

 

Tags: late nights, lyrics, Poetry, relationships

Thank you, I love you and Goodbye

 

A Eulogy to my grandfather, Ken Smith, on his funeral.

Born 24 January 1938

Died 16 May 2011

Forever and always x x x

Today, I stand here to say 3 last things to my grandfather. I stand here to say Goodbye, to say thank you, to say I love you to a man that meant so many things to so many people. An honourable man who filled the role of husband, father, grandfather, friend, mentor and man.

To say Goodbye is not to say forever. Oups I say goodbye to you. I say goodbye to the moments that won’t happen now, but I embrace the memories that I have, of which you gave me many. I say goodbye. There are many things that have left with you- the sound of your motorbike on a Sunday morning, the acts of honour that you steadfastly believed in, the excited, happy barks of Sasha when you arrived home. But who you are will never be said Goodbye to, because who you are will never leave us. You will always live on in the hearts and memories of your family and friends, and the lessons that you taught will be the foundation for the livf that I now live. I say goodbye, but only because I was lucky enough to say hello.

I stand here to say thank you. Thank you for being in my life. Thank you for giving me this family, this life, and this chance to stand here as your granddaughter. Thank you for teaching me not to live life expecting the worst. Thank you for being there in the darkest days of my life. Thank you for never giving up, never giving in. Thank you for lazy Sundays talking about books or Superbike winners, of summer braais and laughs over Morgan falling over hosepipes. Thank you for always being there- because you always were. Thank you for the guidance, for the friendship, for the lessons that you taught me. Thank you for teaching me to be whoever I wanted to be. But most of all, thank you for being a part of my life, in every way. When my dad passed away, you had the choice to carry on being my grandfather, but you never even saw that choice. You filled the role of a dad as much as you could, and for that I will forever be grateful to you. For that, I will always remain thankful. I say thank you now, but only because you gave so much then.

I stand here to say I love you. You were a beautiful part of my life- a constant source of comfort, of guidance, of love. You fulfilled the role of grandfather, of father and of mentor. You were the one that guided so many of my choices with your clear logic and experience. You were the one that had to drink water out of tiny porcelain teacups with my Barbies. You were the one that inspired me to find my passion in life and follow it. You enthralled me with stories of the war, of your travels around the world, of the beautiful things that life has to offer. You taught me the rule of cause and effect, and the responsibility of my actions. You were a man that lived a life of honour, of passion and of success and the way you lived your life is a lesson that I will carry with me into my life. Above all else, you were a man that I truly loved. I grieve so much for you, because I loved so much with you.

Oups, I can’t find the words that give any tribute to you. The hand won’t write what the heart says. All I know is it that hurts so much not because you are gone from this earth, but because you are so very alive in my heart.

I cry so much for you, because I laughed so much with you.

Oups, Thank you. I love you. Goodbye.

x x x Forever and Always

Lee

Tags: Best Friends, deep thoughts..., Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, Surviving Dying

This One Time… At Band Camp…

Found this post that I wrote a while ago whilst still at TBWA\Hunt\Lascaris. Reminded me of a very rad night. You kids kill me.

***********************************************************************************************************************************

Think of your most amazing and awesome thing in the WORLD. Like the one thing that would bring you untold happiness, that would make your heart flutter about like a toddler . For me, that’s like having Colin Farrell baking me Choc-Chip cookies, naked, while I shoe shop with a shirtless Hugh Jackman. *Nom Nom* Choc Chip cookies…

Maybe your most awesome thing would be to watch snobby chicks fall down the stairs at work, or perhaps you wouldenjoy doing U-turns in roads that have a prominent “No U-Turns” sign. Maybe your most awesome favouritest thing would a room filled with Bubblewrap, or eating bacon off of a fluffy kitten, or eating bacon off a fluffy kitten in a room filled with Bubble Wrap. Or maybe those are just my favouritest amazing things- whatever.

Now take your favouritest thing, and take the very lifeblood and essence out of it. Take whatever makes it so amazing, and bottle it. Bottle your awesomesauce.

Now imagine you find yourself in a semi-normal situation. Let’s just say it happens in a work basement, with 3 very special friends, and you just so happen to be sitting in a bakkie, drinking Coke and Lemonade.

Now take your bottle of awesomesauce and smother the situation with it- spray that scenario with awesomesauce! Lay that awesomesauce on real thick, and make sure you get it on everyone. Everyone needs to drink from your bottle of awesomeauce!

You know what happens when you take a normal situation, like the above basement-and-bakkie example and AwesomeSauce it? You get this:

What did the Afrikaans Dyslexic Cow say?

OOM!

Ek se, OOOOOOM!

Mental Health at Gym- 5 Reasons it won’t happen.

We all know the aches of gymming. The torturous Kata Box sessions that leaves you in foetal position when rigor mortis sets in. We know the challenges of trying to co-ordinate both your legs and arms on the Elliptical machine, whilst maintaining REP 8-9. Of course, there’s also the soul-destroying terror of the Ab Blaster Man who threatens to make you do 5 extra sets of reps if you don’t stop whining like a little girly girl. 

