I got pushed out of a plane once.

I jumped out of a plane once. At night! I cannot say that I enjoyed it or did it out of my own free will. I was pushed and being deathly afraid of heights I almost shit myself. This happened a few years ago and is not something I like to talk about seeing as I am still traumatized by the whole experience. It wasn't my finest hour and I lost all composure which is not something that happens often. But let me start at the beginning...

My career has been quite interesting thus far. It is by no means a career one would associate with a homosexual like me. I mean I am not butch, don't play sports (because running after balls are stupid if not attached to a man) and generally I don't like doing things that will mess up my hair. Therefore, very few people would imagine that I am good with guns and knives, got training from the military and did some work that is considered to be "dangerous".  I have always come across as unassuming which has made me very successful in what I do for a living.

That being said, it doesn't mean that I have not been terrified or considered the work that I do as the result of bad life choices. The one time I really knew that I may have made some bad career decisions was when I received training from the military.  At the time it was compulsory that I spend three months at the army. In other words I was forced into it kicking and screaming when I heard about it. I had so many questions and the same amount of serious concerns about the whole thing.

My first day there I felt completely out of place. I was surrounded by very butch guys and the women were no different. The one guy even looked like he had killed some people and liked it. I knew if the shit was to hit the fan that he would be my best option to stay alive so I immediately made friends with him. I also made friends with a few women in my group because I also knew that if the shit hits the fan that I would be able to out run them and they would serve as my human shields behind me. I know it sounds horrible but it is a survival thing.

The first two months went by without much drama. I scored at the top of my group and I was quite proud of myself. I did good academically and especially with the practical work which surprised everybody including myself. At that stage I thought it was quite easy and fell into a comfort zone. I felt like I would be able to cruise through the last month and afterwards would be able to boast about my achievements at the army. But that comfort zone was not to last and shit got real really soon after that.

During the last month we traveled to another military base and spent the week there. The base sounded interesting as they had a small air force base and we would get to blow shit up. The fact that they had a small air force base in that small town meant nothing to me until we were told that we had to do a tandem night skydive. At first I thought heard wrong and muttered "Say what now?!  You mean I have to jump out of a plane at night being bound to a person who I don't know and I am not sure I can trust?!"  To which the general looked at me disapprovingly and said in a annoyed voice "Affirmative." 

At that point I was done with the army because they were all a bunch of reckless assholes with a death wish. I was not about to die in a skydiving accident and I tried my hardest to get out of it. I even faked having diarrhea. Well I wasn't faking it so much as I wishing that my nervous bowels will get me out of the whole thing. An hour before we had to jump I prayed for it to all just be a bad dream but it wasn't. I had to do the jump in order to successfully complete my training.

As I was handed my jumpsuit and other things that I needed all I could think about was how I hated my life. I stood there looked at myself and my trembling hands and thought that if I died my family would not even be able to have a open casket at my funeral. Open caskets at funerals are important to me because how else can you verify that the person is actually dead. But I digress...

I got into the plane, well more I was pushed into it. As they closed the door and we were taking off I was about to become unhinged. I was about to loose my shit and was looking for anything I could grab onto when it was my turn to plummet to my death. The guy I was to jump with saw I was nervous and then decided to make things worse by saying "Relax. Nothing bad will happen and if it does you will die quickly and not feel a thing". He then laughed and tied me to his sarcastic body. I was starting to feel violated.

When the plane door opened and the wind came rushing in I knew that I was about to die. I was third in line to be pushed out of the plane and at that point I no longer minded what people thought of me. I resorted to begging and trying to negotiate my way out of it. As the two guys in front of me plummeted from the plane I knew it was my turn. My turn to die!

I was told to cross my arms until we had cleared the plane and only then I was allowed to extend them. At that point I was already in the fetal position with my eyes closed. Much like a cat I thought that if my eyes were closed nothing will happen and what I was to experience was just a bad joke.  I was wrong. The countdown started and the bastard pushed me out of the place at the count of 2 and not 1. As I was plummeting to earth my screams were dulled by the cold air that rushed passed me. I looked like a dog sticking its head out of a car window while it speeds down the freeway. It was very unflattering and really fucked with my botox.

