Not Dead Yet

This week I walked into the doctors' surgery for the first time after my release from rehab and she looked at me and said, "Bit of a cat of nine lives, aren't you?"

Well, yes. In December I bled out half my blood supply before they got me to hospital. 

The exchange went like this :

Ambulance Lady : What's her BP?

Ambulance Man  : 50

Ambulance Lady : Over what?

Ambulance Man  : Nothing. I've got nothing.

Then it was flashing lights down the motorway, ER staff desperately pumping blood into me (in answer to the question "Do you have any Kiwi blood?" I can safely say I probably have more than most), scans and surgical procedures. After I'd turned the corner I was moved to a regular ward for observation and released before Christmas. 

Then there was The Haemotoma. It appeared from the incision in my neck to pump more blood in. It was big, blood-filled and bled overnight, so off back to hospital for that. More blood ingested, and then, accompanied by a stern warning not to get the site wet and to get it properly cleaned and dressed each day, I was released yet again.

And here my memory begins to blur. Honourable Husband and Beloved Daughter came home to find me being violently ill (we're all developing a severe dislike of bathrooms) and by common agreement, apparently, we headed for hospital, where I jumped the triage queue by collapsing. Two days later, a doctor noticed that my eye was abnormal, they did a scan, and lo, I'd had a stroke. The white area in the picture is the area covered by blood. 

After the doctors got that under control, I was moved from EU to the stroke ward, and there I spent the next month hallucinating, refusing medicine and food, not recognising visitors and generally being obnoxious.

Just as I started turning back into a reasonable human being, albeit one sans the ability to walk or (as I discovered) read or write, I was transferred to rehab in Pont Chevalier; and that is a long and satisfying story of an astounding recovery. I have only one word for the TO's and nurses who goaded, pushed me into never giving up; and that is RESPECT. 

So here I am, confident on crutches, and writing all about it. Cat of nine lives, called Lucky.

The Examiners' Bell

I took this photo on an icy Auckland morning at about 9. It's a picture of the ballet examiners' table. It's polite and customary to place flowers on the table; one is expected to provide stationery so that the examiner can make notes for the students and teacher, the tissues also fall into the polite and customary category.

Then there's the bell. As the teacher who has requested an examination of her students by a professional organisation, one must provide a bell. A ballet exam hall is a quiet, lonely and peaceful place, occupied by an examiner and a pianist (or, in our case, nervous me and a computer full of music), with a seething mass of students and teacher on the other end of a door.

The teacher will have spent several sleepless weeks checking and rechecking her schedule, teaching and re-teaching proper etiquette, having nightmares about not having taught enough etiquette, having nightmares about having taught too much etiquette for the students to be natural, getting up in the middle of the night to re-stitch costumes because there's no effing use trying to sleep, alarming her partner by sitting straight up in the middle of the night shrieking, "I FORGOT TO CHECK IF SHE'S VEGETARIAN! GODDAMN!" and generally evading confinement in a tight white jacket only by being too fast to catch.

The students will be bouncing around like so many rabbits in headlight-land.

You see now why the bell is necessary. Only with the use of the bell can the (completely calm) examiner let the teacher know that it's OK to let the next bunch of rabbits into the hall. It is also useful to wake up the mesmerised music person, or maybe that's only me.

So, we practised last week. With a tinkly kitchen bell that was actually quite comforting.

This week, my friend, the Honourable Teacher, received a present, in the midst of the lunatic asylum that currently represents her life.

It was a bell. An examiners' bell. Not just any bell. Not even a new bell. It was this bell.

Many years ago an aspiring young dancer took the stage and danced, in London. I particularly like her because she's shorter than me; and she still made it. For those who don't know, if you're shorter or taller than the average - which is 5 ft 4 - you're in for a rough ride. Aspiring Young Dancer took on and beat that challenge.  

Her life story isn't mine to tell. But at a point, her partner lifted her - and dropped her. On her head. Her dancing career was foreshortened; I'm thankful for reasons that aren't mine to divulge, that she chose to beat that, and became a teacher and choreographer extraordinaire. 

She's chosen to involve herself here with Honourable, and slightly Manic, Teacher. I'm not going to try to describe the depth and breadth of her contribution in this, the first year of Honourable Teachers' teaching; except for the word immeasurable. 

And then she found her own, old examiners' bell; and had the name of her academy shaved off it, and engraved the name of Honourable Teachers' brand new dance school on it, and gave it to her for luck, for her first exams. 

Yeah, OK, I cried. 

A Whole New Flavour of Crazy!

http://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2014/03/15/comment/coucil-of-islamic-ideology-declares-womens-existence-anti-islamic/

I've been researching Snopes and all my other usual sites to see if this particular gem is a spoof but so far, it seems genuine, so here, in all its logic-defying absurdist glory  it is.

Islamabad - Sharia Correspondent: The Council of Islamic Ideology (CII) concluded their 192nd meeting on Thursday with the ruling that women are un-Islamic and that their mere existence contradicted Sharia and the will of Allah.

Now, since Shariʻah constitutes a system of duties that are incumbent upon a Muslim by virtue of his or her religious belief, and Allah has not been terribly vocal about his will since eeny-meeny-miney-mo-ing the uterus to the woman, I'm finding it hard to attach a logic basis to that statement.

