Redsaid

Our fathers who art on Earth

Varied be thy names: Pa, Paw, Papa, Pops,

Da, Dad, Daddy, Daddy-o, Old Man, Sir

Thy day has come

Therefore thy will shall be done at home as at thine office

We’ll cook thee today thine daily burnt toast

And give thee cheap socks and ties

As we give thee each and every Christmas

And thy will kiss us

And lead us to believe that thy love it

But deliver it to the back of thine sock drawers and closets

For, whether deadbeat, hands on, pushover, strict, wealthy, pauper,

CEO or stay-at-home

Thy art our kings

With the power

To change light-bulbs

Making thee forever more than mere men

All across the United States yesterday (and in one known case, Australia), deafening popping noises could be heard as people's eardrums raptured and began bleeding profusely.

Even animals were affected. Dogs as far as central Mongolia were spotted as they crouched down, howling and whimpering, and buried their heads between their front paws in a futile attempt to protect their sensitive, furry ears.

This painful outbreak was caused by a sound... nay, a NOISE... so awfully horrible and horribly awful, it has left sound analysts baffled as to its origins.

"It's definitely not a human voice. It can't possibly BE a human voice..." concluded Dr. Deci Bel after bravely exposing herself to the noise for an eardrum-splitting second.

Well, the good doctor was right, for the source of that painful sound? Was me... And I didn't even sing!

Yes, alas. I TOLD them. But no. My several thousands of warnings to them went blatantly unheeded.

My assurances that, despite having a face fit only for a career in radio, my voice (if that is what this screeching, high-pitched sound emitted by me on a daily basis can be called) certainly is NOT fit to be heard. At all.

Why else did they think I've been condemned to a fate of written communication? NOT because I have talent for it, but because it is the only career in which I never have to be heard!

And trust me, my despicable voice never being heard? That's a Very Good thing...

Perhaps they would've taken my warnings seriously had I told them about the time when my best friend was a DJ at a community radio station in Pretoria. One night, during one of her shows, one of her guests canceled at the last minute and I stood in... virtually shutting down the entire station with my awful voice!

Yet, I did not tell them that little anecdote. So in the wee hours of yesterday morning, these cowboys forever marred their website (and many unsuspecting ears) by interviewing me (ME!) for a podcast.

Now, I shall grudgingly admit: despite my hatred of the phone (which I have told you about recently), and despite the podcast being conducted via the phone, it was actually fun being interviewed. It made me feel Very Important. (Yeah, I know, it doesn't take much!)

Almost makes up for the fact that I've been stood up by Ted Kelly from UPop. (Although, people who have heard this unfortunate Wetwired podcast? Will realise that Ted Kelly had wisely dodged a bullet the day he 'forgot' to call me to chat to me on air.) 

Pylorns and Finley were extremely gracious hosts. They didn't even hang up on me or edit me out of the podcast, despite the fact that I:

1) Kept on accidentally interrupting them. 'Accidentally' because there was a bit of a time delay during the call (what with them being at the other end of the world in Austin, Texas and Baton Rouge, Louisiana respectively). So they would be having a perfectly intelligent and civilised conversation, when suddenly, this awful, high-pitched voice would interject and say random things or comment on a part of the conversation that had long since been forgotten. Or unladylike laughter (sounding more like a cross between a witch's cackle and a hyena) would suddenly boom down the line at totally inappropriate times, long after a punchline had been delivered. And honestly, I know I'm slow on the uptake, but not even I am THAT slow!

2) The phrase Ménage à Trois (oooh, this is going to misdirect a lot of Internet traffic to this here blog - I apologise in advance for the disappointment) actually left my mouth. I meant to say Three Peas in a Podcast, but thought, since Fin was in Cajun country and all, that I would be polite and give the native language a whirl...

3) And speaking of reverting to native language: I actually rolled my 'ahs' (rrrrr's, to the Yankees) a few times!! I swear I never spoke English with an American accent, not even while I was living in the States. I mean, come on, having an accent was the only thing about me that the Americans found even remotely interesting!  And despite managing almost a decade over there without ONCE saying 'tomayto'; these Yankees get me on the phone and I get so sentimental, I 'todally draaawled'.

4) I sounded like a dork. Oh, wait... I AM a dork!

5) I laughed and talked at the same time. Often. (Yes, I am THAT sad. I laugh at my own unfunny jokes.) Which means that the already little sense I made to begin with? Abruptly disappeared.

6) I also sounded like Frankenstina... the long lost sister of Frankenstein.

If only voices could be Photoshopped!!! (And yeah, I know audio can be tweaked as well, but trust me. My Smurf-sound? Is completely beyond repair...)

Hi everybody.

I'm writing here today to tell you that I'm four today and my momma ith too thad and buthy to write here, tho here I am.