But the REAL perils of gym lie not in hazardous torture, or scary instructors. Oh no… The pitfalls of both physical and mental health spring forth from a users fascination- and disregard- for underwear.

1)    The Retinal Rape

There you are… aimlessly walking crawling through the fitting rooms, mentally kicking yourself for the workout that you just did, knowing that you are going to have to whimper from bed to bathroom tomorrow morning… and then… WHAM! Your eyeballs are forcefully kidnapped! They scream, they fight, they protest in anger, anguish, and hatred! But what has been seen cannot be unseen…

The sight of your rather large cellulitey crevices and bits attack me with Jedi force. I am assaulted by an image that should only be seen by your busy- going-through-the-uterus-baby. In short…I have been Retinally Raped.

The horror of what I have just witnessed causes me actual mental damage. Please people… take the “Staged Clothing” approach. And don’t bend. Ever, ever, ever.

2)    One, two, One, Two, … WHAT???

I’m gunning it. I’m sweating every sinful morsel of cheese cake from my body. I’m owning that bike, concentrating on keeping my legs going at the required revolution and keeping my balance. And then I happen to glance up, only to see you keeping a moderate 7.5 power run… without a bra. In a white T-Shirt.

There goes my whole rhythm… I’m no longer keeping the quick One-Two-One-Two breathing cycle. Now I’m just staring at your bits go up and down, side to side, which means my legs start becoming a secondary One……………………… “Wow- they can swing that way?”…………………………………. Two………………………………. “Surely that must hurt?……………………………………… One….. “Are they spinning in opposite directions?…………………….. Two…………………… “Why can’t I stop staring?……………….BOUNCE…………BOUNCE……………BOUNCE *Lee-Anne faceplants off bike*

3)     Be a Tree… By that, I mean “Leaf.”

“Image that you’re a Tree. Your feet are firmly planted in the floor. You are swaying in the wind. Breathe in, Breathe out. Now leap into Downward-Facing Dog!”

Thereby exposing me to your 1982 neon running shorts and what lurks beneath. Seriously, why do you men not wear underwear under the netting of those pants? Now I’ve got my head canoodling the vacant space of old green and pink striped nylon running pants- sans underwear and short and curlies included. 

Seriously people… I’m trying to find my Chi, my Feng-Shui, my inner peace. Your un-snuggled,dangling and  flapping man pieces are not my Chi, my Feng Shui, my inner piece. Although you do help- I really try that much harder to keep my balance in the “Crane” posture- I will NOT allow myself to fall face first into the Lumo product of Prince’s LSD trip, completed with your own embellishments.

Frikkin Hippies.

4)    The Pool Perverts

Not only is it embarrassing enough to actually climb into one of those high school Speedo swimming costumes, but to actually walk out of those change rooms, remove towel and then walk to the steps is absolutely harrowing. For some stupid reason, gym designers decided to put the pool- the only area that should allow that much nekkidness- right next to the “Grunt and Groins.” You know, the steroid popping, “Klap it Boet” dudes that pop an aneurism with every grunt they manly scream out when bench pressing?

It’s like having a flashback to Neanderthal days… Man beat chest. Man see Women. Man want Women. Man look for BIGGEST club. Man pick up 150kg dumbbell. He beat women on head. Man grunt approval. And then probably kills an innocent bunny or something.

One day… they will drop that dumbbell on their little toe, and I will drown laughing.

5)    Hot Sweaty Chicks

That Skinny chick that steals my treadmill- I hate you. Not only do you still look hot when sweating, but that treadmill- my treadmill- is the only one that doesn’t require mammoth thumb strength and the right combination of balance, speed and precision to alter the speed and not epically fall and eat wooden floor Fail Cake. And that fan works really well.

But I love your shoes!

( So the last point is not really related to nekkidness or mental health. But it has to do with MY Mental Health. I hate her.)

 P.S. The only reason I have not included pictures in this post is because it would have only pornographic images and I’m trying to keep it clean. I’m grownst up! But here’s a funny anyways. I know. I’m awesome.)

 

 

 

Because I love you...

 

Tags: Beauty is pain, Gym, I need a therapist, Mental Health, Nekkidness, recipes for a humans demise, The Upchuck scale, Wobbly Bits

Can someone help me with my Jelly Tots?

There are many things that make you feel like an adult- paying bills, moving out, paying more bills, not having to be home at 2 in the morning, cooking dinner and, of course, paying more bills.

Becoming an adult, or at least, pretending to be one, is all about being independent- being able to do things for yourself. “Look at me; I can drive myself to work. Oh my, I’m running so late for work! Let me hasten in high heels and a pencil skirt. Oh, this is me, preparing a 3 course dinner with foreign French words like Foie Gras and Merlot.” (Well I’m sure that’s what other pretend adults do. Me? You have a higher chance of finding Oprah’s ocean of gold at the end of a rainbow in Saudi Arabia.)

In fact, I’d like to believe that I sort of have this adult-ish, independent, living alone thing, done. But the one thing, the absolute ONE thing that makes me feel like a 5 year old begging for Mommy?

Packaging.