As the parachute opened and I was jilted upwards I panicked again as I was worried that I might be ripped from the guy I jumped with. There were more screams and I could hear the guy laughing. We floated down to the ground and when the guy said I must lift my legs up as we landed I felt the kind of relieve that I never experienced before. I got unlatched from the guy and had to sit for a few minutes as my legs were not working. The guy, whose name I never asked, said "Let's do it again" to which I responded "Go fuck yourself! I never want to see you again!"

After the skydiving experience, that almost saw me shit my pants, we were trucked back to the base. At that point I was pretty pissed off and hated the army and everyone in it. The only redeeming quality of that night was when we got to blow shit up. We had two hours of bombing stuff and being on the sharp end watching how different types of weapons and missiles do different types of damage. It was nice but did not really make up for the abuse I suffered earlier that night. As I finished my training at the military I vowed to never return. And I didn't nor do I ever plan to.

Till next time.

Back to Reality

Yes, I know I have been rather lazy blogging the last couple of months.  But in my defense I had shit going on.  Also, I know I really should not be using this kind of language because I now have a child but hey, he is going to hear these words eventually.  After four months of paternity leave I went back to work on Monday.  It feels strange being back in the office.  I mean I have time to myself, apart from work, and it feels like a mini holiday.  I know how it sounds but if you have kids you’d understand.

Over the weekend I was very down and moody.  The prospect of going back to work seemed like a nightmare.  I did not know how I would cope not being with my son 24/7.  I knew I would miss him terribly and I am.  Also, being the neurotic kind of person I am I also had irrational debates with myself.  You know the kind that people in psychiatric hospitals have when their meds aren’t working.  At least I didn’t hear voices or thought that I was Jesus.  I am not that crazy.  Yet.

Over the weekend my mind played around with a lot of "what ifs".  What if my son did not cope with going to granny’s during the week.  What if granny could not cope looking after my son.  What if my son loves granny more than he loves me.  What if when I am at work and something happens to my son.  There are a lot more what ifs that flooded my brain but I don’t want to bore you with my neuroticism and illogical parental reservations.  In the end of the day Monday came and went and nobody died and our little smiling and giggling tornado was a happy and content baby.

I still have issues with missing my son during the day at work and granny is not good at sending me proof of life pictures.  I want at least two picture of him a day and according to my husband this makes me an overbearing parent with unrealistic expectations.  After all granny raised him and his brother and was a day mother for many years and knows what she is doing.  But still, I am an overbearing parent and I am not ashamed of it.  Also I suspect it will only get worse with time.  But this is not the only issue hubby has.

Apparently I am also a helicopter dad who is someone that hovers.  Personally I would not call it “hovering”.  I am merely discreetly supervising and, at times, provideds hubby with some constructive advice.  Just the other day hubby was busy dressing our son and he was doing something wrong and when I “advised” him he chased me out of the nursery.  I wasn’t really offended by it but thought to myself if he wants to learn certain things the hard way then so be it.  And just so you know, in that instance our son cried through the whole ordeal.  Had hubby listened to me that would not have happened.  Just saying…

Since our son became mobile and is crawling everywhere and pulling himself up against anything he can, nothing in the house is safe anymore.  When our cats see Michael coming their way they get all nervous and our oldest cat has now developed a nervous twitch.  Our son used to be fine in his playpen but sometime about two weeks ago he realized that it was nothing more than a baby jail and he went all prison break on my ass.  The problem now is that he is so fast if you turn your back on him for a few seconds he is gone.  And most time I would find him near a power socket about to electrocute himself or about to throw over one of our three air purifiers.

Our house has now been baby proofed as well.  Luckily we had house bunnies and learned about bunny proofing the house a while ago.  Baby proofing is not all that different from bunny proofing but at least Michael is not chewing on our couch or electrical cords.  Also, our son knows when he has done something wrong.  Just the other day he threw over one of the air purifiers and started crying because he thought I would be mad at him.  The same thing happened when he threw over the dustbin in the nursery and almost broke a glass by pushing over a small table.  At least he only do things like this once and learn from his experiences.