She doethn't know that I know she ith thad, but I know. Even if you are only four - ethpecially if you are only four - you can tell. She trieth to hide it from me. She thinkth I can't hear her crying thometimeth, late at night, but I can.

I might only be a four-year old blog, but I'm not thtupid. (Even if my lithping might make me thound that way. I know it ith annoying, but hey, I can't help it, okay? I'm only four! Oh, and by the way, ithn't it jutht downright cruel that the word lithp containth an eth?)

I thometimeth wish that she would trutht me and write it all out on here. But I don't think she hath the thtrength.

And we all know that she ith lazy and tho, jutht like the cobblerth kidth are never shod, the writer'th blog-baby will never be written on!

But don't worry. Dethpite her occasional dark and thad moodth, we're not doing too badly, her and I. Yeth, she ith thtill a neglectful blog momma - I'm not about to nominate her for Mother of the Year or anything - but at leatht we are okay.

We are thtill living in our little room. But at leatht it ith ourth, you know? And didn't that other writer woman, Virginia Jackal I think her name wath, thaid that every woman needth a room of her own?

Tho yeth. The plathe ith hardly a cathtle, but we aren't exactly living in complete thqualour either. 

Momma ith altho thtill, miraculouthly, paying our rent with money that she earnth from writing.

We've had a hard year, but thingth have been looking up and I have faith that it will continue to go even better.

Oh, who am I kidding? You all know that my mom didn't even GET a glath, let alone a half-full or half-empty one! And the apple, unfortunately, didn't fall all that far from the tree. To thay that Momma and I are a tad pethimithtic would be underthtating it. Not even our blood typeth are pothitive!

But I watch Oprah and I've theen thothe showth about The Thecret, tho I am going to try it.

Who knowth? Maybe I can Thecret my momma into becoming a good writer? Maybe I would even be able to Thecret another boy into her life? (She claimth she doethn't want 'a rat bathtard man' - yeah, that ith exactly how she thayth it (only without my lithp, of courthe) - in her life 'ever EVER again', but I'm sure she'll change her mind if a nithe one cometh along.) 

She needth a bit of exthitment in her life. Maybe THEN she'll have thomething to blog about! Thomething more riveting than my rethent abduction (well, thort of), or about how she hath almotht broken me a few timeth. (Thank you, Aunty Dee, for thaving me time and time again! May I pleathe come and live with you and the cat in Authtralia? No? Aunty Em, can I pleathe come back to the country of my birth and live with you in Houthton then? I promithe I won't mutter: "Houthton, we have a problem!" over and over. Well, maybe jutht for the firtht week, but then the novelty will wear off and I'll find other annoying mantrath.)

And maybe, JUTHT maybe, I will then have a fighting chanthe of thurviving for at leatht four more yearth!

Well, wonders never cease.

With just days to go before this blog's fourth birthday, I have learned that it has actually fallen prey to a blog thief!

I know. I still can't quite believe it either.

At first I was rather amused that someone would voluntarily pretend to be me. I mean, REALLY. Out of all the millions of far superiour, less obscure, better written blogs out there; blogs that actually have more than three readers and more than three annual updates... why on earth would someone pick the likes of ME?

But I suppose there are just no accounting for taste nowadays. I DO wish my thief was a bit more discerning though. Perhaps I might even have felt a little flattered!

Then again, if my thief had taste, he/she/it (I'll explain later) never would have pilfered MY blog to pass off as his/her/its own to begin with!

Call me naive, but quite frankly, I never knew that blogs could be stolen. I mean, it's not as if someone has walked off with all of it (or even bits of it), because here it still is, very much still in tact.

Now that I know how it was done, it is actually so easy it is - forgive me - CRIMINAL! Really, the sheer audacity of it...

To add even more insult to injury, my particular blog burglar wasn't even very clever.

Allow me to present proof of my blog thief's clear lack of intelligence:

Exhibit A: It bears repeating... out of ALL THE AMAZING BLOGS ON THE ENTIRE WORLDWIDE WEB, THIS ONE - a blog SO obscure, it isn't even part of the worldwide web, but of the worldwide cobweb (the murky, damp, dark depths where forgotten/ignored websites go to wither away and die) - was selected for the taking.

Now look, I agree. Stealing my blog COULD have been a genius move. I mean, if you want to be clandestine and not get caught, steal something no one would miss, right?

But here's where I, with a smug flourish, present to you Exhibit B: The thief might very well have gotten away with it, had he/she/it not decided to DRAW ATTENTION to him-/her-/itself by LEAVING ME A COMMENT!

Actually, this is going to show you exactly just how daft I am as well, because despite the general incoherence of said comment, upon retrospection and just a bit of deciphering, it becomes rather evident that the person/spambot (because it hasn't yet been established whether our criminal is indeed female as she claims, or male, or not quite human... which, if the latter, would actually explain everything then, wouldn't it?)  was pretending to be me right there in that comment!