That stupid bloody STUFF that wraps itself around everything that I’m actually trying to get at, just infuriates me. Just today, I had three instances of World War III happening right in my hands- Resulting in loss of life and tears.

Have you ever tried to get that ‘foil-for-your-freshness’ covering off of a tub of Lancewood Sour Cream and Chives cream cheese? No? Well let me explain it to you- the only reason that all these girly mags tell you to eat Low Fat cream cheese is because you have to perform a Cardio-akin-to-the-Comrades- marathon using just your digits to actually get to the stuff. You are working hard for every fat-reduced calorie in that tub. It’s a conspiracy.

Generally, what happens is that you grab that little silver lip thing at the edge and you pull. And what occurs is never as easy as cleaning burnt milk off of those Teflon pans in a Verimark ad. Oh no- that little tin foil piece, the size of your palm, proceeds to shred itself into tiny, sharp ribbons and slivers. It’s like a serial killer attacked it with an industrial-size metal shredder whilst you were nursing your foil dismembered thumb. And then, of course, while you’re trying to remove the rest of those parasite sucking silver slivers, your Sour Cream and Chives cream cheese starts to resemble the Lancewood Sweet Chilli variety- red and awful.

Tin Foil Frustration leads to a dropped dress size and pretty art. And headaches.

 

As mentioned previously, I am a new employee of Deloitte. The very professional, Professional Services firm that I am now a part of. Today, I was acting very professional by sorting out all my new, very cool work into a filing system. And for the purposes of this story, you should know that I absolutely love Post-Its- especially those neon coloured ones. They just scream organised.

So off I go to visit the stationery cupboard, finding my neon Post-its and revelling in their coloured glory of potential organised-ness. I high heel it back to my desk, and try to open the see-through cellophane packaging covering my multi-coloured square block of efficiency. As always, you search for that little red strip of unpacking ease- except it seems that the neon ones are not big lovers of red strip ease. (There is such a possibility for Red Light district stripping quotes here. Insert as needed.) So, using my nails, I try to lift that double flap of cellophane at the bottom- only to have it rip a tiny strip off. After a good 10 minutes of struggling, nail breaking, internal swearing and glow-inducing efforts… Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So eventually, I attacked that SOB like a bulimic at a chocolate festival, pre-barf.

My conclusion? Neon Post-Its are very mean Juxtapositions. They’re all like, “We can categorise your files AND be FUN! Aren’t we cool? You can show off both your creativity and your professionalism if you use us! Be like us- Use us!” Except they know that they aren’t really that fun- after all, they are just coloured pieces of paper that you stick to papers that have IPO and KPI’s scribbled on them. So they’re aware that the only way that they are going to have any fun is to make you seem like a moron getting them out- and looking like a gnashing bulldog eating a bowl of porridge.

Feck it, next time I’m going for the boring yellow ones.

See? Fired and Fun- All in One!

 

My third, and last instance of packaging horror, involved Jelly Tots. Although I try to eat sort of healthily (In other words, I try to limit McDonalds to only twice a week) I like having a small packet of Jelly tots, every now and then. Now, I really don’t get why I battle with opening a packet of Jelly Tots- they were invented for kids under the age of five at birthday parties involving Barbies and race cars. Yet every time I try to open that yellow packet of sugary nom nom nom-ness, the packet will always split in that awkward place where the seal is still attached to the other seal and all you have is that little gap that will then proceed to slice itself down the middle and pour the sugar everywhere else, except your salivating mouth. Or, as was my case today, you will pull- to no avail. You will find those little ridges at the top and try pull down. You will try using your teeth to make a small opening in the corner. You will then go back to using every chicken arm muscle that you possess to pull that unyielding similar-to-burnt-milk-on-that-Teflon-pan-that-never-comes-off-as-easily-in-real-life-as-it-did-in-that-Verimark-ad apart. And then what happens is that you have an explosion of Jelly Tot grenades propelling themselves across your lounge, and causing grievous bodily harm to your borrowed 6ft glittered Santa Claus.

And let me tell you the worst part- the 5 second rule doesn’t apply when you’re trying to frantically pick up a thousand berry coloured knobs of sugary ecstasy strewn throughout your apartment. And, probably, neither does the 5 year rule. (As any parent with a lounge suite will attest to.)

Multi-coloured sugary ecstasy and white couches... ART!

 

Um… Mommy? 

Ps. The 5 second rule also doesn’t apply when you drop a baby. Just so you know.

Tags: All a girl really needs..., Arterial bleed outs, Conspiracy Theories, Cream Cheese, Diets, Jelly Tots, Killers, Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, packaging hell, Pencil Skirts, Post-it Notes, recipes for a humans demise, Tin Foil

Of Peacocks and Problems

Firstly, an apology to you- I have been a horrific blogger. I should have my Geek status revoked and should be banished to spreadsheet duty to live out the rest of my days. In all fairness though, life has been a certain type of hectic. While all of you were having gorgeous holidays in sun, sea and surf, I was working out my notice period, cracking ribs and spending the remainder of my holidays in a special type of hell.

As some of you may have known from the numerous vomit FB updates and tweets posted, last year I resigned from NXT and Hunt\Lascaris to start a new job at Deloitte.