As the meeting concluded CII Chairman Maulana Muhammad Khan Shirani noted that women by existing defied the laws of nature, 

The picture that promptly insists on crowding everything else out of my brain is this one.

and to protect Islam and the Sharia women should be forced to stop existing as soon as possible. The announcement comes a couple of days after CII’s 191st meeting where they dubbed laws related to minimum marriage age to be un-Islamic.

I'm confused, now. If women obediently stop existing, isn't the world going to start running out of Muslims at some stage? And then won't a minimum marriage age be a moot point?

After declaring women to be un-Islamic, Shirani explained that there were actually two kinds of women – haraam ( Arabic term meaning sinful) and makrooh ( a disliked or offensive act (literally "detestable")). “We can divide all women in the world into two distinct categories: those who are haraam and those who are makrooh. Now the difference between haraam and makrooh is that the former is categorically forbidden while the latter is really really disliked,” Shirani said.

Team Haraam or Team Makrooh? What will the buffs look like? For reference : another thing that is makrooh is prawns.

He further went on to explain how the women around the world can ensure that they get promoted to being makrooh, from just being downright haraam. “Any woman that exercises her will is haraam, absolutely haraam, and is conspiring against Islam and the Ummah, whereas those women who are totally subservient can reach the status of being makrooh. Such is the generosity of our ideology and such is the endeavour of Muslim men like us who are the true torchbearers of gender equality,” the CII chairman added.

Continuing the food analogy : a thing that is haraam is pork. By being subservient, you can get promoted from pork to prawns. Somewhere, Darwin is spinning in his grave and a Chinese restaurant owner is furrowing his brow and staring at his menu.

Officials told Khabaristan Today that the council members deliberated over various historic references related to women and concluded that each woman is a source of fitna (an Arabic word with extensive connotations of trial, affliction, or distress) 

I won't necessarily argue this one on the grounds of logic.

and a perpetual enemy of Islam. They also decided that by restricting them to their subordinate, bordering on slave status, the momineen and the mujahideen can ensure that Islam continues to be the religion of peace, prosperity and gender equality.

I will never, ever get my head around a single sentence that merrily bundles slave status in with gender equality.

Responding to a question one of the officials said that international standards of gender equality should not be used if they contradict Islam or the constitution of Pakistan that had incorporated Islam and had given sovereignty to Allah. “We don’t believe in western ideals, and nothing that contradicts Islam should ever be paid heed. In any case by giving women the higher status of being makrooh, it’s us Muslims who have paved the way for true, Sharia compliant feminism,” the official said.

I thought you had to work at being makrooh. I envisioned this makrooh testing panel, where you could apply for evaluation after seven years of subservience training, and walk out with a prawn buff instead of your pork buff.

The CII meeting also advised the government that to protect Islam women’s right to breathe should also be taken away from them. “Whether a woman is allowed to breathe or not be left up to her husband or male guardian, and no woman under any circumstance whatsoever should be allowed to decide whether she can breathe or not,” Shirani said.

Now see, I really can't decide if the writer of the article just sat staring at his/her screen for five minutes, proofreading what he'd written so far, and then decided, fuck it. Nothing in my life makes any sense. Let's just stick in that paragraph and see if anyone actually notices. If nobody does, then next I'm writing about the decision of the Council to start vetting groups of 72 virgins to be sacrificed for the heroes of the coming jihad via a revolutionary new selection process called Islamabad's Got Talent - only the prawn flavoured ones need apply.

From now on, I'm bookmarking the decisions of the 192+ meeting of the CII, because I think we might be in for the unexpected treat of a public descent into insanity.

We Did Not Think This One Through

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/world/news/article.cfm?c_id=2&objectid=11240982

Note that the only disrespect intended in this article is to those who do not proofread their headlines for common sense rather than spelling.

"Roman Catholic devotees in northern Philippines nailed themselves to crosses today as hundreds gathered to watch the annual Good Friday crucifixion re-enactment."

This, I want to see. How does it work?

"Okay, pass the hammer. Damn, I have trouble keeping my feet on top of each other...wait, one good swing....there, we go, there we go. Ah, shit, I'm too far from the platform, wait, I'll just use the claw...yeah, there we go. Okay, let's position it a bit better...try again - ok, that's better. Hey, Fred!"

"What?"

"Make sure you position your feet on the platform before you nail them down."

"Ah, ok. Thanks."

"OK, all good. Now then, one good stretch...Good thing I do all those sit-ups. Hey Fred!"

"What?"

"What did we agree, palm or wrist?"

"Centre palm. But use that rope to tie your arms to the cross-bar."

"Oh, GOOD thinking! Thanks, Fred!"

"Sure. Oh, hey, start with a square knot."

"Gotcha. OK, let's position this sucker right in the middle. Couple good hard smacks should do it...there we go. All good. Where's the other rope - oh, I see it. I'll just....oh, wait..."

(Silence falls as Stupid and Fred contemplate the diminished list of appendages with which the remaining hand can be nailed and roped.)

Training Your Human

Exasperating Cat lives in hope that he can dig his way through a glass door.

Let me give some background.