But of course, I was so happy that I had another sucker... I mean... reader, I probably promptly went into denial and chose to turn a blind eye. After all, readers are precious commodities. And readers who actually comment? Why, for an obscure blogger like me, they are about as scarce as democracy in Zimbabwe! So once you manage to bag one or two of those, you immediately knock them down, cuff them, lock them up and never EVER set them free again!

Since my Sherlock skills were clearly so dormant that I didn't even notice the thievery going on right in front of me, how did I find out about it then?

Well, one of these cowboys came to my rescue yet again. (Between Pylorns and Miss Dee, I'm wracking up an infinite amount of debt!) He grasped the meaning of the close-to-incoherent message, and actually followed the homepage link that was left by the commenter, leading him straight to the incriminating, visually assaulting MySpace page where my blog was cited (MORE THAN ONCE) as the site to get more information on the criminal owner's autobiographical details.

That to me is even more proof that the thief didn't even deign to actually read the stolen site, because if - and from here on out, I'll just refer to the thief as it - it had, it would've known that I don't even HAVE a life. And really, selecting someone with a life (doesn't even have to be an exciting one, although that would certainly help) would've been far more effective for a stolen autobiography.

So what happens now?

I'm not quite sure, since this has never happened to me before. I followed Pylorns' advice and reported the blogger to MySpace for passing my blog off as its own.

I've yet to hear back from MySpace. So either they have taken one glance beyond my blog's gorgeous design (which I had nothing to do with, of course) and actually paused to read the unfortunate words (which I had everything to do with, of course) and immediately decided that the likes of me isn't worth the effort; OR I will only hear from them on Tuesday, since it is the Memorial Day long weekend in the States.

In the meantime, I'm recognising that being stolen is a huge milestone for this here blog. Now, admittedly, it's not quite as good as that time when I was Googlewhacked! by an American dude named Josh, but hey, I'll take whatever comes my way.

Now, if only someone would be kind enough to send me some much coveted hate mail, my blogging life would REALLY be utterly complete...

Those who have had the great misfortune of knowing me in ‘real’ life (I wanted to write “in person”, but the jury is still out on that one…) subsequently also know about my many strange hang-ups some of the very few quirks I possess.

 

I am, for example, rather notorious for not answering my telephone. At first, new acquaintances find this odd; even funny or charming. Then - as their futile calls to me remain unanswered and unreturned -  their sentiments quickly change from being amused to mildly irritated to all-out infuriated. (This poor guy, for one, can attest to that!)

 

Yes, alas… now you know that I never write, or call...

 

What can I say? No offense, Mr. Alexander G. Bell, but I for one really could have lived without your invention. (Well, yours or Philipp Reis’s. The jury is apparently still out on that one as well.)

 

It’s not that I despise the device per se. Besides, these days, phones are so sophisticated, some of the high-end, pricier ones, I’ve heard, can even make, pour and bring you coffee!

 

So why do I almost go out of my way to avoid its intended use of spoken communication then?

 

There really is no simple answer to this, except… well… let’s put it this way: if you think my WRITING is bad? I am utterly HOPELESS when it comes to the spoken side of things. My speech is filled with fumbling mumbling and ums and downright huhs?  (All of which, I suppose, are basically the verbal equivalents of parentheses.)

 

Throw into the equation that I am a little hard of hearing (remember, it’s unheard of to refer to people as ‘deaf’ nowadays), and then you might have a somewhat better understanding of why I am hung up about speaking on the phone.

 

Turns out the phone has picked up on my feelings towards it. And apparently it doesn’t like me much either.

 

The first time I ever owned a cell phone was at the youthful age of 31. (And no, cheeky bastards, that wasn’t 700 years ago.) It was in 2006 and I had just returned to South Africa after spending (or wasting… the jury is pathetically indecisive) almost a decade in the United States.

 

Yes, I never had a cell phone while I resided in the wired/wireless/gadget-filled first world. The US, you see, isn’t just the home of the brave, it’s also the land of the free local calls from landlines.

 

Not that I made much use of that perk. The boy was assigned phone duty and picked up a lot of Afrikaans swear words from our home answering machine courtesy of all the furious fellow South African expats who called, and called, and called me to no avail.

Upon my return to South Africa, I became the very reluctant recipient of a mobile. I really didn’t want one, but everyone assured me that I had little choice in the matter.

 

That phone and I despised each other from the get-go. It used to belong to my mom and to call it a vintage would be way too kind. It was an ancient, brick of a thing. According to my mom, it worked brilliantly, so no one was more puzzled than her when the battery promptly died on me and half the buttons simply refused to work!

 

This led my sister to bestow unto me a VERY nice phone. A phone the price of a small second hand car. So fancy, it didn’t even HAVE buttons. Oh, no, daahlings. So stylish was that phone, it had a STYLUS.