I am officially 5 days in, and I have managed to not puke on anyone or anything. I am taking this as a good sign that this chapter will actually be quite successful.

 I arrived on my first day like a Grade 8’s first day in highschool- dressed formally in a pencil skirt, blouse and high heels, full of trepidation and face plastered with my overly radiant 1000 megawatt smile normally only reserved for instances of extreme nervousness. I walked in, thinking that everyone’s eyes were on me, which of course they were- people have to suss the new girl out, right? Like, is she weird? Is she going to fit in? Is that smile on her face a car accident disfigurement? You know- normal stuff?

Anyways, I was looked after super well by a new colleague, and performed the meet and greet around the department- that stupid grin still glued to face and managing to not take in a single name. After being shown to my desk, I began the task of setting up my computer. Considering I’ve just employed as a Digital Consultant, this should be easy-peasy, right?

Wrong. Maybe it was my panic, or nerves, or even the fact that I may be a complete moron, but for the love of all things pink and fluffy, I could not even manage to open the laptop. Fan-frikkin-tastic. I’m a Digital Consultant and completely unable to open my laptop. There is no way I can even ask for help- that is basically grounds for dismissal right there. So trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I start turning the laptop to the right. To the left. Panic sets in. Feck it, it’s upside down now. Now I’m pretending to read some documents whilst using my peripherals to target that slidey knob thing. Multi-tasking a success- I have the Slidey Knob thing!  Peripherals FTW!

So now I can at least give the impression that I’m sorted, I start hunting around for my network cable. This was actually really easy- it’s under my desk. Thank sweet tap dancing armadillos! Except… I can’t reach it. And I can’t exactly get down under the desk, on hands and knees to scratch around for it- mostly just because pencil skirts were not designed for such expansive movements. In fact, pencil skirts are mostly just limited to standing and nodding. But, after using the stake attached to my high heels, success was once again achieved. Who’s the Digital Consultant now, punk?

My latest foray into near disaster was the canteen. Now take whatever images the word “Canteen’ might brew up in your head, take 5 litres of gasoline, pour it over the image and set it alight. Because that image in your head is a horrible injustice to the canteen that we have here. In fact, I’m just changing the word “canteen” to “OMG huge, beautiful restaurant set in luscious green gardens overlooking a lake and tortoises meandering through and like five different selections of restaurants and etc.” Except that name takes a lot of time to write, so I’m reverting back to canteen. Anyways, after being taken through the maze to the canteen, I now need to get myself back up to the office. Ok, walk straight up the walkway. Open vintage gate. Close vintage gate. Walk up stone path, take stone steps, turn left at the Peacock, then… Wait. The peacock? Yip, sitting there, blocking my entrance into one of the most professional and prestigious companies in SA, sits a large male peacock. A large, male, pissed off peacock. So, once again trying not to look like an idiot and failing disastrously, I spent the next 5min of my life trying to “Shoo” away Arnie, the Angry non-English Comprende Peacock.

I laugh at you Stupid Human! *Cackled in Spanish, I think*

But now it seems as if everything is sorted- and some things are easier than I expected, while the ones that I was completely not worried about, now have me worried. But I suppose the hardest part is not having my friends around- No Manny to go and light-sabre with, no MizJax to speak potato to, no Tarns or Mels to coffee and Ling-Ling to, no Guitar-Hero antics, no time wasting on the balcony and certainly no Piano jokes.

Of course there is still that certain aspect of the “The-Complete-Checkbox-of-Awesome-who-I’d-like-to-become-a-chew-toy-for-Psycho Bunnies” to keep me in near laughing hysterics, but that is one story that is better left to share over a glass of Lumpy potato. Tonight.

Piss. If and/or when I do puke on anything, I will be sure to let you know. In the meantime, heart vomits to you all!

Tags: All a girl really needs..., Best Friends, Deloitte, Digital Consultant, Men-stop them drowing;take your foot off their head!, Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, New Job, peacocks, Pencil Skirts, The Upchuck scale

Cherry Jelly Love- Koolowsky’s Birth-versary

Do you want to know how awesome I am? I’m so awesome that the happy tears of a thousand toddlers rain down upon me, as the pure essence of joy and happiness. I’m so awesome that unicorns visit me in the dead of night and take me to watch Michael Jackson performing “Thriller” – complete with full choreographed dance moves.I am so awesome that the Gummy Bears perform green-haired troll sacrifices to the patron saint of awesome (AKA: ME!) and praise the deity that I am with midget strippers dressed as penguins.

And do you know why I am awesome? Because I stayed up until after 12 to wish my absolute BFF (BEST F*&%ing Friend) the happiest of happiest birthdays EV-AH!

Happy happy my barbie-loving, fat dissing, scantily wearing, stiletto squeaking, tattoo getting, problem listening, cherry jelly loving, fish toe sucking, tequila drinking, Santa slutting, strawberry syrup loving, beauty spot sharing, BEST friend!

Happy 9 months and 23 years since your parents had sex anniversary Koolowsky, and may today be as awesome as your impeccable abs! (As in flat, like your abs. Not flat-lining. I meant that as a compliment. It didn’t work. Oh frikkin well.)