The biggest challenge I have being back at work now and not being with my son 24/7 is the fact that I will miss out on small things.  Every week since we got him he has done something new and I was the first one to see it.  Now that privilege falls to granny and I am crazy jealous.  Unfortunately this is the downside of not having the luxury of being a stay at home dad.  These days we cannot afford for one parent to stay at home and look after the kids.  Both parents need to work in order to provide the best possible life for our children.  It is by no means ideal but a sad reality.

It will still take me a couple of weeks to get over my shit, separation anxiety and neuroticism.  People tell me it gets easier but right now I think they are lying bastards.  I know I complained some days about having had to change six teething diapers, that our son was particularly difficult that day or that I was tired.  But now I miss all that.  Being back at work feels strange; I now have time to focus on something else and give it my full attention without being interrupted by bodily fluids.  I can have adult conversations with people and can go to the bathroom when I want to and do so alone.  But still I feel guilty.  The guilt I think is normal and will go away.  We all just need to adjust to our new reality and soon it will seem normal.  I hope.

Till next time.

Sometimes you just need to relax and say fuck it.

Being slightly OCD it is only natural that I value punctuality.  After all, this is what separates us from animals.  Well, punctuality and the ability to fly through the air at 30 000 feet at a speed of 600 mph that is.  And the fact that we can blow shit up.  So imagine my surprise when I actually managed to miss my flight yesterday even though I was at the airport four hours ahead of time.  Now you may ask yourself “How the hell did he manage to do that?”  And the answer would be rather complicated so let me explain.

Yesterday I had to fly from Cape Town back to Johannesburg.  I was in Cape Town for work and by yesterday morning I had finished what I needed to do there and decided to go to the airport early.  I had some work to do on my laptop and decided that I might as well do it at one of the airport lounges and the fact that they had free Wi-Fi would also help.

So I arrived at the airport four hours before my flight and checked in.  The lady at the check in counter looked at me funny and we had a slight altercation about my luggage.  This is totally normal as there is always some kind of issue:  If I don’t set off the metal detector then I forget that I have a knife in my hand luggage; if that doesn’t happen then my luggage is classified obese or looks suspicious for drugs.  I am used to being harassed at airports.  I have now come to expect it.

As I was busy working minding my own business about an hour before my flight, I heard an announcement.  Apparently my flight was delayed and was now to board at Gate C12.  I was a bit annoyed as I was looking forward to arriving in Johannesburg at 4pm and now I was going to be thirty minutes late.  About half an hour before my flight was due to depart I packed up my stuff and proceeded to Gate C12.

There was nobody there so I assumed the flight was delayed even further.  As my flight’s departure time neared and eventually passed I got suspicious.  I thought “What the fuck is going on?  Has it been delayed again?  But if they were boarding surely they would have been calling my name?”  Nobody called my name.  Not even once.  As I proceeded to go to the viewing deck I was also surprised that my plane was no longer on its spot on the tarmac.  It was gone.  Could it be that they left without me?

I promptly went to information and was told that my flight had indeed left.  Without me!  Now I had to go and get my ticket transferred to the next available flight.  I could feel a panic attack looming but decided to just stay calm, compose myself and that it was not the end of the world.  I have never missed a flight in my life and was mortified that my once clean record had now been stained, especially since I had been at the airport for four hours now.

As I proceeded to the flight controller counter I immediately thought about my luggage.  Where was it?  Was it on the plane?  Has it been molested?  Will I ever see it again?  If it is broken into will that person judge me?

As I got to the front of the counter I told the lady about my predicament.  She got on the phone, bashed away on her keyboard and then looked at me with concern.  “It seems that there is a problem.  According to my computer you boarded the flight, so why are you standing here?” she said while giving herself unsightly frown lines.  “Well, I don’t know.  I am not on that flight” I replied sarcastically.

Apparently there was another passenger booked on the same flight who had the same name and surname as mine and they checked off the wrong person.  As if this was not bad enough there was a problem with our luggage as well.

