What we say vs. what we mean

oi oi, how goes it?
here's yesterday's Sunday Times column. Enjoy:

WHAT WE SAY VS. WHAT WE MEAN

If you’re a human being, then you’re no stranger to the common exaggeration. We all do it. Ever since a million trillion billion years ago when we first twisted our tongues enough to evolve language, we’ve been using exaggeration to further our nefarious plans.

This week I started wondering about the difference between exaggerating and lying and I’m sorry to say, I struggle to see it. Exaggerating may just be a nicer way of putting it, quite literally, but no matter what you call it, isn’t it still just a thinly disguised lie?

Take the ‘jargon’ we use when property hunting for example, all lies! Visit enough dodgy show houses on a Sunday afternoon and you become good at deciphering what they really mean. ‘Renovator’s dream’ usually means the property is old and smells like cat pee. ‘Charming’ almost always means tiny. And ‘sea view’, may or may not mean that you have an actual sea view, from your actual property, of the actual sea.

It’s not much different in the world of online dating. Not that I’m comparing human beings to property. (I’m after something charming, in a nice neighbourhood, please.) But the truth is that when you spend as much time dating online as I have (it’s all for research I tell myself, see, I lie too) you become attuned to the hidden meanings behind the ‘exaggerations’ in peoples profiles.

‘Separated’ and ‘a few extra kilos’ are two of the biggest red flags when you’re reading a profile. ‘Separated’ almost always means still married, and ‘a few extra kilos’ usually refers to forty to sixty.

‘Open minded’ is another term that should set alarm bells clanging. It means really kinky. You should expect surprise piercings, butt plugs and leather. And ‘mature’ generally means they’re lying about their age.

The irony is that in these profiles, every Tom, Dick and Harriet crosses their hearts and hopes to die, swearing up and down that they’re massively, excruciatingly, overwhelmingly honest. All this right next to the block where they write in their pseudo age and their imaginary weight.

I’m not trying to make you paranoid here. Sometimes ‘intellectual’, or ‘great personality’ really does mean just that, although usually it’s just ugly in disguise.

Don’t read enough into someone’s profile and you could end up on a date with a married Jeffry Dahmer, or read too much into it, and you may never end up going on any dates at all.

And it’s not just online and in real estate that we lie. It happens in real life too. You’re almost guaranteed that when someone says ‘with all due respect...’ or ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but…’ that the very next thing that comes out of their mouth will absolutely offend you to your core.

Same goes for ‘only joking’, or ‘just kidding’, we all say it. But what it actually means is that we’re not really joking at all, we’re actually being a hundred percent serious. But it’s a great verbal safety net in case the person takes massive offence to what you said, then the ‘just joking’ provides a nice ‘out clause’.

It’s all part of the language we use, the platitudes and niceties. Like ‘nice to see you’, or ‘you look great’, they’re the little white lies of life. ‘How are you?’ is another one. Do we really want to know how you are, or is it just something polite that falls out of our mouths and leads to us getting to say how we are, just a couple of moments later.

So the bottom line is your house smells like cat pee, your bum does look big in that, it’s not really all that great to see you, and nobody really cares how you are. Only joking!

Noel has a posse

My mate, Noel, has a posse. It's a nice spot. Good views. Not too warm in summer, not too cold in winter. Just right.

It's on the internet (over here).

Basically he just finds shit he likes and posts it. And he's got good taste, you should see his wife.

So here are a couple of bits and bobs. Hope you enjoy (even the puns).

Thanks Noeleole. I dig your Posse. Okay wait, that sounded rude.

Bad Elvis

Poor old Elvis, he's turned so many times in his grave, he must feel like a rotisserie chicken.

Is there anyone else in the world more impersonated, and more badly impersonated? I doubt it.

from Vegas to Japan...

 

Never have more people who couldn't look any less like Elvis if they tried, pretended to be Elvis.

There are black ones:

Fat ones:

Short ones:

Crap ones:

Hell, there are even Jewish ones:

And no, I don't mean Neil Diamond.

I'm talking about all the Shmelvises out there.

So yes, Elvis lives.

Thanks are called for

Hey look at that.

We've made it to 250 followers.