We have a cat-flap, and a cat to go with it. We also have a rather engaging white-and-ginger Incursion Cat who is doing his doe-eyed best to get adopted. He's really cute and funny and if he actually got on with our cat - Alley, the Black Menace - I'd consider adopting him.

But they don't.

So we've taken to locking the cat-flap so entry is forbidden but exit is OK. This means that when Alley wants to come in, he travels round to the glass sliding-door in the lounge, stands on his back legs and starts digging at the door. This can be a bit unnerving when you're an insomniac as I am, and you're writing away quietly in the deep dark night; suddenly a pair of eyes like headlamps appear at the same time as nails shriek across the glass.

The thing is, Alley has taken to this game with gusto. He may not have opposable thumbs, but he's certainly mastered the art of making a human leap out of its chair and slide the door open for him; in my husband's case usually accompanied by "Oh, God, cat!" which may actually be the acknowledgement he's been waiting for.

His two most recent additions to the game involve - first - coyly hanging back before coming inside (which has caused said husband to commence his maths lessons - "Cat - I'm counting to three. One, two....bloody cat") and, more recently, the where-is-my-Honour-Guard manoeuvre. This involves standing at the recently-opened door and staring beguilingly up at the foolish human who opened it, requiring an escort to the location of his food.

Let me just point out here that the location of said food has not changed since we came to this house. It's in the scullery, just inside the door, on a pet mat, in a small white bowl. Right next to the water-dish.

But if you're in the middle of something else, like say trying to proof-read the material you've been writing through the deep, dark night, or wargaming (in the case of Honourable Son) or watching Rickie Fowlers' putt for eagle in the Masters (in the case of Beloved Daughter) or even ancient Egyptian worship ("Oh, God, cat!" in the case of Exasperated Husband) it's just easier and faster to get up and escort the little nuisance to his food bowl rather than watch his headlamps look at you accusingly while he purrs like a badly-tuned engine.

Hence the Honour Guard was born.

This was not enough fun.

We have a coffee-table in the middle of the lounge. Alley is not and has never been allowed on it. So his latest trick is to come hurtling back out of the scullery and land on it. Now, personally I'm inclined to cover the table with a nice smooth cotton mat (rather than its usual random scattering of books), because there is nothing funnier than watching a cat land gracefully on its bottom and then go skidding and shrieking off into space; but the rest of my family does not share my sadistic tendencies and also we probably don't want too many scratches on the table. Honourable Son glanced up the first time he did this, got up and pushed him off the table and went to open the glass door. I looked at him enquiringly and he said in a bored voice, "He just wants to go out again", and I realised those two had been doing a LOT of bonding in the deep dark wargaming nights.

Cat comes in, cat goes out. This was still not enough fun.

I've been waking at 4, and getting up to write rather than toss and turn. No sooner has the dim light in the lounge been switched on than the headlamps appear and nails shriek over the glass. I open the door, honour-guard God to the scullery, wait for him to finish eating, shove him off the table, and let him out again.

Twenty minutes later the performance gets repeated.

So far we are up to First Breakfast, Second Breakfast, Third Breakfast, and as we speak he is having Fourth Breakfast. Perhaps he is a hobbit. He does have hairy feet.

Unable to sleep, (possibly due to Rickie Fowlers' eagle putt), Beloved Daughter was up for Fourth Breakfast. As I wearily escorted God to his food dish she said, "Maybe we should move it around."

I looked at her enquiringly.

"Just to validate his belief that that's what happens when he isn't looking."

And that, folks, is how religions are born.

On opening Facebook today

I found this ad.

ARE YOU SERIOUS????


OK, I've previously started a blog post about how ridiculous some of these ads are, and not posted because I think I'm being picky.

But, seriously...SERIOUSLY?????!!!!!

How does this woman's expression say anything besides, "Please. Kill me now. Before the lips spread over my nose and asphyxiate me; and then nobody has to worry about the f'n wrinkles."?

Well, you know, besides the ME, staring in bewildermint at a huge pair of lips atop a human body where its head should be and whispering, "But isn't Mick Jagger still alive?"

My Hero, My Dalek

Another Armageddon passes; the first I've negotiated on my own, though I was thankful for that as the crowds were extremely cosy. I discovered that momentum was most easily maintained by finding the nearest clutch of determined teenage boys and tucking myself in till it was time to change streams, or until one of them noticed me. That sounds a lot worse than it was intended to.

There were some amazing costumes - some professional, some of home manufacture. I'll start at the bottom end of the home manufacture scale, which was the guy in the queue wearing a bin-liner and a cardboard box on his head. Possibly he wasn't actually in the queue and just got swept in by the forward momentum.

Then came Captain America and Batman, wearing stretchy material suits with fake abs. Guys - some things are better left in the bedroom, really. Especially when you're kinda dumpy and the fake abs rest on your belly, standing up. And worse, in Batman's case, the stitching has started to come loose and the fake abs are sliding down to coat the not-fake belly. A picture of Del Boy and Rodney Trotter came to mind, but luckily at that point an Assassin's Creed guy tripped over a Dalek so I had a reason to laugh insanely.