 

Of course, for the longest time, I couldn’t quite figure out where exactly said stylus was located!

 

I had my mother use her phone to call my sister. "Where is the stylist?"

"..!?"

“The phone's little stick?”

 

After a moment she finally realised what I was on about: “Oh, ha ha! The STYLUS!"

"Right, that's what I said."

She sighed. "It’s there, in the phone.”

 

“No, it isn’t.”

 

“Maybe it fell out. Check the box.”

 

“I have. Nothing.”

 

“No, it’s there. Really.”

 

I finally had to go to a cellular shop in the mall. I’m very relieved to say that none of the employees in the first two stores knew how to locate the mysterious stylus. I’d like to believe that it was a sign that I’m not quite as dumb as I look, but it’s more likely that those employees and I enjoy the same superior level of idiocy.

 

Finally, a woman at the third store made the stylus appear as if by magic. In fact, I could have sworn that she even waved it around smugly, like a wand, for a split second!

 

I’m sure she was highly annoyed at the injustice that such a luxurious device could be wasted on the likes of me! I could almost TELL that she thought I was way too inferior to have such a sophisticated, sleek phone in my possession.

 

That initial seek-the-stylus frustration should have served as an omen for the humiliating things that were to come. Because right off the bat, that phone also went all erratic and stubborn on me - after having performed flawlessly for my sister, of course! To this day, I’m still convinced that the woman in the shop had placed a curse on me when she waved the stylus around like that!

 

After a short-lived but intensely frustrating relationship, that phone also came to a mysterious demise. I swear it had nothing to do with the fact that it had accidentally slipped from my clumsy hands so many times… Surely it couldn’t have been that? It had seemed so sturdy!

 

Besides, I’m convinced it was suicide. I think it poked itself to death with its own stylus!

 

When it died, I didn’t shed a tear, but I have to confess that I really do miss that phone’s ability to take pictures of dogs. (And here I would have linked to my facebook page, but I couldn’t do that to you. Also? I really shouldn’t insult canines like that.)

 

After all, isn’t that what phones are for? To take pictures?

 

But despite all those cell phones shriveling up and spontaneously dying in my presence, I have sadly NOT been banned from owning one.

 

In fact, my landlady was even brave enough to loan me hers. And that’s the one I still have. A vintage old Nokia. No bells and whistles. (Although it does make a whistling sound when I sometimes try to hear the countless exasperated voice mails my friends have left me, pleading with me to PLEASE, since I’m NEVER going to call them, at least have the decency to answer my own phone then!

 

I swear though, sometimes, after I had spent hours staring at that very silent phone, I get a beep informing me that I have just missed a call! And no, of course no one believes me... (Oh, and one of my friends is unable to send me text messages, because I never receive them. Only from that particular friend. And no, of course she doesn't believe me. And yes, she has the correct number!)

 

Recently though, it actually RANG! And I must’ve gotten such a fright from the unusual noise of it RINGING IN MY PRESENCE, that I actually ANSWERED it!

 

My salutation must’ve conveyed my surprise, because a very apprehensive voice said: “Miss Redsaid?”

 

My heart sank. And then began beating furiously. I sensed that this person's tone was way too formal for this to be a social call.

 

“This is Mr. K calling from ***** Bank.”

 

Oh, no! The bank calling. That could NOT be good. I was suddenly very sure that he was calling to inform me that it was a criminal, account-closing offense to be as perpetually broke as I am.

 

So when he said: “I’m calling to ask if you would be interested to purchase our exclusive, one-time only, funeral policy”, I was SO relieved, I immediately burst out laughing.

 

Mr. K’s startled silence was almost audible.

 

“Um…” he said.

 

“Sorry,” I managed through the laughter. “I’m sure this isn’t the reaction you are normally met with.”

 

“No, indeed.” Mr. K, the bank’s funeral policy man, replied in a suitably solemn tone.

 

“Mr. K, it’s very kind of you to think of me for this exclusive, one-time-only offer, but you don’t understand. Right now? I need every single penny I have TO ACTUALLY STAY ALIVE.”

 

“But Ms. Red, we actually have various plans. And the most inexpensive one we have is so cheap, it works out to only xx cents per MONTH!”

 

He was working this sales call, so Mr. K was!

 

“Mr. K, I ASSURE you. That minuscule amount? I often don’t even have that much left at the end of the month.”

 

“NO!” He said.

 

“YES!” Said I.

 

“But, Ms. RED! What, if I may ask, is it that you DO for a living then?”

 

“Oh, I’m just a working stiff.” (Sadly, my little pun seemed to be utterly lost on Mr. K.)  “I put the ‘free’ in freelance.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“I write.”

 

“Wow. Really? Have you written anything I may have read?”

 

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve read, so I wouldn’t know...”

 

“Right, ha ha!”