That's pretty rocking.

You guys are so awesome.

I'd like to say thanks.

So



He he he he he.

Rubbing your tummy and patting your head.

Here's Sunday's Sunday Times column. Enjoy.

WOMEN ARE FROM TWO PLACES AT THE SAME TIME, MEN ARE FROM MARS.

My hairdresser is running a competition right now where you can win a flat iron that plugs into the cigarette lighter in your car. This is a true story. I assume the point of it is so that you can style your hair while you crash.

Now while I’m pleased that the person who wins this competition will not be using the cigarette lighter in her car to light cigarettes, I do have a few other issues with this concept, which seems to take multi-tasking to a whole new level.

Just to clarify, for those of you who may not be up with the lingo, a flat iron is a tong-type appliance that women and Justin Bieber use to scare their hair straight. Think of a cross between a hair dryer and a pants press and you’ve got it.

It’s a commonly held belief that men can’t multitask while women can. If you’re desperate for a little peace and quiet, ask a guy a question while he’s watching TV or playing a video game. I asked one of the guys I work with his opinion on the matter, and he said he thought the fact that men don’t multi-task too well goes back to cavemen days when they were hunter gatherers. His theory is that if they wanted to actually catch anything they had to be incredibly focused. Stop to ponder what to make for supper while you’re hunting a springbok, and one thing’s for sure, you certainly won’t be making Springbok.

It’s different for women, we’re much more easily distracted, ooh look at that, my pencil needs sharpening. Perhaps it’s because women always have so much to do, that being able to multi-task is part of our own survival instinct. While we’re not hunter gatherers, we are nurture carerers, and so if you don’t get busy and do the washing up, braid the pony’s mane, polish the tin of polish, do the school lift and chop the firewood, then it simply won’t get done. It’s a skill we’ve had to evolve, like those fish on the Discovery Channel that developed lungs.

One of my sisters once had her car completely written off. Fortunately she wasn’t in it at the time. It was parked on the side of the road outside her boyfriend’s house. The lady who drove straight into it said she crashed because she was running late for work and she was trying to dry her hair by sticking her head out the window and combing it, while driving at high speeds through the streets of Camps Bay. Genius plan, lady.

Perhaps just because we can multi-task, doesn’t mean we should. What’s next? Bake a cake while you do sit-ups? Paint your toenails while you open a tin of tuna? Alphabetise your CD collection while you darn socks? I know we live in hectic times and there aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done, but this is bordering on the ridiculous.

And it’s not even like flat ironing your hair is such a simple task. You need both hands. One to hold the tongs and the other to hold your cell phone, which you are no doubt using to sms your life coach while you drive, holding the steering wheel with who knows what.

If flat ironing your hair while you drive isn’t illegal now, watch this space. That legislation has to be coming soon. The guy in charge of drafting the law just has to finish what he’s busy doing now, first, then he’ll get right on it.


PS: Should you be interested my hairdresser is the very wonderful Andrew at Scar, and here's a link to the competition on their facebook page. I think you have to 'like' it and then say on the page why you want it, in order to win. G'luck.

Creepy dolls

My wonderful friend, Matt, emailed me this picture:

He lives in the UK, and he found this doll at a car boot sale.

He said it made him think of me. I'm hoping that's because that doll's name is Paige, and my name is Paige. And not because he thinks I wear oddly patterned dresses, or I never brush my hair, or I have a plastic smile and nothing to really speak of under my dress. (i'm just assuming she's doll-like under there, although I may be wrong.)

Matt says she cost five squid, so she was a little on the dear side so he didn't buy me. I don't blame him, I always have been rather expensive.

Anyway it got me thinking, and i ended up googling 'Crazy dolls'. Now trust me, and please learn from my mistakes you DO NOT want to google 'Crazy dolls', ever! There is some seriously scary shit on there. 

Like seriously, poop your pants, never sleep again, scary.

Don't worry, I won't show you any of that. But I do like a bit of crazy, so here was the crazy I found in amongst Tim Burton's worst nightmares.

There was this wierdo doll:

It's a 'Shave the Baby Doll'. What the fuck people? Inventors of this, you need to take your meds.

Here's the other bit of crazy:

Nice coat rack.