Onto the choir of Anime girls. I want to point out that most anime artists are male, which is why all the female characters have such dangerously low-cut costumes. Their real-life faithfulness in adhering to that detail had the crowds narrowly watching them walk SLOWLY AND CAREFULLY on their impossibly high heels, while spectators exuded a mix of hope and dread as far as escape went.

And then there was Daenerys Targaryen. Watchers of Game of Thrones will know that a large number of her costumes involve exceedingly tiny amounts of fabric. The most hazardous areas of the cosy crowds aforementioned were the intersections of aisles, where the sweeping-along involved a meeting of river streams and propelled people into each other. My teenage son found himself at one such intersection opposite a Daenerys who had clearly decided to skimp on the skimp. He knew he was doomed; so he lifted both arms over his head, pushed himself as far as he could to the right, closed his eyes and thanked his lucky stars when he tripped over the Dalek.

It was with a feeling of surrealism that I watched the guy in the Iron Man costume lift his helmet off to reveal dark good looks and a small goatee. Some people clearly take more trouble with their costumes than others.

Cosy crowds mean that certain things finally require to be carried overhead. Like 6 ft silver scimitars, and tiny tired girls. I wasn't close enough to intervene when someone called the name of Silver Scimitar and he turned in the exact arc to sweep Tiny Tired Girl off her Dad's shoulders - but luckily he tripped over the Dalek.

Turns out the Dalek was the hero of the day.

Eight of Cups

There are no eyes here 
In this valley of dying stars 
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms 
In this last of meeting places 
We grope together 
And avoid speech

 

This is the way the world ends 
Not with a bang but a whimper.

The New Face of Women's Golf

This is Carly Booth, 21, who is playing in the Ricoh Women’s British Open at St Andrews.

Not dressed like that, obviously, ‘cos there’s nowhere to keep her tees and pitch repairer.

She posed for ESPN Magazine’s “The Body Issue”.

Her ambition is to improve participation in ladies’ golf. How?

By making it more glamorous.

Leaving that swiftly aside, let us continue to the icky fact that this photo is how her father found out she had a tattoo. Yes, you read that right. Her father looked at this picture.

Leaving THAT even more swiftly aside, I imagine that GlenAlmond College in Perthshire is doubtless trying to deny she was educated there. No, not because of the nude picture.

 

Because of this.

The full quotation is :

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Now I appreciate that she adapted it, ‘cos the full quotation is actually extremely gloomy, but the missing ‘in’ makes that sentence a bit of a nonsense, ungrammatical and quite puzzling. Apparently it reflects her ‘drive for success’ (I see what she did thar!) but I don’t quite see how. If she means she can’t rely on luck to make her a great golfer, that’s common sense, not a drive for success.  And the ellipses at the end worry me. Are you supposed to turn her over and find the rest of the quote tattooed on her butt?

Here is the full story of her planned contribution to golf :

Miss Booth said she wanted to make golf more appealing for girls. ‘I paint my nails, I wear big earrings,’ she explained. ‘I wear a lot of colour, but I wear pink the most.

‘I think it’s only going to be a positive outcome if we all try to make ladies’ golf a bit more glamorous.

Male golf has been more dominant. We want young girls to see us and think, “Oh, I love her – I love what she’s wearing”. We want them to pick up the sport and we want to be good role models.’

Here are her stumbling blocks as I see it.

·         Girls who are into glamour usually aren’t watching golf.

·         Girls who are into golf aren’t watching it for fashion tips.

But I find myself totally charmed by the superb irony of a naked, tattoed girl announcing that she wants to be a good role model, while at the same time I am grateful that she did not do this some years ago when my daughter developed a taste for golf, because said daughter would have run a mile in the opposite direction and probably be playing netball today.

As to male golf being dominant – well, I’m going to leave the last word to 82-PGA-Tour-event winner and one of the top players in the world for most of four decades, Sam Snead.

“Nobody asked how you looked, just what you shot.”

 

 

The Hairdresser Grump

Every time I’ve wandered into a hairdresser on my day off, hoping to fit in a haircut, I’ve been asked if I’ve made an appointment, by one of the three stylists sitting around having a chat and a hot drink. Because if I haven’t, they can probably fit me in three weeks Thursday at 11h01.

At first subtly, then elaborately, I peer around the salon looking for the crowds of customers that require me to have made an appointment three weeks back, but I fail to detect them; in fact there’s an echo in here. Concluding that this salon doesn’t need the business, I gradually work my way through all the local hairdressers, then give up and buy a big scrunchy clip to hold the mess back.

Of course, this state of affairs can’t last forever, and so, finally driven mad by hours under the hairdryer each morning, only to be followed by having the stuff lashed against my face by the wind and plastered flat by the rain, I give in and make an appointment and move heaven and earth to be there on the dot of 11h01 Thursday. After a lonely wait of no more than ten minutes, I am required to make a choice of tea or coffee, which is gravely noted before finally a ridiculously young woman emerges, views my hair, adopts her serious expression and starts poking and pulling at wisps while emitting small hushed mews and widening her eyes to the point where I fear her heavily caked eyelashes will surely Velcro themselves to her fringe and cause her eyes to dehydrate.

“You’re so dry!” (why thank you, I pride myself on my sense of humour) “I don’t know how we’re going to do this. Marcia! MARCIA!”