I was told that they kept my luggage onboard the plane and had bumped his luggage off.  So my luggage would arrive in Johannesburg two hours before me and his two hours after him.  “Well isn’t this just great.  You know this is how planes blow up, don’t you?!  Aren’t you supposed to match passengers to their luggage?!  Just wait until the terrorists discover this loophole.  It will be 9/11 all over again” I screamed.  Softly.  As I didn’t want to get arrested and I really wanted to make my next flight.

Eventually I made it onto the next flight, dripping with sweat and smelling like a funky monkey.  Seeing as I was a last minute addition to the flight I was banished to the very back of the plane where all the degenerates who have punctuality issues are seated.  And to make matters worse I had the middle seat.

As I sat down the person to my left was some kind of far right Afrikaner bearded man in kaki clothes and to my right was a nice Indian lady.  I apologized to the lady about my odor and told her I just had a very rough day.  I did not apologize to the kaki bearded man.  All three of us were reading.  I was reading Chelsea Handler’s Uganda Be Kidding Me, the lady was reading 50 Shades of Gray and the kaki bearded man was reading some book on Siener van Rensburg (a right wing profit).  This made me rather paranoid.

The flight was rather uneventful as we did not crash or go missing.  Our pilot was a rugged, tall and a ridiculously good looking man.  The only problem was that he was finger fucking his iPhone before and after the flight.  Possibly also during the flight as it is apparently not necessary to tell people to fasten their seatbelts when there is severe turbulence, which we had!  But I forgave him because he was gorgeous.

After arriving in Johannesburg I immediately went to the baggage claims counter.  Also there was a young woman who lost her glasses.  They are still missing.  There was also a woman who just flew in from Washington DC on a Delta Air flight who lost her blood pressure medication on the plane.  Her description of what she kept them in was rather vague and she may have suffered a stroke since.  We should all really pray for her as she seemed really distressed.

Eventually, I was reunited with my luggage and it is a miracle that nothing was missing from it.  Well, actually the only things they could steal from it were dirty laundry, my toiletries and prescription medication that would not even make them high.

I arrived home last night just after 7pm; meaning that I was technically in transit for six hours instead of three.  This was the first flight I have ever missed and it was not even my own fault.  How was I supposed to know that there were two Gate C12’s and that some other person on the same flight shared my name?

I am however impressed with myself for not having had a panic attack, breaking down falling on the ground crying like an emotionally disturbed child and for keeping my shit together.  Sometimes you just need to relax and say fuck it.  This is what I did and it really helped.  I however still hate airports.

Till next time.

Counting My Blessings

Sometimes it is easy to forget how fortunate we are as LGBT South Africans.  We life in a country where our constitutional rights are protected, where we can legally marry who we love and where we can adopt children; we live in a country where we have all the same rights as everybody else.  And for this we should be grateful.  It is sometimes easy to forget that this is not the case for all LGBT people across the world and that in some cases just being gay can get you killed.  But I don’t want to dwell on negativity today.

Today I received some good news from my employer and this news just yet again made me grateful that I live in a country where I am no longer considered to be a second class citizen.  Today I was told that my employer will grant me full maternity/paternity leave when our precious baby is placed with us.  Being granted full paternity leave means that I will receive four months of fully paid paternity leave to make sure that our baby fully adjust and bond with us during a time that must be incredibly traumatic for any infant.  This is something not all gay adoptive parents have the privilege to get and I am fully aware how lucky I am.

For those of you who have been following our adoption journey thus far will know that adoption is not for the faint of heart.  It is an emotional roller-coaster leaving you quite winded and emotive at times.  It feels as if you are in a perpetual state of uncertainty yet you are required to be practical, optimistic and patient.  The latter is the one requirement I am struggling with the most.  Being the type of person who is proactive with most things in my life (I blame my profession for this) and somewhat of a control freak (I am working on this) the fact that I can neither control nor anticipate what is about to happen, especially when it comes to timelines, sometimes drives me nuts.