If you're a lunatic! Doing art projects! In an insane assylum!

The internet, a sick, twisted place I call home.

Oh Internet, is there any sick, twisted, perverted activity that you won't document or encourage?

Take this thing that I recently found on you, dear Internet. Is it really necesary? Does it really help make the world go round?

Look, it's a 'Squeaky clean Enema Pin Brooch':

Indeedy.

Complete with 'A beautifully handcrafted bronze derrier, copper enema bag, and sterling hose and inserter'.
'...the perfect gift for nurses, nursing students or proctologists...' or anyone else you happen to know who enjoys a good periodic flushing.

Haven't you always wanted one? I know I haven't.

And for just $75 a pop you too can have one of your very own, from Etsy. Here's the link.

and here's a picture of someone holding it (don't worry, it's 'squeaky clean'), so you can get an idea of its size:

Pity I didn't post about this before Valentines Day. What girl hasn't always dreamed of getting an enema brooch of her very own from her dearest? What better way to say 'I love you' to that special someone. Or to prove how much you really dig their ass? I can't think of a better way.

A severe case of the crazies

Here's yesterday's Sunday Times Column, enjoy.

A SEVERE CASE OF THE CRAZIES

I don’t know if it’s the same for guys, but there’s nothing quite like getting dumped to bring on a severe case of the crazies in an otherwise normal, rational, intelligent woman.

A million years ago when I parted ways with my first love (who shall from here on out be referred to as ‘Jerk’, since ‘Asshole’ is not acceptable language for print), I spent two months crying and doing all-hour drive bys on The Jerk’s apartment. I’m not sure what I was looking for exactly. I remember crawling past at a snail’s pace, craning my neck to see if his lights were on and anyone was home, then turning around at the end of the block and driving back up the road again. I was nineteen, I was heartbroken, please don’t judge me.

I later found out he moved out of that apartment a week after we broke up, which might explain a) the thirty year old woman with the young baby who was suddenly always on his balcony, and b) why, come to think of it, I never actually caught a glimpse of him there again.

After getting dumped, a friend of mine, who is probably the smartest, most rational, together woman I know, tried to break into her ex-boyfriend’s home to make a big romantic gesture, and somehow managed to get her head wedged in the security gate. She had to wait a mortifying two hours for him and his housemates to get home from a party so they could free her. See, one moment she was normal, then she got dumped and became an instant lunatic.

More recently I was dumped by Mr Perfect when he decided to get back together with his ex girlfriend. About three weeks after he dumped me I got hit by a severe case of the crazies and I decided to call him, even though every ounce of my common sense was screaming ‘back away from the telephone’. But all the crazy voices drowned out the one sane one and so slowly, with a feeling of hopeful foreboding I dialled his number.

We spoke politely for a couple of minutes, and then when I felt I wasn’t quite getting the response I was hoping for I unleashed the crazy. A little emotional, I laid my feelings out on the line and demanded to know how he felt. Pathetic, I know, but I plead temporary insanity. When I was finally finished with my tirade there was a pause on the other end of the line so big you could have filled it with Newlands stadium. ‘Well! What do you think?’ I demanded. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I can’t talk right now, I have friends over and we just sat down for lunch.’

And there it was, I realised I had made a fatal mistake - The Rash And Foolish Post Break-Up Phone Call. I’m still not sure what I was expecting from the call. Perhaps a massive change of heart on his behalf, or maybe an apology and a bit of begging for my eternal forgiveness? I was insane to expect either.
The shrinks tell us that there are a series of basic stages of grief we have to work through when loss rocks our world. Shock, denial, whisky, bargaining, guilt, anger, depression, acceptance, shopping and then ultimately hope.

I think the crazy things we do after a break up fall somewhere between denial and bargaining. We tell ourselves this can’t be happening and try think of things we can do to breathe life into the deceased relationship. All that desperation doesn’t help either, and is probably why we send smses at 4am, or call and then hang up when they answer, or find ourselves with a 100m restraining order.