Now... You must go right, right here, ne? And then, you must stop. And then you must go left, right?

I haz made you famous on the interwebz!

This is aesthetically pleasing. That is all.

And the only real reason I’m so awesome? Because I have you as my best friend! Because you bring out the very best in me… and when there is no best left, you give me some of yours. Even if that does mean I have to phone you at 03:46 in the morning, in tears, and steal it from you in the form of cuddles.

Enjoy my lief!

Lots of squelching, heart mushing, blood pumping, warm, fuzzy and vomitty heart loves to you!

I love you. MILO!

X  X  X

Piss. Ha ha frikkin HA! I made you read my blog. I win!

Tags: Best Friends, Gono, Happy Birthday, Koolowsky, Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, Sunny Days;Funny Days, Surviving Dying, tattoos, Team Awesome!

15 Essential Guidelines to Living Alone

Thanks to shows like Sex and the City, we all have certain ideas about what living alone would be like. For me, moving from “Ek se, Barefoot in Benoni!” to Sandton was like moving to my very own New York. Now that I am here and literally living it, I’ve got 15 guidelines/Facts about living by yourself. Not Sex and the City Style, but in the “It’s true, ek se!” Style!

1)      Cleaning is a bitch.
As soon as you do it, your brain starts letting you know that’ it’s getting dirty already. Those floors you JUST washed? Don’t walk on them or you will leave marks. Those stupid ornaments you just dusted? Will regress to previous life stage since you opened the window to let that wonderful summer breeze in. Those dishes, all sparking and shining? Wait until dinner. Cleaning stuff is like leg hairs- no matter how well you shave them tonight, you have to do them again in a day anyways. An unconquerable Mount Everest! And that’s with a maid.

2)      The Junk Drawer
Generally a sess pit of all items that I have not a cooking clue where to put. From light bulbs, to plasters and even a fold up, relatively pathetic, umbrella, this drawer holds everything. It also serves as a perfect hiding place when I have unexpected visitors and need to show some semblance of adult responsible housekeeping.

3)       Ice-Cream and Jelly do, in fact, count as dinner.
And no one can moan at you. Well, except the scale when you actually climb on. Whatever, it was a long day.

4)      Duvet and Duvet Cover-Putting-On is a sport.
Trying to get a feather down duvet into pristine white duvet cover is, in actuality, an Olympic sport that should only be attempted by Professional Body Builders or women with Lesbian biceps with a degree that helped them work out a theorem that disqualifies The Law of Pythagoras.

I'd like to thank these guns and this mind for making me Champion Duvet-Cover-Put-Onner CHAMPION! Now where's the cellotape? Cos I'm ripped!

5)      Homemade Dance Dance Revolution
Instead of all that geeky tech stuff and perfectly choreographed assorted tracks and moves, all a girl really needs is the radio and a mop. Improvisation! Not sure what it is, but living by yourself brings out some primitive subconscious NEED to dance in your living room. Alone. With a mop. And in hot pants and tank top.
This really is an imperative point in living alone.

6)      Equal to more than the Sum of its Parts
When you break a small cocktail – like glass, it will proceed to smash into tiny fragments that spew across the entire length and breadth of your home, causing you to spend the next two weeks of your life picking up glass splinters with your feet. Like some weird mutant, a broken glass seems to multiply all its bits, trying to spread its seed and germinate in all corners of the World. In fact, if left, all glass fragments would eventually join up and create a Glass Mutant the size of a large spotted Shetland pony and hell-bent on the destruction of the earth and all its minions.

7)      Hobbies
In order to prevent yourself from becoming that lonesome crazy cat lady, you better find some hobbies to keep you entertained on weekdays and quiet Sundays. Otherwise you end up as “Blogger” and writing crap like this. You’ve been warned.

8)      You don’t need to make the Bed. Ever.
Well, unless the Boyfriend is coming round, because you’re still trying to look all ladylike and responsible. But seriously, if you’re single, you never need to make the bed. All those pretty red cushions you brought when you moved in, with throw rug and ornamental pillows? Classic Chic in theory, but much more likely to decorate your floor and the hide the fact that you need to vacuum. Wonderful.

9)      Frying Pans.
If I could personalise a Frying Pan and make it a real person, I would just want to say the following to it.
“Frying Pan, I need to tell you something. I don’t really like you. In fact, I would like to buy you a fluffy, adorable kitten. I would like to give you fluffy, adorable kitten. I would let you fall in love with fluffy, adorable kitten. And then one night, I will steal into your house, creep up your stairs, stalk my way into your bedroom, and then… POW! I would punch you in the FACE!”

You love Adorable, Fluffy kitty? And then... POW! In the FACE!

10)   Kitchen Table? No! Storage site!
Because you live by yourself and you try not to cook like EVER, you have no need for a kitchen counter. Kitchen Counters are like the domestic equivalent of tonsils- just not necessary! In fact, your kitchen counter now becomes a wonderful storage place for last thing at night, first thing in the morn. As soon as you get home, you will proceed to dump your handbag, shopping, laptop and bra in a general kitchen counter and kitchen chair direction, and then proceed to pick it all up on your way out in the morning.

