Call to arms!

Yes, it is time to take the battle to the enemy. No longer will we sit back idly, watching willful bloodshed, suffering and itchiness.
It is time to take our offensive to fur-roots level.
You've guessed it - it's deflea-ing time!
In my household this is a monthly battle that personifies evil vs a lesser evil. In essence, once every four weeks I knowingly poison my cats. Now before you speed-dial the animal rescue institute of your choice, let me explain. Modern technology still hasn't managed to rid the world of fleas, but it has provided a solution of some sorts. No, not a solution, rather a plaster on the wound. Now every pet-owner can have their own little chemical battle with those pesky pests. The fleas, not the pets.
Between my dog and 3 cats, this takes on the scope of a minor production, including stunned looks, horrified expressions, cringing and wailing. And that's just me battling with the human-proof packaging.
Then comes the really fun part (not) of surprising the cats with flea-drops at the ready. In theory this might sound simple; I mean, how difficult could it be for the uber-primate equipped with opposable thumbs to apply a few drops of liquid to the back of your average moggie's neck.
Ha! Easier said than done.
The dog is easy: show up, pat dog, open dispenser, part fur and apply drops. Repeat pat. Walk away.
The cats are a bit more difficult, and I have to necessitate to underhanded methods, wrestling and bribery to get everyone through the exercise.
In winter it's a tad easier. Cats are the ultimate users, but at least they are honest about it. As long as you open tins, provide a warm lap and respond positively to an occasional request for scratching, peace and prosperity will reign.
So... in winter you wait until said victim, I mean beloved feline, hops onto your lap for some under-fur heating. Gently stroke cat (if requested) until a mutual state of relaxation is reached. Now comes the tricky bit; without disrupting the stroking rhythm, start parting the fur on the neck with one hand while quietly opening the little container of doom and applying contents to cat.
Cat may now either:
a. continue resting in blissful ignorance
b. take off with vertical acceleration that makes warp speed look slow
c. give you a dirty, knowing look that hints at future revenge
But, an owner's gotta do what an owner's gotta do. And I have this blissful image of the little bloodsuckers, clad in snazzy evening dress with billowing cloaks, bending over to sink their fangs into cat-flesh only to stagger away, choking, before going up in smoke. Perhaps it is only wishful thinking to imagine they would react like a vampire who has just had a fang-full of blood liberally laced with holy-water, garlic and a hint of silver-essence. But hey, if that's what gets me through the monthly confrontation, then that's what I'll do.

Ode to Potholes

O Pothole
Thou deep and sudden drop
That seeks to draw unwary wheels
into thy depths so dark
er...
that's about all I have for now.
The fascination you ask? Well, there's a curious phenomenon a-foot, or rather, a-wheel in South Africa.
Our new national treasury seems to include a love for potholes. Yes, our public works department seems to revere these little hiccups in the road of life. Simons Town is a prime spotting area for this not-so-rare phenomenon. You may be driving down the main road in happy oblivion as to the consistency of the tar when *thunk*, you encounter one of these beauties.
But do not despair, our public works department is on the job! At all hours of the day and night they can be seen near these modern miracles, carefully stamping down ground and loose gravel into these pits of despair.
Yes, you read it... ground and loose gravel. Now I ask you, what is the typical life expectancy of such (ha-ha) stop-gap measures? Not too long, I can guarantee you that. Within a day or so the wheels of industry and private motorists have started to dig away at these little patch-works.
And then there is Tokai, where potholes are not only welcomed, nay, they are treasured. As you drive towards the arboretum there are actual permanent roadsigns warning you of the presence of... you guessed it.... potholes.
I cannot help but wonder: how much time and effort does it cost to have a sign and pole made up, a hole dug and the warning sign firmly planted, compared to actually fixing the pothole itself?!?!?
South Africa.... it's a curious place

Barking mad...

Last night I lay in bed reading a bit before giving myself over to the gentle knitting needles of sleep to mend that ravelled bits of me. In the background I could hear the incessant barking of some or other dog, but did not pay too much attention to it.
Let's face it, I live in an area that was a suburb close to the centre of Dog-central, where every Tom, Dick and Harry owns a Spot, Rex or Killer.
However, I do take exception when these bundles of furry and toothed joy carry on barking mindlessly for hours on end. For crumbs sake people! Why do you own a dog if you are going to let it carry on barking forever and a day without actually investigating the cause?
Anyhoo. Deciding to take the zen approach, I turned off my light and pretended it was the gentle laughter of water rushing over stones. With a pillow over my head it eventually worked, and I was off to dreamland.
But not for long... every so often I would be dragged from my sleep by the, yes, STILL persisting barking. My gosh; if it were my canine by this time I would've had the police, fire and rescue departments standing by just in case of any type of emergency that the dog was somehow insisting was happening.
Instead I ended up staring at the ceiling, composing the speech I would give at this dog's prize-giving ceremony. Trust me, for pure duration this barking was olympic medal material! And then the variation in volume, length and intensity; it was the perfect blend to pull any insistent sleeper from the brink of oblivion!
And every so often the rest of the neighbourhood dogs would join in out of what I guess must've been sheer admiration.
It's at times like these that I seriously contemplate getting a paintball gun and learning how to do urban-stalking, camouflage paint and all. If I can't get at the dog, then at least I'll be able to target whatever's causing the upset.
And then I'd go for the owner...

Interning at all4women

I seem to have finally woken up at the age of 30+ with the awful realization that the career path I've been trudging along is the wrong one! So, with a pocket full of dreams and determination, I am slowly but surely trying to find a new path.