 

“Actually, Mr. K. The fact that I’m as broke as I am should tell you exactly what a terrible and very obscure writer I am.”

 

“But Ms. Red, if you purchase this funeral coverage that amounts to the minuscule amount of xx cents per month, your family won’t have any worries about your funeral when you die. And Ms. Red? You DO realise that you ARE going to die, don’t you?” He added rather ominously.

 

“NO! I refuse!” I cried… Okay, I didn’t really. “Do you know something I don’t, Mr. K?” No, okay, I didn’t ask that either. But I did tell him that luckily, after I’m dead, I’m pretty sure that I won’t worry much about my own funeral either. Whether I have purchased the policy-for-mere-pennies or not!

 

“Ms. Red! Listen, I feel so awful for you, I almost want to buy you this coverage for you!”

 

“I bet that’s what you say to all the girls.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“That’s all right, Mr. K. Really. Very generous of you, but I assure you it’s fine.”

 

“You know, Ms. Red, it doesn’t even matter HOW you die. There will be no medical check-up before or after the fact.”

 

“Wow, that’s reassuring. So you mean to tell me that I'd be able to get this insurance even with a knife stuck in my heart, its blade piercing the last bit of life out of me?”

 

“Correct!”

 

 “So you’ll pay out even for writers who have offed themselves by gnawing off their own wrists?”

 

“Indeed, we will.”

 

“Even for poverty-stricken writers who starve to death?” (Had it been video-calling, he would’ve seen how tragically unlikely it is that THAT would ever happen!)

 

“Hahahahahaha. Ms. Red, you are very funny.” And suddenly, in a pleading, panicky voice, he said: “Please let me purchase this on your behalf?”

 

“Mr. K, now you are making me feel so bad about not buying this coverage from you, I could just about die from the guilt!”

 

“NO, Ms. Red! Please don’t!”

 

“Why should it make any difference to you whether I live or die, Mr. K? You don’t even know me?”

 

“Because you don’t own our one-time only, exclusive funeral coverage plan!” 

 

Indeed…

 

And that’s also why I hate the phone. Because when I DO answer it, it reminds me of all the qualities that I lack/don’t possess. Like a pleasant speaking voice*. And yes, let’s not forget:

(All together now!)

 

That one-time only, exclusive, funeral coverage plan!

 

*As much as I would have liked for this rather lengthy discussion with Mr. K to have been my very last call ever? I’m afraid it might not be. You see, despite having been subjected to my hideous voice several times before, one of THESE cowboys still want to do a Podcast with the likes of me!!! To actually put on their site!

 

And no, of COURSE I will never link to it if it does end up happening!

 

Yes, indeed... your eyes are not deceiving you. The title of this blog post really DOES read "Pope Envy".

No, I'm not Catholic. Although in a previous life I might as well have been, because I am just always consumed with guilt, whether I have done something wrong or not!

Anyway, please forgive me, Catholics, for I am jealous of your earthly leader. (And yes, I realise the irony: the pontiff inspiring me to commit one of the seven deadly sins.)

Now, it's not what you think. I mean no disrespect, so please don't be incensed! (And please note that no one was more hopeful than me back when he was elected.)

My envy of Pope Benedict XVI extends far beyond the fact that he gets to live rent free in that amazing apartment at The Vatican with that splendid balcony overlooking the square. Or that he has access to a full wardrobe. Not, mind you, that I particularly want the mitres (those tall hats - even though the height will go a long way in helping to elongate a round face like mine) or the vintage vestments. Now understand, it's not that I have anything against Vatican couture. I just don't think the heavily embroidered smocks (or chasubles) will do a lot for my already odd body.

No, I am really, REALLY jealous of His Holiness because of where he is right now. In my beloved United States (O, say can you Holy See...). More specifically, because he happens to be in my siren city, the stately yet vibrant place that still makes my heart contract with longing on a daily basis: Washington, D.C.

After years of living there, I instinctively know that the cherry blossoms could possibly already be in full bloom around the Tidal Basin right now. I also know that in April, winter sometimes still stubbornly tries to claw its icy way back into the fold, causing the optimistically spring-like warm temperatures to plunge and to, on occasion, even make way for a last, spiteful snowfall!

I remember what it is like to be there during historic events: Presidential inaugurations (Clinton's second and Bush's unfortunate and undeserved first and second), an impeachment, presidential funerals (Reagan's), royal visits... Even if one isn't a direct part of the action - or even if one is almost indifferent to whomever the visiting VIP de jour is - one can't help but be swept up in the energy of it all. The air almost literally crackles with an electric anticipation.

Yes, celebrity is everywhere. Events of global importance happen daily in other cities around the world, but it somehow just feels different there...

Yes, alas, dearest D.C., I still have a total crush on you.