An identical ridiculously young woman emerges from the mysterious rear of the salon, looking worried. Velcro beckons her over as if afraid of invoking a demon should she have the temerity to say its name, and together they examine my scalp minutely, making small moaning noises and occasionally whispering something incomprehensible. On the only occasion that I inadvertently exposed a hairdresser to a nit she executed a leap of such gymnastic excellence that my daughter was too fascinated to burst into tears when said hairdresser, sheltering behind the furthest possible chair, pointed a trembling, ghostly pale finger at her and whispered,

“Nits!”.

Since neither Velcro or Marcia is showing signs of flight, I assume there is no wildlife, although of course this could be because they are both terminally entangled in my hair.

Finally they straighten, draw back, and exchange grim looks. Velcro draws a deep breath and emits the sort of sigh the mechanic favours you with just before he tells you that the gidget under the dooberry has eroded and needs replacing, but they don’t make them like that any more and you’re going to need a dilithium crystal and godonlyknows where he’s going to find one this time of the day.

“I’m afraid, “ she finally murmers, “that we’re going to have to cut that.”

Reflecting that this is a particularly unfortunate phobia for a hairdresser, I almost miss Marcia’s lecture on the consequences of exposing one’s hair to the sun, the wind, the rain, chlorine….I wonder whether dirty looks and insults from other drivers count, but since Velcro and Marcia are both nodding emphatically at this point I take the opportunity to hastily point out that a haircut is indeed what I am here for, and….

“Not that you can’t get a good quality protective product to cover your hair before you go into the water, and cover it with your swimming cap. “ Marcia points out.

“Oh.” I murmur weakly, feeling rather better. Although I still find myself concerned about the need to do commando-style dashes from one patch of shade to another in order to get from the carpark to the office, not to mention the reaction of my manager when I explain that I can’t expose my hair to the danger of wind, and have to stay home today.

“Okay, “ says Velcro briskly, clearly relieved to have the bad news off her chest; “let’s get you to the basin.”

I am no sooner prone on the leather chair with my neck on the rim of the basin than the apprentice arrives with my coffee, which I balance precariously, blindly, and by feel on my lap while Velcro lists the products that the apprentice needs to slosh through my hair (why, when half of it will be off soon?). The apprentice turns on the water spray, which is so hard I can feel the splashes soaking my collar, asks me something incomprehensible, then goes ahead and rubs, combs, rinses and repeats several lotions and potions through my thoroughly soggy hair. By the time she hauls me upright and wraps a towel the size of a small country around my head the fumes have made me so dizzy I spill my coffee; but luckily it is ice-cold anyway.

My robe duly replaced, I make my careful way to the chair the helpful apprentice pulls back, balancing the fluffy white mountain on my head rather precariously. Annoyingly she takes it off almost immediately to comb my hair. Velcro appears from the back, this time armed with a determined grin. The apprentice pulls up a trolley piled with Instruments, Velcro positions herself on the stool behind me and I wait for the Catechism.

She doesn’t disappoint me.

“Have you had your holidays, then?”

I mutely shake my head and adopt the vacuous expression that will indicate I am ready for the Sermon – this consists of a monologue regarding her holidays, requiring only the occasional Yes, No or Cool from the captive audience. We have reached Corfu before she interrupts herself to tilt my head back, examine my hair critically and ask, “There, how’s that, then?”

How’s what, I wonder? I realise she is starting to stack Instruments back into the trolley, and stare hard at my reflection, trying to see something to hinge a compliment on. Getting rather panicky, I examine the floor, to find a number of tiny piles of hair arranged in a neat circle.

At this point, I rather feel the need to explain the CUT bit of HAIR CUT, and she stares at me in shock.

“You mean you want it….SHORTER!!!?”

I nod meekly, not meeting her eyes.

Her eyelashes venture dangerously close to her fringe again, and I panic. It is clearly time for the Blessing and the Departure. Pulling out an industrial-sized hairdryer with one hand while expertly piling more Product in my largely unchanged hair, she sets to work with gusto.

“You won’t recognise yourself,” she promises me, and I groan. Recognising myself is not the problem, seeing myself is. I get ready to leap out of the chair and shriek, “No hairspray, please!” but as always, I am too late.

Considerably lighter in pocket, I slink back to my car, hoping I don’t bump into anyone I know. Not that they’ll recognise me; and not that I’ll be able to see them; I’m just a bit worried about the permanent effect I might have on their health, given the way that small dogs are cowering away from the smell of my hair.

So, I went to the barber. She doesn’t Do Appointments, you just pitch and she deals with you when you reach the front of the queue.

She wraps a robe around me, sprays my hair and gets snipping, and when she’s finished, she brushes the hair briskly off the robe, takes a sensible sum of cash off me and gets the next punter onto the chair.

It’s that simple. No washes. No Product. No Blow-Wave, no Hairspray, no Holiday Chat. And it took less than fifteen minutes, notwithstanding no Appointments.

It occurs to me I must have spent about three weeks of my life at the mercy of hairdressers, having things that I do not either want or understand done to my hair. Maybe this is why men stare at women in bewilderment when they complain about not having enough hours in the day.