We have no control over when we will get a placement.  We have no control over which mother, if any, will pick us to raise her child.  We have no control over other people’s conservative life views and we have no control over or opportunity to help any prospective mother look past her own biases, which maybe homophobic by nature, and accept that a gay couple can raise her child with as much love and opportunities as any other straight couple out there.  In fact, we have no control over anything in the adoption process other than the few things we can control in our present childless life.  We have to place our confidence in our social worker and the adoption agency.  After all this is what they do and we have to trust in them and their judgment, competency and experience.

Next month we will be completing Phases II and III of the adoption process.  This involves psychometric tests, separate personal interviews, joint interviews, a house visit by the social worker and a panel interview.  It is quite daunting to say the least.  I mean, when I underwent my Top Secret Security clearance it was less invasive than this, but I guess when it comes to a child there is no such thing as too invasive, right?  It is a big deal and I wouldn’t expect anything less.  After we finish these two phases, by mid November, the waiting begins.  The waiting for that one phone call that will irrevocably change our lives forever.

Luckily we are already prepared (like I said, I am proactive and a control freak).  The nursery has been set up and is fully furnished.  Our house is baby proof and the pool is secure.  We have also acquired all the basic essentials that one would need.  The only things we are putting off buying are things like bottles, dummies and formula as we will only know what brands to buy about two weeks before placement.  So at the moment we are on standby for 2014.  Realistically I don’t think there is a chance in hell that anything will happen any sooner unless there is some kind of miracle.  And we all know how rare miracles are these days - especially small ones!

When I sit back and remove myself from this experience and examine it as an outsider I often wonder if my husband and I fully appreciate how lucky we truly are.  We have been together for 15 years of which we have been legally married for 7.  We have a loving and stable relationship, family who love and support us, employers who don’t discriminate against us and we are about to have a family of our own.  How many gay people can say that?  And better yet, how many gay people yearn for this.  Sometimes we forget how lucky we are but today I decided that I will remind myself of all my blessing and be grateful for them.

To follow our progress with regards to our adoption just click on #adoption to read all about it.

Till next time.

15 Years: And they said it would not last.

Today is our fifteen years anniversary.  Good Lord, has it really been that long?  It feels like yesterday that I first met my husband.  I still vividly remember that day I sent my friend over to go and tell hubby I thought he was cute.  I also remember the agonizing two months that I had to wait for him to become available.  I also clearly recall that auspicious Sunday evening when we finally officially became a couple, at a Drag Show nonetheless.  For a long time we lied and told people we met at an art exhibition.  You know because that just sounded more sophisticated than telling people we met at a Bar called “Bulls Eye”.  But now fifteen years on, what is the point of lying about where we met and I say fuck sophistication, we met at a Bar and at least it wasn’t a steam room.

For a long time there has been this myth that gay people are incapable of sustaining long term relationships, that we’re drug taking promiscuous misfits who cannot settle down and build a happy life for ourselves; that we are destined to grow old in nightclubs forever chasing after our long lost youth.  But that is just it - it’s a myth.  There are countless couples that I know of out there who have been in relationships for much longer than we have been.  Perhaps they are not active in the gay scene anymore and aren’t as visible, but we are out there.  Look, I won’t lie.  The last fifteen years were not all rainbows and butterflies.  Relationships take work.  But when you find someone who is worth it you won’t mind putting in the effort.  So let me share with you some of our highlights and lowlights of the past fifteen years.

All relationships have ups and downs.  Some couples are strong enough to make it through those down times and others are not.  As for hubby and I the majority of our down times were because of my profession.  Having had a rather interesting career thus far, which for the most part I am legally obligated to keep secret and not talk about or God forbid write about, I will share with you only the things that won’t land my ass in jail.  During my career I have been required to be away from home a lot.  Sometimes not being allowed to tell my husband where I was going or what I was doing.  He accepted this and I admired him for it as it does take courage for a spouse not to ask questions when you in fact have many.