11)   Superheroes Save Lives. So do 2 min Noodles.
yeah, so Superman loves the Damsels in Distress and Spiderman kisses hot chicks in the rain, but to me, those are superficial. It’s only when a girl really needs help; when she’s starving, moody and snapping at the heels of small children that she really needs a super fast, super there Superhero. And that’s why 2 Min Noodles are my Superhero. Seriously, if it wasn’t for my Superhero I would have been found a long time ago as a skeleton lying in foetal position and chewing on an old piece of the neighbour’s cat. (Don’t judge. I get moody when I’m hungry.)

12)   Walk-In Closets- a Paradox
Every girl dreams of the day when she will have her very own walk-in closet-  it’s like the “I have arrived” moment. You start by colour coding everything, you place all 32 pairs of shoes in order of height of heel and wear, and you hang everything according to height, colour and season. And then you actually have to start wearing the stuff… My friend, it’s all downhill from there. The paradox? You have to actually keep it clean and neat, because, heavens forbid, anybody visits. You can’t show off your walk-in closet and have friends screeching in absolute bliss (Like that misguiding Heineken ad) if it looks like a 50% sale has just happened at the Boksburg flea market. Paradoxical, see?

The sound of excited, girly screams can be heard from the sheer awesomeness!

13)   Smart Idea? Use Candles instead of light bulbs.
I have beautiful lighting in my home- deep-set miniscule lights that shine soft lighting from my high ceilings onto my island of domestic bliss. Well, I would have beautiful lighting if I could only replace the goddamn light bulbs. Seriously, never mind the task of having to find a step-ladder high enough to get me up there, but then comes the difficulty in having to get your hands inside the stupid crevices to grab the thing. Then you still have to fight with the Bayonet thingamabobs whilst trying to balance and keeping your cursing down enough so that the neighbours kids don’t start sounding like Eminem after he just stubbed his little toe. Then again, brothers were invented for a reason.

14)   Visitors Suck- especially if it’s Mom.
Visitors that aren’t Mom: When they come round to visit, they make a mess. They mess up your cushions, they actually want to drink tea out of cups that you have to then clean when they leave, and they comment that your fridge has nothing but an old hunk of cheese and half a bottle of Alabama Slammers. Heavens forbid they sleep over- then its beds, pillows, extra blankets, showers and general bathroom and bedroom chaos that you then have to fix. And extra heavens forbid if they occasionally enjoy a drunk game of “Cheese Hockey” on your kitchen floor. (Ahem)

Cheese Hockey... An awesome sport. Unless it's in your kitchen on Halloween with a subsequent hangover to boot.

Visitors that are Mom: Because when she visits, you notice for the first time that you haven’t actually cleaned much in like two months, so you try appearing to be domestically responsible by throwing dishes, take-away cartons and all evidence of your teenager lifestyle into semi-effective hiding places (May I suggest the oven- no one ever looks in the oven) and then you realise you’re out of milk and then have to swallow your adult pride and phone her to ask her to buy some on her way over. Then she still notices that the oven needs cleaning and your curtain hooks need re-hanging. Crap.

15)   Do All of the Above.
All the fun in living alone is that you have an endless list of things that you are allowed to do. You can even leave Lindt chocolate balls in the fridge for a whole week without them mystically disappearing. You can eat ice-cream for dinner, dressed in your hot pants and tank top, listening to the radio after just having mopped the floors and scrubbed the bathtub.

Hell, you can even decide to leave the dishes until tomorrow morning, because you know you’d much rather eat Peanut butter out of the tub with a teaspoon and write a blog. Even if you do have to squint because two of the %$@#ing light bulbs have blown.

Piss. On a very important note, you actually need your Mom more when you move out than you ever did as a teenager. True Story: The other day I took a photo of my ovens dial settings and BBM’ed my Mom the picture, so that she could tell me which setting was for pre-heat and which was for cook, or bake, or whatever it is that it’s called. But now I know! It’s called Woolworths and 3min in the microwave. Smart, ne?

Tags: aaaaw!, All a girl really needs..., Cheese Hockey, cleaning, domestic bliss, domestically challenged, guidelines, Halloween, Have you got Cellotape? Cos I'm ripped!, ice-cream and jelly dinners, late nights, lesbians, ligh bulbs, Little brothers... you have to love 'em, living alone, mathematical theorems, Moms, Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, Shaving, Sunny Days;Funny Days, Team Awesome!, woman bodybuilders, woolworths, Would you like a pair of Big Girl Panties?, Young; dumb and full of FUN

I’m Donating my Body to Charity!

I am donating my body to charity! I’m going to use my walking, skipping, dancing (and hopefully, hang gliding) body and I’m teaming up with Krazee 4 Kripples at their annual Krazee 4 Kripples fundraiser!

So… What’s it about? It’s about Hanging for Hope!