As part of that journey, I'm trying to grow my writing skills. Who knew that reading all those novels and having a vivid imagination would someday pay off.

May I present my first article as a part-time intern at the fabulous all42women.co.za online magazine!!!! Tadaa:

http://all4women.co.za/health/mountain-biking.html?Headline

Avoiding the bull

And no, not just the bull droppings, but also tackling it by the horns. And not by choice - somehow life itself manages to interfere with my ability to make decisions that will affect said life.

My gosh, how pathetic that sounds! Very much like the teenage angst dramas I try and wade through on disc these days.

Let me rather tell you a story. Remember that email about the guy who is a deep-sea diver and ends up with the jellyfish in his suit. Yeah, well, tell him to swim a mile in my fins!

Just more than a week ago I was once again sorely disappointed in humanity. No news there, just setting the background.
So... of course I have to better that factor by adding my own stupidity. I went out on Sunday morning and like a dutiful citizen turned my car lights on while driving in misty conditions. Problem is, by the time I got home said misty conditions had dispersed, and I forgot to turn my car lights off.
Of course, it will come as no surprise that when I next rushed out of the house and got in the car, I was greeted by an eery silence - no irritating squigly radio noise, no time display, not even a immobiliser light blinking reassuringly from the dashboard. Yep, I'd managed to run the car battery down.
After thumping my head against the steering wheel for a while, I got out and contacted my neighbour to set up a jump-start appointment for the next morning.
Of course that would be the week when I have to rush in to an early-morning software course.

The day dawns, the jumper cables are hauled out and I await the arrival of my saving neighbour. But a slight complication - we have to push my car back somewhat to get it to a space where we can pull her car in next to it in such a position that the jumper cables can connect the batteries.
Not a problem - we are women, hear us groan while we push the car backwards. Just then, at that moment of strain and concentration, my dearly departed (well, she almost was after the incident) dog trots up and proceeds to sink her age-worn teeth into my neighbour's calf.
I've seen the state of her teeth - the dog, not the neighbour's, although I got a glimpse of that too while she grimaced - and that took a lot of pressure to create the damage she did.

I could've killed that dog. Easily. Right there and then. Lucky for her time was of the essence. After yelling dire threats and chasing her away, we got the cars out, jump started and ready to go.

Ah, but have I mentioned that my car was suffering a slight case of under-performance at the time? I haven't? Gosh... With an on-going carburator problem, the idling speed had been dropped so low that now any early morning drive is punctuated by frequent rest-stops at every stop-street or occassion when I press the clutch pedal in for longer than 5 seconds.
Now... picture this ((with dramatic background music a-la task explanation during an bomb-defusing scene of a movie))
The car has just been jump-started, i.e. the alternator has not had enough time to charge the battery.
Having the car die at a stopstreet would be problematic to say the least, as I wouldn't be able to start it again.
Right - advanced driving skills here we come!

When approaching a stop street, I quickly switched the car into neutral before using my left foot to ease on the breaks while keeping the right on the gas. Sounds easy, right? Wrong! The left foot has been trained to go either full throttle / nothing on the clutch pedal, and mistakenly tries to do the same with the break pedal. Result: nose squashed against windshield BUT the right foot is steady on the gas, meaning the car still runs! And oh, what joy, 4 more stops before I reach a long stretch without any obstacles.

I'm proud to announce, I got to work! I also managed to get the car to the garage by lunch to re-set the idling speed. And yes, I am in the process of settling my neighbour's doctors bill for a tetanus shot.

Am I speaking to my dog yet? Not so much.

One of those days

Few words in the English language are imbued with that particular brand of terror and dread as "general failure reading boot drive".
Yep, it's going to be one of those days then.

It started all innocently, birds chirping while the sun played hide and seek among the scattered clouds overhead. I took the dog for an early-morning walk while the air was still cool and the day filled with potential for all things bright and beautiful.

But, like the start to a horror movie... all was not as it seemed.
Chirping birdsong was to be replaced by the straining groans of a tin-can desperately trying to find some mysterious code that would turn 1's and 0's into intelligent pictures.
But, trying to stay optimistic I shut the machine down, sent out a message requesting help, and sat down in front of my other pc to start writing a report on work that's been done.
Step 1 - find template for report
Step 2 - look for template in other than usual network folders where the only thing I can find is its glaring absence
Step 3 - call office support staff to inquire about missing file
Step 4 - Try to smile through clenched teeth as none of support personnel provide, well, support. The template document is.... unavailable.

While rolling my eyes to the heavens above, I put the phone down and stare morosely at my blank pc screen, wondering if anyone has ever succeeded in building a time machine.
No, I don't have any aspirations to go back and change history by eliminating a soon-to-be tyrant or saving the life of a might-be genius - I have no such grandiose plans for bettering humanity.
Instead I simply want to go back to this morning, place two industrial-strength aspirins next to my bedside table with a friendly note that says :

"Drink this, today is going to be a pain in the...."

Brave new steps

I have just come out of a meeting that left me more confused afterward than I was before. This leads me to once again wonder how productive meetings actually are. Are there some meetings whose end result actually amounts to a negative value? You leave it not only knowing less than you thought you did, but also lost as to how to proceed from there. At least, this is the case for my experience today.

If Columbus or Livingston had to deal with the bureaucratic red-tape, endless discussions and reams and reams of 'reporting back', would they have ever taken those first steps that lead to great discovery? Hmmmm.....