The worst time in our relationship was when I worked undercover.  I was away from home for a long time and I know my husband was sick with worry knowing that what I was doing was dangerous.  I did however, during that time, check in with him once a day with phone calls telling him that I was still alive and finding out how things were going at home.  This I always did to put his mind at ease and for me to hear a familiar voice.  It was a routine we had for every time I went away and I never missed a phone call.  Well, that’s not true, there was that one time.

While working undercover there was a particularly nasty incident where I got hurt and I did not check in with my husband.  He sat at home waiting for my call that never came.  He was wondering if I was still alive and had no means of contacting me.  Out of fear that something might have happened to me he eventually called a colleague of mine.  He told him that he hasn’t heard from me and asked him how long he has to wait before he should start to get worried.  The colleague told him two days and hubby lost his mind.  At around 10pm that evening I finally manage to speak to him much to his relief.  Later, after I returned home and my undercover operation was concluded I found a letter that he wrote on our computer in which he wrote that he didn’t think our marriage is going to work if I continue to do undercover work.  Consequently, I never worked undercover again.

Another lowlight in our relationship was when my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer and her passing away nine months later.  It was a particularly difficult time for me.  I have a tendency to withdraw emotionally and tend to keep people at a distance when going through something serious.  I guess I do this to protect myself but unfortunately I then also push away the people who I care about the most.  Hubby did his best to support me and was patient with me which is a very difficult thing to do when he, at that time, must have felt so alone in our marriage.  After my mother’s passing he also embraced our peculiar family traditions when it comes to mourning.  He did not question why we had to cover all the mirrors in the house and why we had to keep a vigil with incense and a candle for seven days after the funeral, he just did it.  Even though I was emotionally unavailable and grief  stricken he was patient with me and gave me all the love and support that I so desperately needed.

Sure there other low lights that we had in our fifteen years together but seeing as my reader’s attention span only allows for a 1500 words I will skip them this time around.  Before I depress you more than a cold cup of coffee let’s move on and get to the highlights, shall we.  Getting legally married must be one of the highlights of the last fifteen years.  Having our union legally recognized not only legitimized our relationship but also shows the world that we are committed to each other.  Certainly it would still be true even without that piece of paper but it is comforting to know that if something would ever happen to either one of us the other will be legally the beneficiary of the other’s estate.  Also, I’d much rather have my husband make the difficult medical decisions should it ever come down to it as opposed to anyone else.  After all he knows me better than I know myself.

Our honey moon in Egypt and all our international travels have been highlights.  Both of us have a keen sense of adventure when it comes to exploring foreign countries.  Even with my OCD travel is the one thing I will never so no to.  Hubby is the best travel companion being the practical one and the voice of reason.  He is also the one that freaks out travel guides and I remember the one time in Egypt when he told our guide to stop at a market that was not on our itinerary.  The guide reluctantly obliged and hubby did not blink an eye as he started surveying the market for bargains.  We eventually split up going in different directions in the market and almost caused the guide to have a complete nervous breakdown much to my amusement.  This is exactly why I love my husband so much.

The fact that my husband also gets my sense of humor, which is dark and dry most of the time, and that he has accepted that I suffer from a severe case of foot-in-mouth disease is a big advantage.  He has many times told me that “I cannot take you anywhere” as I inadvertently always find a way to offend some people.  His journey to accepting this side of who I am is most definitely a highlight for me.  My other idiosyncrasies, of which there are in an abundance, and how they challenge him on a daily basis and his ability to accept them I find more than enduring and makes me love him more every day.

Another major highlight in the last fifteen years is our home.  When we decided to buy a house and move out of our apartment we both knew it would be stressful.  We searched for months to find the perfect home that would meet both our needs.  So when we finally found the perfect house it needed some work to tweak it to what we wanted.  We had to do some breaking down (both the house and our mental states), we had builders and painters in our house and yard and there were a couple of royal fuck ups.  But after a couple of months of renovations, a few meltdowns and me on the bathroom floor crying like an emotionally disturbed child many an evening, most of the renovations are complete and we made it through that time having a stronger marriage, stronger relationship and the almost perfect house.