Then there’s the guilt afterwards. Why did I do that stupid thing? Why did I call him, now he really won’t want me back. And then the anger: jerk, idiot, doos, why didn’t he tell me he had friends over at the beginning of the call so I could have saved myself the embarrassment. And then the depression stage, the more whisky stage, the hangover stage, the acceptance stage, the screw everyone and dent your credit card stage, and then ultimately the hope stage. In this case hope comes in the form of: I really hope I don’t get another case of the crazies and find myself with my head wedged in the security gate at Mr Perfect’s house.

You see dogs, they see Jedi transport devices.

It's official, there are people out there in the world that just have too much time on their hands. (And perhaps in sourcing and bringing you all of this shit, i might be one of them.)

It's not a bad thing.

Without these people we wouldn't have Japanese game shows, Verimark products, or youtube videos that reinact the genius of Eddie Izzard doing his Death Star Canteen skit with lego men.

There's a site called perfectlytimedphotos.com and that's where I first came across this image:

While I looked at it and it made me smile, and i may have even forwarded it on to a mate who has a few daschunds, that was where my time, energy levels and interest ended.

Not so for this chap. He took it to a whole new level, by comping it like this:



 

 Some say he's a genius.

Others say he has too much time on his hands.

Still more say, dude if i send you a picture of my girlfriend, can you make me one?

 

I found this comped version of the shot on Alwil's ever entertaining facebook page. Thanks dude.

Oh shit, your mom just discovered the internet.

According to my top secret sources (the internet), women older than 55 are the fastest growing group on facebook. With 1.5 million currently on the site, that's a 550 percent increase over the last six months.

You know what that means, right? If you mom hasn't already joined facebook, then you can expect her to be doing so any day now.

The only decision left is whether to accept her friend request or not. Chances are if you're over thirty that's not such a big decision, and it will save you having to call her so often and send photos. But the twenties and under crew have a harder choice to make. As highlighted by this poster I found somewhere online:

Thanks Facebook. 

In fact 2010 was officially billed as 'The Year Your Mom Joined Facebook'.

While trawling and pondering these facts I came accross this beauty of a site.

It's based on what movie titles would be if they were written by your mom.

like this one:

Classic. Here are a few more:

Mothers, can't kill 'em, can't bake like them. May as well just laugh at them.

They're great because they're so true.

The site is over here.  

Now, go tidy your room!

Why? Because I said so!

And, have you done your homework?

Just wait till your father gets home.

Kissing frogs

As many of you already know, one of the highlights of my column are the responses I get. I wanted to share this one with you:

Hi Paige



One of the highlights of my Sunday morning is reading you columns. “Things men shouldn’t invent” was brilliant. I think I remember an experiment I did my Zoology in first year at Wits some 62 years ago (that’s why I only think I remember) was to put urine harvested from a pregnant lady onto a female “platana” frog. The frog would immediately lay eggs! Wouldn’t peeing on a frog be easier than trying to piddle on a man-made stick?


My very best regards


Hector

Dear Hector,

Thank you, this has made my Monday, which is saying a lot, since I'm not the greatest fan of Mondays.
My very best regards
Paige.


I only wish I'd known about this before I'd written the column, it would have made the best paragraph ever.

Here's a picture of a Plantana frog that hasn't been weed on yet.

Awesome. 

Things men shouldn't invent.

Here's yesterday's Sunday Times Column, if you want it. Enjoy.


I have scientific proof that the pregnancy test was invented by a man. Okay, so maybe not scientific proof, but I once took one, and that was all the proof I needed.

Just in case you’ve never had the pleasure, you can buy a standard home pregnancy testing kit at any chemist. The test itself seems simple enough at first. It comes in the form of a stick that you have to wee on. But you soon discover that it’s not just a pregnancy test you’re taking, it’s also a test of your aim, your IQ and your patience.

For starters the stick is really short, so if it’s the first time you’ve ever used one there’s a good chance you’re going to get wee on your hand.

The short stick aside, one of the main reasons I’m convinced it was invented by a man is because it’s perfect for use by a man. If say, in a parallel universe, one night, a man just happened to drink too much Sangria and ended up back at some chick’s place and one thing led to another and the condom was somehow unreliable, and he needed to figure out whether or not he was pregnant, then the current form of the home pregnancy testing kit would be perfect for him.