NB – there are not enough hours in the day.

And I conclude that I am a grumpy old woman. But I am a grumpy old woman with $70 more in my pocket than I would otherwise have had, and enough time for a walk on the beach AND the ability to see where I am going!

Ranting. This post is a rant!!!

So, this is going to be a rant.
My Saturday suddenly took shape on Thursday. Let me explain. Rosa, from the Writers' Club, had arranged a coffee afternoon starting at 3 on Saturday. I couldn't make it, Beloved Daughter had a golf lesson at North Shore @ 3 after playing 18 holes with good friend E at 9.30, at Gulf Harbour.
E has her birthday this QB weekend. She asked BD to go to movies and bowling with her; BD explained about the lesson and E explained the movie was only at 5, so it could be done if E's parents collected BD from North Shore, which is where they live anyway.
On Thursday, E's Dad, who is blessed with common sense, pronounced that there was no point everyone driving south at the same time, and it made sense for him to collect the girls after golf, drive them both south to North Shore where BD could have her lesson while E practised for an hour.
Again, let me explain. BD and E are cut from the same cloth. Ask them if they want a random hours' golf practice, they'll knock you over as they sprint for the driving range, yelling, "Okay, thanks!" over their shoulders. Get up, buy a bucket of balls and get used to it.
What all of this meant was not only were E's parents saving us driving time, I could make the coffee afternoon. All I had to do was drive up to Gulf Harbour at 2-ish, collect BD's trundler - to save E's parents lugging that all over the place as well as BD's clubs and clothes - and then go home and enjoy coffee afternoon.
BD normally texts me to say "Bottom of 18th" or "eating chips", by way of pick-me-up. When neither had arrived by 1:45 I decided to drive up anyway. I assumed my usual position at the end of the 18th. There were four men in black.
They cleared the green.

They were not these sorts of Men in Black

In the Twilight Series : New Moon, the heroine has a nervous breakdown after the hero leaves her. These are announced by three blank pages with the legends "October" "November" and "December" printed in the middle. I often wish the author of Fifty Shades had done us the same courtesy by printing several blank pages of "Mindblowing Sex At [insert time here]", rather than actually inflicting the cut-and-paste sex scenes on us but I digress. where I was going with this was that blank pages were turning in my mind and they had "Golf Players?" written on them.

It was 2; no parents, no golfers.

Something poked its head up over the top of the ridge on the 18th. I watched, bemused. It was a cart.
Two figures emerged, shuffled around, found stuff. Another two balls emerged; one of them into the rough on the far side of the cart track. Someone got behind the wheel of the cart and drove it down the track, stopped, and got out and started stamping rough. It took me a while to work out he was trying to find his ball.

I'm no rules official. But I'm pretty sure that 'forever' is an illegal amount of time to hunt for your ball while everyone else loses the will to live.

I watched, mesmerised, as they took five-six-seven-eight practise shots for each swing (BD is allowed 1).
It was 2.10. No parents, no texts.
The four elderly gentlemen finally exited the green. One, two and three little white balls dropped onto the fairway, two orange golf bags rose into sight (did i mention, both E and BD love orange?) and shortly after, BD, E AND H, the Lady Captain, who had booked in to play with them, made their way to the green, did due diligence and shook hands.
BD looked surprised to see me, and I waited till after cards had been signed to say, "You know it's 2.25, don't you?"

None of them did. No phones switched on unless you're tellimg your Mum to pick you up next hole.
No way was BD going to have chips and Coke with E and H. Her only chance of making it to her lesson was Me Here doing an Ayrton Senna down to the Shore. On Queens Birthday weekend. When no cop in New Zealand gets leave.

I gave her the binoculars, and relived my youth. Got her there just in time for her lesson. Missed coffee.
So, here's my rant.

I know - believe me , I know!!! that any 4-ball has rights over a 3-ball. But you 4 gentlemen - and I use the word reservedly - chose to watch two speedy teenage girls and their not-slow captain wait on you at EVERY hole, and would not let them play through. Why?

Results.

Me, speeding stupidly with my 15-yo glued to the binoculars to warn me if she saw a police car. A dubious lesson in morals.

My BD, stressed out beyond necessary, apologising for something that wasn't her fault.

E's parents, apologising for shit they couldn't control.

Missed coffee afternoon, with no way to phone and apologise.

Rant over.

Saving Amina

 

 



What that says is “My body belongs to me and is not the source of the honour of anyone”

What it means is a death sentence for the young woman pictured.

“The Wahabi Salafi preacher Almi Adel, head of the almost comically titled Commission for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice, warned Tunisian newspaper Kapitalis, "Her act could bring about an epidemic. It could be contagious and give ideas to other women. It is therefore necessary to isolate [the incident]. I wish her to be healed."

Healed? She’s not sick. Admittedly she’s been placed in a psychiatric hospital against her own will by her family.

And how does he plan to heal her?

"The young lady should be punished according to sharia, with 80 to 100 lashes, but [because of] the severity of the act she has committed, she deserves to be stoned to death."

Because that’ll fix any disease.