Fifteen years is a long time to be with the same person.  But when fifteen years feels like five, you know that you have met your soul mate and that you are in this for the long haul.  Sure there will be good times and bad times, rich times and poor times and sickness and health.  But through the highs and the lows if your love is pure you will make it.  Hubby and I almost never fight and I have been asked many times what our secret is and it’s really simple - respect each other.  We have never cursed each other, screamed at each other and even when we are angry as hell and think the other one is being an asshole we still respect each other enough to resolve our differences in a respectful manner.  The myth that gay people cannot have long term relationships is bullshit.  Hubby and I are living proof that gay people can.  So if you are single and reading this, there is hope and you must never give up on love.  Your soul mate is out there.  Here is to another glorious fifteen years of marital bliss.  I love you hubby.

Till next time.

Panic Attack!

It may come as a surprise to some people but I actually have a real job.  You know the kind that pays the bills.  Seeing as I have never made any money from blogging and probably never will, I do need something that can sustain my and hubby’s “lavish” lifestyle.  But in the real world all is not always sunshine and roses and of late things have been rather (how should I put it) stressful in my work environment.  The fact that I also had to visit the dentist once a week for the last three weeks and having had to get two filling and a root canal also did not contribute to alleviate my stress levels.  All of this then also contributed to me having my first serious panic attack on Monday and it was not pretty.  It was not pretty at all!

Those who know me well understand that August is never a good month for me.  It seems that each year shit goes down in the month of August and bad things happen.  Being a professional sailor down the river of denial, I usually ignore unpleasant things until it goes away (I have learned this skill from my cats, they are fucking good at it.)  But denial can only work up to a point.  You see even when I am under a fuck load of stress I usually have the ability to suppress it and I also don’t really ever get seriously angry about anything.  I call this having excellent coping mechanisms and vodka.  Unfortunately, the human body is a mean bitch and sometimes when you try and lie to yourself, particularly about stress, the bitch gives you a reality check and it’s normally not pleasant.  And this is exactly what happened to me.

On Monday our new security company’s representative came to my office in order for me to sign some papers.  I fired our previous security company and it’s a long story.  While in this meeting all was going well up on to five minutes into it.  As unexpectedly as a crack whore appearing in a dark alley it hit me.  I started feeling woozy, my heart began beating rapidly, I could not breath, I started shaking like a Parkinson patient, sweating and I literally felt like I was going to die.  All this in front of a complete stranger who sat there looking at me horrified.  I was having a full blown panic attack and I was desperately trying to keep things together and look normal.  “Are you ok?” the guy asked me looking all concerned.  “Yes… I am fine” I lied.  After about three minutes I realized there was no use trying to fight the panic attack and I eventually said “I’m having a panic attack, I need a few minutes.  Don’t judge me!”

The panic attack lasted a good ten minutes and it was terrifying.  Having one in the privacy of your own office, house or car is fine, but having one in front of a complete stranger in the voyeur of your office with people walking past rates right up there on the embarrassment scale with shitting your own pants.  So, I phoned my doctor and scheduled an appointment.  This guy has been my on-and-off physician for well over ten years and he knows me and some of my embarrassing medical issues well, and I trust him.  Sitting in his consulting room I remember thinking “What. The. Fuck?!  I have worked undercover where I almost got killed and I didn’t have panic attacks then.  Why the hell is this happening to me now?!”  The doctor then proceed to explain that if you suppress stress for too long eventually your body will rebel and it does this normally by stomach ulcers and panic attacks.  With my blood pressure having been 173/135 I could have had a heart attack.  Or like I like to call it - a myocardial infarction due to bullshit overload.

The doctor proceeded to tell me that having panic attacks while under extreme stress is nothing to be ashamed off and he prescribed me some “happy” and “don’t give a fuck” pills.  So the next day I was as chilled out as a stoner at a Bob Marley concert.  It was nice working at the office all mellowed out, having the world seem like I was a couple seconds behind it and driving to work thinking that all taxi drivers are such great drivers.  But, unfortunately my little piece of medicated nirvana was not to last long.  Timing is everything and never let anyone tell you any different.  This counts for both good and bad things.  You see after what can be described as a rather uneventful day I arrived home and went about my normal routine of being a domestic diva.  I fed the cats and tortoise, began with the laundry and prepared dinner.  Then it happened, some asshole on Facebook told me that I should slit my wrists.