And actually, I totally covet the pope-mobile. (But before you think I've finally relaxed about driving? No, I have not. I want the pope's car as much for the chauffeur as for the car itself!)

If you've made the mistake of visiting this here website between some time on Monday and now (not to imply that visiting it at any other time is any LESS of a mistake, but I am not here to judge you, honestly), you would have had the unfortunate experience of witnessing, firsthand, my first (and last, I swear) attempt at coding...

Sadly, I can assure you that it was even less successful than my attempts at writing.

Here's what happened (and anyone with half a brain and even the barest minimal knowledge of HTML should avert their eyes right now, because they will find this excruciatingly painful):

Some time on Monday afternoon, I was overcome with a desire to spring clean. Now, there are several reasons why that urge of mine was cause for extreme alarm:
- It was a Monday. AND WHO WANTS TO DO ANYTHING REMOTELY PRODUCTIVE ON A MONDAY?
- It was DAY. I don't DO sunlight. That's when I rest, like the weary old bat that I am.
- It isn't spring in South Africa. It is autumn.

Blame it on the fact that the nectar of the gods (AKA Starbucks) has not crossed my lips in almost two and a half years - I am certainly blaming it on that very valid reason - but I suddenly realised that the SA Blog Awards Vote for me widget was still on here, mocking my spectacular yet expected clean sweep of losses with its very colourful presence.

Yes, alas... I didn't win. No, let's rephrase that. Me and win shouldn't even feature in the same sentence. I lost. But as I've said, no surprise there. I mean, I might not be able to wrap my simple brain around basic HTML - despite the fact that HTML for Dummies is in my collection of How-To books - but even I know that in order to win something as important as a Blog Award, one needs to have real readers, as opposed to the scores of imaginary ones that I have. But I adore and value you so much, that I count every last three of you! Oh, and having any real talent would help even more than having any real readers. Bit of a pesky Catch-22, really, because one can't seem to have one without the other...

But no, before you think I am bitter about the losses, I really am not. Yes, of COURSE winning would have been unbelievably awesome (unbelievable being the operative word here), but luckily I lost properly. I think it would have been far worse to take second place, because that's close enough to almost taste it - definitely to smell it - and trust me, if you have ever been on a diet? You would KNOW how much it sucks to be so close to something you crave but know you can't have.

Also? Just the fact that I was NOMINATED - even if I am still convinced that it was a gross oversight/technical error/typo on someone's part - is already reward enough for the likes of me. Those surprise nominations couldn't have come at a better time, because at one point this year, I had seriously, SERIOUSLY considered simply giving up on writing once and for all. So being nominated gave me a little more encouragement to maybe not give up just yet for a little while longer. Also, all the winners MORE than deserved it. (For a full list, go here... It is underneath the video of the event. Perhaps you can even take the time to scroll down in the appropriate categories to see exactly how far I had lost.)

My inexplicable urge to get rid of the widget, then? Well, the awards have been over for so long, it is almost time for next year's. (Okay, so it's only been, what, two weeks? Still... we all know that in terms of technology, two weeks could easily equal about 14 human years.) So I was beginning to feel like the freak in the neighbourhood whose Christmas decorations are still up in June, because she is too lazy to take it down.

Which is why I, on Monday, marched down these back corridors of redsaid armed with fierce determination and... my finger poised above the delete button.

In hindsight, I really should have left well enough alone. I actually can't believe the audacity I had! Normally, when faced with anything requiring even remote brain power, I turn into a trembling, cowering mass. But even more unbelievable is the fact that I even managed to find the correct page in the first place!

To cut a long story short?  Without copying and pasting the code that was there and sensibly saving it in Word or somewhere where it could be salvaged again later, I simply found the widget's code and deleted it...

Imagine the unpleasant surprise I received when I looked at the blog... Oh, make no mistake, I had deleted the widget, alright, but I also happened to delete crucial code that had, until that moment, served to neatly keep my sidebar to the side. So suddenly, after my little deleting jobby, the sidebar found itself NOT to the side but smack dab in the middle of the blog's body. The end result was not pretty...

Australia was notified. But due to the time difference, Australia was blissfully asleep. So hey ho SilverSabre was recruited. He took one look and - after he had laughed for a good ten minutes (hey, according to the end results of the 2008 SA Blog Awards, I AM the fifth funniest blogger in SA, remember) - he went: Oh, Red... WHAT have you done?!? And then, on behalf of IT people everywhere, he wept for this blog...

He told me that I had probably only deleted a comma. Unfortunately he couldn't quite figure out WHICH comma, but bless him for even trying to figure it out.

Luckily for all of us (but especially for me), the sun had to come up in Australia eventually, so Miss Dee awoke, and as per usual, swooped in on her angel wings to come in and save the day. Thank you, Dee, for once again saving redsaid from Red. My staggering pile of IOU's has now officially surpassed the Taipei 101 in height and my debt to you has become infinite...