You see the area you need to wee on is really tiny, and men are rock stars at perfecting their aim. Us women just aren’t engineered like that. That’s why you never see a woman trying to write her name in the snow. Everything we’ve got is down under, so it’s not a matter of just pointing yourself in the right direction. You need bladder control, good timing and strong thighs for hovering. And you also need a big wee on board at the time of taking the test. If you only have a small wee then you’ve got to make damn sure you’re ready to move that thing around until you hit your target, while still being agile enough to keep your hand out of the way of the stream. An instruction manual to build a nuclear reactor, all in Japanese, is less complicated.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, of course in the big scheme of things the pregnancy test is a phenomenal invention and we’re lucky to have it. But surely the logistics of it would have been a little better thought through had it been invented by a woman. We put people on the moon for crying out loud, is it too much to ask that we don’t have to wee on ourselves to find out if we’re pregnant or not.

And once you’ve finally figured out your aim and you’ve got the weeing on a tiny stick part sorted, then all you have to do is wait five agonisingly long minutes and then just decipher a complicated set of hieroglyphics that appear out of the wee to inform you whether you’re puking because you ate bad oysters, or because you’re up the duff.

Apart from the home pregnancy testing kit, other things I believe men should never be allowed to invent include tampons, quiche, mascara, breast-feeding pumps and of course lady’s underwear. Imagine if men invented all our panties? You would only be able to choose from a G-string, or a G-string. And every single pair would be made out of lace, using only the most miniscule amount of fabric they could get away with. There would be absolutely nothing practical and comfortable to wear on those days when you just aren’t feeling all that hot, and we would never have even heard of granny panties.

But back to home pregnancy testing kits. I checked on Wikipedia and they were actually invented by a man, two of them in fact. Told you so. It’s a nasty business, one that could have been avoided if a man hadn’t gotten involved. Come to think of it, if a man hadn’t gotten involved from the very beginning, we wouldn’t need this invention in the first place.

Eat, copy, love.

I read it. I thought it was okay. I mostly enjoyed two out of three of the countries she covered. (Haven't seen the movie yet.) I like Elizabeth Gilbert. Her Ted Talk on creativity is totally worth downloading and watching. It's 19:29 minutes that you won't regret.

But I just saw this:

BLURB: He's been tracking down others like him, and rescued 3 young orphans who now consider Carlos their father. He's determined to give them a home, which means finding a bride. His criteria: she just needs to be a shape shifter, like him.

An ad to say that this new book is now available from Kalahari.net, just landed in my inbox.

I can't put my finger on why it irked me. Perhaps they're trying to piggyback on the phenomenal sales success of Elizabeth Gilbert's book? I feel sad for the housewife who picks up this version by mistake, and wonders what all the fuss was about, or doesn't understand why the book was nothing at all like the movie.

According to kalahari.net, Kerrelyn Sparks is the New York Times Bestselling author of the Love at Stake series. her heroes are generally fanged or furry, but never suffer from cavities or fur balls. And in spite of a tendency to nibble or howl at the moon, they're still wonderfully romantic.

So it's a romantic vampire, shape shifter, sci-fi adventure?

Just like Eat, Pray, Love, then.

Now this kind of spoofing I totally get. I think it's clever, and relevant, and a nice gimmick, and pays homage to the genre, even if it is in a bloody and slightly over the top, silly way.

But Eat, Prey, Love? C'mon, really?

Am I making much ado over nothing? I can't decide.

Cats that look like Hitler

Okay so i wasn't the first person to find this, in fact i wasn't even the second or the third.

@BarryTuck @KimSchulze and @TheCrazyScott tweeted about it first, but it was too funny not to post about.

it's a website where people post cats that look like Hitler.

here are a few, but go check it out for yourself, it's hilarious.

this is the blurb on their site: Does your cat look like Adolf Hitler? Do you wake up in a cold sweat every night wondering if he's going to up and invade Poland? Does he keep putting his right paw in the air while making a noise that sounds suspiciously like "Sieg Miaow"? If so, this is the website for you.

They call them Kitlers, get it, get it, cats that look like Hitler. Bwahahahahahhaa.

There are 5835 Kitlers posted, and counting. Next stop, world domination.