This is from @lea083 on Krazee 4 Kripples:

“Last year I wanted to go skydiving. Then I decided I’m going to try raise funds for the Muscular Dystrophy Foundation of SA (Gauteng Branch) to assist them with purchasing equipment like wheelchairs etc for their members (I’m one as well, but don’t need that yet) With the help of my awesome friends & family we ended up being 4 “patients” skydiving, had 3 bands perform for free, sold sponsored shirts & braaipacks, had one heluva party, and raised just over R10 000. We named the event Krazee 4 Kripples, with last year’s slogan being “Going Mile high for Muscles”

Considering the success, we decided to make this an annual event, as there will always be some crazy thing I want to do. On 27 November we’re going Hang Gliding over Harties, and our slogan is “Hanging for Hope”. The bands have increased from 3 to 9, with the likes of Black Era & Bacchus Nel and Oktober Hemel coming to the party amongst others. We’ll have meat again, and a cash bar and I’m still working on a sponsor for the t-shirts.

The event will also be running on the same day as the Gauteng Hang Gliding Championships.

How Krazee 4 Kripples raises moola:

• People interested in going gliding with us must get a sponsor of R2000 minimum. R1000 pays for the glide & the rest is donated to MDF
• Plain donations made to the MDF
• Sponsorship of the shirts & meat which we sell on the day
• We do not have a cover charge for the day, but we will be asking for donations from the crowd”

I really believe this is an amazing cause, and I love the way they are doing it! It just shows a perseverance of heart, and a lot of Krazee, which I always enjoy!

So how is Lee planning on gliding with the eagles and other assorted flying stuffs?

I’m selling off my muscles and their accompanying body parts! In order for me to raise awareness of Muscular Dystrophy by using my functioning muscles, and thereby hurling myself into the air, I need to raise R2000.00 so that I can Hang for Hope over Harties!

For every sponsor, I will brand my body with whatever you want to advertise. Think of me as your moving, interactive and functional billboard – in shorts and a T-Shirt! Your brand will then get the chance to go hang gliding over Harties at the Gauteng Hang Gliding Championships!

*WARNING- CORNY ADVERTISING PAY OFF LINE*

Let your brand SOAR with Champions!

Now, you might be asking, “What on earth do I need to advertise?” Well, because I’m an awesome person, I’ve come up with some ideas that would definitely benefit from advertising!

• Your business web URL and Logo
• Your Llama farm in Tzaneen
• Your twitter handle
• Your Blog
• Your name (You know, so those hot chicks at the event can totally Facebook stalk you! I’ll put a good word in, I swear!)
• Your radio Station (Ahem… 5FM?)
• Your Great Granny Esmeralda’s peanut Butter cookies.

Sounds awesomesauce, right? So now that you’ve figured out that your Llama Farm in Tzaneen would greatly benefit from being advertised around thousands of people, in front of Hang Gliding Champions and with some impressive rockstars, you need to decide where to place your advert.

Luckily for you, and your Llama farm, I’ve got some space on some body parts that are itching for some professional temporary tats.

On offer:

• 2 x calves
• 2 x thighs
• 2 x feet (Scratch that actually…cos I still have that weird foot phobia)
• 2 x forearms
• 2 x upper arms
• 2 x hands
• 1 x back
• 2 x shoulders

*Thank heavens I’ve got extras of stuff*

I promise I’m not asking for a lot. In fact, if only 10 people donate R200.00, I will gliding my branded body over the beautiful Harties, letting the World witness your charitable and generally epic ways. It will be a MMMMM kind of product!

Good deal, yes? On top of getting you whack loads of exposure, I will also then dedicate an entire Blog Page (that will stay up for a year and be read by all my readers) gushing about how truly amazing you all are, with your name, URL’s and whatever else you desire. Then, I will use every Social Media skill I possess, and bully every blogger and geek I know to make you famous on the interwebz.

So if you want to brand the right brand on my right calf, this is how you go about it:

Simply do an EFT to:

Account Name: Muscular Dystrophy Foundation
Account Number: 1958 323 284
Account Type: Current Account
Bank: Nedbank Rosebank Gardens
Branch Code: 195 805
With the reference:#BodybrandedK4K

(You have to use that reference, otherwise they won’t know that you’re supporting me, and that would suck.)

Then, all you have to do is email me at LeeOlfsen@gmail.com with your proof of Payment and the specifics of what you want and where. See? Super Simple!

E.g. I would like to advertise the following:

Name: Most awesome Llama Farmer!

Website: www.llamafarma.com

Where: Please put my business name on your right calf.

Happiness frikkin is, right there!

Or, if you want to join me in my endeavour, email me and we make plan, yes?

Your Brand Here!

The Heart Stuff:

Muscular Dystrophy is a disease that causes skeletal muscle weakness, defects in muscle proteins, and progressively, the death of muscle cells and tissue. Ultimately, this means that people diagnosed with MD lose the use of muscles that move and power the human body, and eventually leads to the sufferers becoming disabled and dying. The prognosis for people with muscular dystrophy varies according to the type and progression of the disorder. Some cases may be mild and progress very slowly over a normal lifespan, while others produce severe muscle weakness, functional disability, and loss of the ability to walk. Some children with muscular dystrophy die in infancy while others may live to adulthood. Muscular dystrophy can affect adults, but the more severe forms tend to occur in early childhood. So let’s help these people by getting them wheelchairs and other necessities that help to make their lives just a bit easier.