It’s not often I do this. I don’t know how much effect petitions have on hardcore organised religion. But here’s a link for signing a petition directed at Amnesty International in Tunisia :

http://www.change.org/petitions/petitioning-tunisian-government-amina-must-be-safe

Original article here :

http://www.stuff.co.nz/life-style/life/8473684/Is-this-photo-grounds-for-death

Maybe that's what killed off the dinosaurs..

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sciencetech/article-2298415/Flexible-stegosaurus-inventive-way-mate-avoid-partners-spiky-back.html

This made my morning.

I can't resist a headline that reads, "Spiky Stegosaurus mated in missionary position to avoid male being castrated'. And I thought black widow spiders and praying mantises were harsh. Apparently "some species adopted the position to avoid the potentially lethal spikes on the rears of the females."

Here's the best bit :
"Heinrich Mallison, a scientist at the Museum of Natural History in Berlin, tested out the theory by designing computer models of kentrosaurus, a cousin of stegosaurus"

And then he used the computer models to prove what the headline says. Dinosaur porn, y'all. And then there was an argument, because that's what scientists do. The other half argue that the male continued to mount the female but just grew very long organs. Like, six feet long.

And that's when I cracked up, because how many castrated dinosaurs did it take for evolution to step in and turn them into porn stars? Imagine the number of disconsolate dinsaurs wandering about staring mournfully at Dat Stiff, Spiky Ass, and not being able to do anything about it?

And the argument will continue, because fossils are all we've got left; and that bit of the dinosaur is soft tissue so it doesn't so much fossilise as decay.

The last word belongs to Brian Switek, a dinosaur expert, who says, "We have never found a fossilised phallus, but doing so would solve many mysteries.'

Let the Hunt for the Dinosaur Dong begin!

Who are you calling soft?!

 

 

Sweaters for Days: Why I'm pissed off about guns in my kids' school.

Sweaters for Days: Why I'm pissed off about guns in my kids' school.: This morning, I was having my coffee, doing my normal Facebook creeping when I found  a local news story about the school that my son and da...

Chapter 5, or The Bit Where We LEarn How to Jog Ana's Memory and Make Her Think Straight

““You’re worried,” he adds, his eyes filled with concern. Is there nothing I can
keep from this man?”

Okay. We’ve established that Charlie Tango got sabotaged. We’ve learned the office fire was arson. She keeps telling him how she can’t live without him. It sort of follows that he may not need to read Bellas’ mind a clairvoyant to work out that she’s worried. And she marvels at his astounding ability to work that out.

“He… swats my behind. I yelp, startled, and realize that today we’re going back to
Seattle and my melancholy blossoms.”

Because that’s how you jog Ana’s memory. You swat her behind. I think that says it all. Also, what do melancholy blossoms look like?

Christian straps the key to my wrist.
“You want me to drive?”
“Yes.” Christian grins. “That’s not too tight?”
“It’s fine. Is that why you’re wearing a life jacket?””

Wait, back up to the start of the chapter.

“He’s dressed in his cut-offs and a gray T-shirt.”

When did the lifejacket materialise on him? And how come, given she’s practically not allowed to take a shit without a bodyguard, he doesn’t put one on her? Are we supposed to believe he would pass up on the opportunity to truss her  into something and arch his brows and make clumsy double entendres about bondage?

““Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all
day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?”
“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and
clamber on”

I’m going to assume someone programmed a macro for E. L so she can just hit Cntrl+FairPointWellMade to generate dialogue.

Then AnaBella crashes the Jetski because she is just so clumsy, and…

“The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a
split second, courtesy of my life jacket.”

Oh look, another insta-lifejacket.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” I grin as we tread water”

Why are you treading water? You have magic insta-lifejackets!

And then this story arc ends having had no point whatsoever. They did not drown. They did not get chowed on by sharks. Nobody got injured and the only result of the whole fwitterous episode is they have to shower. Because they fell  into the sea. Because they wouldn’t have had to shower if they just had a long sweaty ride in their insta-lifejackets.

Ana contemplates her melancholy blossoms and Christian contemplates the fire in the office and somehow they are in the first-class lounge ready to fly home.

“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.”

I thought it was arson. Most people don’t let arson happen. Given that Welch is the poor bugger who had to comb through the email servers to delete the emails Christian kept telling Ana not to send (by email), Chedward had better be wary about threats to Welch’s privates.

“I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera
and snap another photograph.
“Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home,” Christian murmurs.”

She fell asleep in the middle of taking a photograph? No wonder you have to swat her butt to jog her memory.

“His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite
smile”

Wait. What? His eyes were burning. Now they’re melting. Edward, you need to rethink those contact lenses. And they melt the color of a storm cloud? Forgive me, I associate melting with hot stuff. Are they going to freeze the color of a volcano next time Ana annoys him?

“it’s hopeless. I’m wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind
racing.”

Why is her body clock on Greenwich mean time when they’ve just come back from holiday in a country which isn’t on Greenwich mean time? One Google click tells me that France runs on GMT+1. So her mind needs to stop racing and wait for her body to catch up.

“And now here I am, Mrs. Anastasia Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet”

Here’s the thing. When someone is described as  mogul there’s usually a bit more information attached. Say, a business mogul, or a software mogul. Without that bit of information, a mogul is, in fact, a bump in a ski slope. She is married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy bump in a ski slope a woman could meet.