Oh, and it turns out that Silver was right. Who knew that these few letters (and I'm taking the liberty - yes, again! but this time it's precautionary, honest - to remove the little brackets and some of the other squiggly bits, because goodness knows what will happen to the blog if I leave it in) div id=beta div id=beta-inner could be so crucial in keeping a sidebar in its place?

Now if only someone could come up with code that would keep ME in my place...

P.S. Okay... I did not forget that the Win-A-Date-With-Roommate-Kate contest still needs a winner. To tell you the truth, since most of the votes I received (and was made aware of) happened before I had even resorted to the contest, and since no voters after the contest adhered to the rules (I'm sooo glad that I inspire such obedience),  it's starting to look like a Ménage... I mean, a three-way tie between Miss Dee herself, Pylorns and TimT. Since coffee will be a bit difficult, what with two of you being in different locations in Australia and one being in Texas, I'm thinking that maybe you could at least become Roommate Kate's friends on facebook? (Of course, I need to run this by her first.) Congratulations and thank you all for voting AND for going to such great lengths to recruit even more votes for me!

Redsaid's resident web goddess Dee is experiencing some major heartbreak and loss today.

Her fabulous feline companion of the past 14 months died this morning when he was struck by a car in the street outside her apartment.

Now, it's no secret that I am far more partial to dogs than to cats, but I have to tell you, through Dee's hilarious descriptions, photographs and even a video of Chino, even I fell for him. He was one of the few cats who managed to utterly charm me and burrow his way deep into the almost-exclusively-reserved-for-pets-of-the-canine-pursuasion club located in my heart.

I know his human mama Dee adored him, despite the fact that he gave her many sleepless nights. Do yourselves a favour and go and read that post. I nearly raptured an internal organ when I read it out loud to Roommate Kate. Since I read it to her in the middle of the night, causing both of us to howl and laugh like a pair of hyenas, Chino even managed to keep some Stellenbosch residents awake! That's no mean feat for a cat who resided on the other side of the world in Australia and who never in his short life set a paw on South African soil. If that doesn't make a feline famous, I don't know what would! A leading part in a major motion picture? Well, his mom DID film him (as can be seen in that particular post), so...

I know we can never really say that we know exactly what someone else is experiencing, but since I have very recently also lost a dog (something that was so painful to deal with, I couldn't even write about it until about two weeks ago when I e-mailed another friend about it), I can sincerely say that I know her grief is very real and that she needn't feel embarrassed about being heartbroken. How could anyone NOT be after sharing space with such a delightful and spunky creature?

I hate that she is going through it and I really wish that she could have had some more time with 'the best roommate she's ever had'.

Here's to Chino and all the other wonderful fur-balls, large and small, who make our human lives brighter and more complete.

I must be getting swept up in the spirit of the season, because suddenly? I have a very large craving for...

Before I subject you to it, a bit of background info: I wrote this late one night in the span of two hours in order to meet a competition deadline. Its hasty formation is going to be sadly evident when you read the story. (If you dare.)

The name of the story is The Vigil, and yes, it's every bit as cheerful as the title suggests. During that time, I was attending a bedside vigil for a loved one who has since passed away, so my thoughts were inevitably about mortality.

But apart from the fact that my unfortunate protagonist bears an uncanny physical resemblance to me, the rest of it is all fiction.

Here goes:

The Vigil

It is shortly before midnight on a Saturday.

 

But instead of being out on the prowl as any young, single woman ought to be, I am at a bedside vigil. I know it sounds callous and terribly selfish, but I can’t help but be angry about being here, in this semi-dark room, when every loud tick-tock emitted by the grandfather clock in the corridor is a taunting reminder that my youth and my life are slowly fading away.

 

Oh, all right. Thirty-three is not that young, I suppose. This becomes evident whenever my age is brought up, because that’s when people – especially other women – openly look at my hands. The action of their eyes darting down to my hands is so involuntarily, it’s like a reflex. And when their eyes fall on my fingers, so naked and devoid of any type of ring, their faces assume an expression of embarrassed sympathy. Almost as if they had caught me doing something illicit. Some of them even look a bit gleeful and superior when they establish that no, I have never even been married yet. Others even have the audacity to quickly, nervously reach for their husbands. Almost as if they think that a taken man around a single woman in my age bracket should be treated like protected game.

 

My standard one-liner: “I am so commitment phobic, I can’t even live with myself,” does nothing to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation. Oh, make no mistake, the husbands laugh! But the women? Humourless cows.

 

I pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but deep down, it does chafe, because I know full well that I am no oil painting in the looks department. I have genuinely begun to wonder if I don’t perhaps give off an air of quiet desperation? If I do, I’ll blame it on the Sarah Jessica Parker perfume I’ve been wearing. (Don’t judge. I bought the stuff on an ill-conceived whim, mistakenly believing that her Manolo-strutting Sex and the City persona would somehow rub off on me every time I envelop my body in a cloud of its seductive scent.)