Although I’ve never been directly involved with a MD sufferer, my Dad passed away from Brain cancer that left him paralysed, brain-damaged and confined to either a bed or a wheelchair. I know the horrors firsthand of what being immobile can do to a person. How the simplest act of moving a man from a bed to a wheelchair involved a wife and two children and lots of physical and emotional strength. I know how hard Occupation Therapy can be- how painful, frustrating and heartbreaking it can be to try to take just two steps. Maybe it’s from these experiences, but i truly understand the need to make sure that whatever can help is available to the sufferers and the families. So, please support and let’s Hang for Hope!

For more information on MDSA and Hanging for Hope,

Phone 082 4521266.

Contact @lea083

Email me at leeolfsen@gmail.com

Catch me on Twitter at @LeeAnneOlfsen

Or just comment on this post and I’ll contact you!

Tags: Body Billboard, Charity, Gauteng Hang Gliding Championships, Hang Gliding, Krazee 4 Kripples, Llama Farmer, Muscular Dystrophy, Sponsors, Sunny Days;Funny Days, tattoos, Team Awesome!, Young; dumb and full of FUN

I can count to Potato!

I am awesome. I am on a Horse.

Hello, people, look at Retard Girl, now back to me, now back at Retard Girl, now back to me. Sadly, she isn’t me, but if she stopped us ing Retard Body body Wash and switched to Normal Awesome, she could act like she’s me. Look down, back up, where are you? You’re on a boat with the girl that’s Normal Awesome. What’s in your hand, back at me. I have it, it’s a chocolate unicorn that burps up midget strippers that you love. Look again, the chocolate unicorn that burps up midget strippers is now a labradoodle puppy. Anything is possible when Normal Awesome uses Normal Awesome  and not Retard Body Wash. I’m on a camel with 5.5 humps.” [Be like Normal Awesome, girl. Normal Awesome]

Every now and then, Normal Awesome Me changes into Super Retard Girl. I wish I could blame it on something as simple as Retard Body Wash, but the sad truth is…. its people. Sometimes I get intimidated. And it’s fecking horrible.

Now I’m not saying I’m the most confident girl in the world, but generally I’m pretty happy. Happy enough that I can strike up a conversation with someone in the line at Woolworths whilst buying my Bacon and Chicken Pasta Salads, or go out on dates and be Normal Awesome me. Until I meet… Them.

The Intimidators. I have still yet to figure what it is about these people that makes me crash dive into a sess pool of self-doubt and inadequacy, but all I know is that when I’m around them I slam dunk from “I’m on a Horse” Cool to “This glass tastes Lumpy” Uncool. I think The Intimidators have some Syler sort of Superpower. You know, they go around and meet up with other generally awesome people and then suck the life force of their awesome from their very soul, leaving them a shriveled raisin of patheticness, a shell of former glory. They take them from “I’m on horse” and make them “I was on a horse, but now I’m just a decaying hunk of horse meat within a horse skeleton that’s rotting in the sun and throwing a maggot party.”

The Intimidators: Easily spotted

Worst thing is, I like these people. The Intimidators are the people who I would like to get to know better, but I can’t because when I’m around them, just stringing an English sentence together is like working out the ostensible Paradox of Wave–particle duality as a fundamental property of the Universe -  using just an abacus and red ABC building blocks! Generally of the male variety, these guys are the super confident types that have an answer for everything, get on with everyone and  just sweat the overwhelming stench of “Eks cooler as Jy” cologne. Either that, or he’s a Vet. (Mmmm… Vet’s)

What happens is a travesty – All of a sudden the semi-corny-but-quirky joke is so low that it’s sitting on the floor of Satan’s wine cellar, any story I try telling ends with the overpowering sound of a plague of crickets chirping within a 30cm radius, and  I scream “I can count to Potato” when you shake my hand.

And then what really gets me is those stupid Cosmo Girl articles that tell you that they are just as nervous, which just freaks me out more, because WHAT are they nervous of? Am I making them nervous? Am I making too much eye contact? Did that joke make him think I’m really that corny? Does he really think I’m a retard? OMG!  That’s it! He’s nervous, because he thinks I am majorly impaired in some drastic way and he doesn’t know how to react! It’s like when you have to speak to someone with a lazy eye and you don’t know which eye to look at, and then you know you’re a bad person and going to at least the 5th circle of Hell. I’m like the lazy eye girl! (Thanks Cosmo. Bitches.)

Or it's just one with varying degrees of retard. I dunno, my lazy eye doesn't let me see properly.

I think too much. But luckily I do, because now you know, from my experience, that you should never use retard Body Wash, not even if they come up with a really good advertising campaign that makes you want to buy a white horse. It’s a pleasure.

This post is now a piece of coal. With maggots that eat unicorn meat.

Tags: I'm on horse, Intimidation, late nights, Murphy is a sick; sadomasochistic bastard, Old Spice, recipes for a humans demise, Retard Body Wash, Sunny Days;Funny Days, Would you like a pair of Big Girl Panties?, Young; dumb and full of FUN