“My shining white-and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him
open up more?”

A scalpel would work. Have you considered a scalpel?

And then they have sex so mindblowing that even E.L is lost for words. Maybe she could just have a blank page, entitled “Mindblowing Sex at 3:05”. Oh, wait…

And just like that, they’re home. Hi, Taylor. Blank page entitled “Mindblowing Sex at 10:30”.

Blah don’t want to go to work meeble can’t be separated from Christian, let’s go to lunch with the family.

“I run my fingers absentmindedly over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts”

What does this actually mean? Her thoughts are wandering; we know this because they are absent from her mind (geddit, absentmindedly?). Why do they need distracting as well?

“I smile at him, mostly for the benefit of his family, but my spirits take a nosedive again. Why does he make these decisions without telling me?”

Someone please point me at the last decision Christian allowed Ana to take or bothered to inform her about?

“Ana,” Kate exclaims, snapping me out of my reverie. “You still in the South
of France?”
“Yes,” I reply with a smile.”

No. No, she’s on GMT.

“Christian sits down at the shiny black upright piano,presses the quiet pedal, and starts to play a familiar tune that I can’t immediately place”

Pianos have a DAMPER pedal, a SOFT pedal and a MIDDLE pedal. There is no QUIET pedal. Again, one Google stab.

And then OMG Christian is going to let her drive home!

“My inner goddess whips on her leather driving gloves and flat shoes.”

That woman certainly has some props!

And then the Secret Service Sawyer and Taylor tell Chedward that they’re being…

“Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp
prickles and my throat constricts with panic”

Well, it’s a good job her heart made it into her mouth before her throat constricted.

“I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that’s threatening to swamp me”

How do you mentally slap yourself? Is she slapping her inner goddess? I personally hope she slaps her subconscious so hard those half-moon specs go flying.

““How do we know we’re being followed?” My voice is a breathy, squeaky,whisper.
“The Dodge behind us has false license plates.””

Um – wait. How does it follow from there that the Dodge is following you?

Ah, I get it! E.L is using a syllogism. Clever girl! It works like this :

Major premise : Ana and Christian are the most important people in the world. (she did not bother saying this because you should already know. For those just joining us, there’ll be a clue a bit further on.)

Minor premise : There is a car with false plates on the motorway

Conclusion : It must be following Ana and Christian.

“I drop a gear and floor it.”

If you dropped the gear, surely gravity will see to it that it gets to the floor?

“I weave between the two lines of traffic like a black counter in a game of
checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks”

Batmobile……located! Please, please let her make another reference to the Dark Knight before the end of the ride….Please!

“As I put my foot down, the glorious R8 zooms forward, and we tear down the left lane, lesser mortals pulling over to let us pass”

I hate this author so much. But there you have the missing bit of the syllogism.

“A truck lurches into the fast lane—Shit!—and I have to slam on the brakes.
“Fucking idiot!” Christian curses the driver as we lurch forward in our seats.”

“I slow, check my mirrors, signal, then move with surprising ease across four
lanes of the highway and down the off-ramp”

You move with surprising ease because the lesser mortals have all pulled over, Ana. You told us this.

“The street is quiet, with few vehicles. Where is everyone?”

Chedward, slap her butt. Jog her memory.

And then she finds out that Sawyer has a first name.

““Ah.” How did I not know this? The man has been following me to work for the last six weeks, and I didn’t even know his first name.”

You don’t know this because you’ve been too busy having an orgasm every time Chedward Grullen looks at you, Ana. Also he hasn’t been following you to work for the last three weeks because you’ve been on honeymoon. Slap her butt.

“You did amazingly well, as usual. You blow me away, Ana. You never let me down.”

I wish she would blow him away.

“Adrenaline turns to lust streaking through my body. I clasp his face, running my fingers over his sideburns”

And a few paragraphs later…

“My fingers curl into his overlong hair”

And then they have the sex in the car and it is mindblowing but unfortunately not a blank page entitled “Mindblowing Sex in the Carpark.”

“Where’s the, er . . . unsub? What does that mean by the way? Sounds very
BDSM.”

Honey, by the time an unsub gets involved it’s not BDSM any more, it’s murder.

So, Christian drives them home and then they decide to have more of the sex, this time on the car but they’re rudely interrupted by some inconsiderate bastard  who wants to park his car and get home. They meet the inconsiderate bastard at the lift, he smiles at Ana and Chedward pees on her.

“ He pushes the call button and as we wait, the driver of the BMW joins us. He’s young, casually dressed, with long, layered, dark hair. He looks like he works in the media.
“Hi,” he says, smiling warmly at us.
Christian puts his arm around me and nods politely.”

And then she rolls her eyes at him and they decide it’s time for om nom rough sex nom.

“When we burst through the double doors, Sawyer is standing in the hallway, looking expectantly at the two of us.
“Sawyer, I’d like to be debriefed in an hour,” Christian says.”

Now, see, you debrief someone who has been on a mission. They tell you what they’ve seen and done. I don’t think Sawyer really wants to know about Ana’s awesome driving skills, because he saw most of that, and as for sex in the car, if Chedward told him he’d have to kill him.

And so endeth Chapter 5.