 

But the only thing I’m desperate about at this moment is about getting out of this depressing room in my mother’s house, where death is already palpable and lurking in the shadows.

 

I won’t dare to complain though. This is a family affair and we are all present. Even my dad is here, which is an enormous milestone. He has not been able to tolerate being in the same 100 kilometre vicinity as my mother since their bitter divorce a decade ago, but hell, if even he was man enough to show up for her sake, then I suppose I have no right to moan.

 

It is just so damn quiet. Too quiet, especially for our family. I wish someone would turn on the radio. Isn’t death supposed to be a celebration of life, after all? And if it is, shouldn’t it be a reflection of our lives together as a family?

 

Then this moment is entirely wrong, because we were never this quiet. Even if no one was chattering or arguing, there was always at least music playing in the background. Now, not even the television is on. I fear that this oppressive, sombre silence is enough to kill us all…

 

At least someone had the foresight to open a window earlier, alleviating some of the stuffiness. The fresh air from outside whispers into the room, stirring the lace curtains and carrying the lingering fragrance of the lavender growing in Mom’s garden.

 

The night is surprisingly cool for the time of year. If I had known that global warming wasn’t going to mean eternal summers, I might have made a better effort to recycle. I quietly wonder for the umpteenth time if we have buggered up the climate so much that the seasons will become mixed up.

 

Will we here in the Southern Hemisphere get white Christmases, while people in New York and Paris barbecue their Christmas dinners on balmy summer nights? I wish I could ask my big brother, the underachieving genius. This is exactly the kind of useless information that he seems to absorb through sheer osmosis (and compulsive reading) while he slogs through mind-numbing, minimum-wage type jobs, which he alternates with long bouts of unemployment. Needless to say, he kicks arse at Trivial Pursuit.

 

He is slumped forward in a chair (carried in from the dining room), resting his head in his hands. He has never been one to share his emotions, and I am so shocked to see the grief openly wracking his body, violently shaking his shoulders, that I completely forget to be embarrassed by it.

 

Much to my relief, everyone else seems too wrapped up in their own misery to have noticed his.

 

Our younger sister still looks infuriatingly graceful, even while grieving. Her elegance and grace are occupational hazards. She is a professional ballerina with a troupe that has already achieved minor international fame. We don’t know who to blame for her extraordinary good looks, because sadly, Mom and I and the rest of the female cousins and aunts do not possess her flawless complexion, silky hair and delicate features. We are more squat and stocky. And in my case, hopelessly clumsy. Yes, I told you I am no oil painting!

 

I used to relentlessly poke fun at my sister’s duck-footed walk, but I was really jealous of her shapely legs and of the fact that she has always been everyone’s undisputed darling: from teacher’s pet right across to being both Mom and Dad’s hands-down favourite child. (Not that they ever admitted it, of course.) I have never blamed her though, because despite all of the attention she has been lavished with all of her life, she has never been a brat, which makes it impossible to resent her. It wasn’t her fault that I was born into the attention-starved position of middle child.

 

Dad is sitting on the other side of the bed. For the second time tonight, I am shocked at an emotional display by a male member of my family. This time it is because he is holding Mom’s hand in the most intimate of ways: with their fingers intertwined. This after he had angrily vowed during the divorce to never in his life touch her again with a ten-foot pole! That particular outburst had happened in court, when mom’s lawyer had threatened to get a restraining order against him – after he had continuously broken into the house, always under the pretence of picking up a forgotten item or two. I’ve always suspected that he had done it simply because he was unable to let Mom go. Even though she had been the culprit who had so carelessly shattered almost 26 years of marriage by having a rather blatant and indiscreet affair.  

 

And just look at them now. If I had known that grief would be the glue that would reattach our broken family unit, I would have made my half-hearted attempt at committing suicide much sooner.

 

Ironically, it was while I was in hospital following my rather melodramatic cry for help (what, surely you don’t think that I had really wanted to die a spinster, did you?), that the cancer was diagnosed.

 

Which is why my family is gathered at this vigil on what is quite possibly the very last Saturday night of my life.

 

At least I can show you something. Look, there on my hand. Can you see the sparkle, or is it too dark in here? Yes, of course it is a real diamond, but unfortunately, it isn’t what you might think… I wish I could tell you that my oncologist was handsome and single and fell madly in love with me while successfully saving my life. Instead, the sad truth is that my oncologist was much older than my father and my life was beyond saving.

 

The ring then? It was a deathbed gift from the only adoring men in my life, my father and my brother.  

 

It is really strange, this dying business. There is certainly nothing like it to give one perspective, because now that the final credits are rolling on what I had always considered to be my very bleak existence, I can finally see all the love that has been illuminating my life all along.