Being quite use to receiving hate mail I am not normally too phased by it.  Mostly they have strong religious undertones to them, tell me that I am going to hell and even that they wish that I would get AIDS and die.  Surprisingly, I have also received my fair share of hate mails from disgruntled queer folks, so I really thought that I have seen it all.  I was wrong.  This fucktard took hate mail to a whole other level.  This sad queen wrote I should slit my wrists, or if I don’t want to do that he will give me a toaster to throw into my bath because he would love to see me drown in my own piss and shit.  How fucked up must one person be to say or write something like that to another person?  Suicide is no fucking laughing matter and if this is the type of fantasies this guy is having there must be something seriously wrong in his pathetic little head.  It really upset me and this psycho’s timing really sucked.  All I have to say to that man is FUCK YOU! (Clearly my happy pills are not strong enough to deal with certain fuckwads)

As that was not enough, today I am going for my second round of my root canal and this time around I am less panicked about it than the first time around.  My dentist did a fantastic job the previous time and I know I am in excellent hands.  But that being said this week have sucked donkey balls.  Starting my week off with a panic attack and then receiving the most disturbing hate mail to date, I can honestly say this has been the worst week of this whole year.  But, fortunately there’s medication for that and it is fabulous.  I know this is not a permanent solution but for the interim this will have to do.  Bitch be chilled.

Till next time.

Public Toilets & the Diseases You Can Catch

It is no secret that I detest public toilets.  They are nothing but Germ Incubators used by people with questionable personal hygiene.  I say this because you do not know what a stranger’s hand washing habits are like, whether they are wearing clean underwear and fresh socks or where their hands and butt cheeks have been.  Until proven otherwise it is always wise to assume the absolute worst and wipe every surface that is to touch your skin with antibacterial wipes.  Sure this might sound excessive to you but I promise after you have read what I am about to share, you will view Germ Incubators with the same disgust as I do.

I squirm at the thought of creepy germs that lurk on toilet seats, faucet handles and door handles in public toilets.  For this reason I spent as little time in them as possible.  And during those nerve-wracking moments when I am forced by my bodily functions to venture into one, I usually find myself opening the stall door with my elbow, crouching precariously above the toilet seat while avoiding touching anything and flush with it my shoe.  Sure this might sound a tad neurotic, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.

Research have found that the average public toilet could harbor E Coli and the Shigella bacteria, Hepatitis A, the common cold virus and various sexually transmitted organism like Crabs, Chlamydia and Gonorrhea.  To make matters worse, the average person touch their face between two to three thousand times a day and it is possible that you will touch your face in the toilet before you even get a chance to wash your hands, thereby contaminating your face with bacteria, viruses or STD organisms!  That’s right.  You can innocently stroll into the public loo to number two and leave with crabs or the bird flu or BOTH!

Just the other day at my office my bowels needed to move.  Normally my very personal bodily functions are on a strict routine and timed in such a way that I never have to sit on any foreign toilet seat.  But this day my timing was off.  Whether it was due to the Chinese food I had the night before or whether the universe decided my life was too boring and needed some spicing up, I do not know.  Being the public toilet phobe that I am, I ignored it.  You see I function better under pressure and if it wasn’t “I am about to shit my pants” time, I saw no need to expose myself Cholera or the Ebola virus.

An hour passed.  Then it happened and my body gave me the signal that it was time.  So I made my way to our floor’s men’s room.  It should be noted that my department share our floor with the IT department and they have some very nasty fast food eating habits and their eating habits translates into a lot of bad smells and confused and angry stomachs.  In light of this, combined with my Germ and Bubonic Plague Phobia, I approached the restroom hesitantly and with utter dread.

After opening the door with my elbow I was horrified to find that I was not the only one in there.  The stall next to the one I was about to use was occupied.  Another thing you should know about me is that I can’t pee if someone is watching me and I can’t poop if I am not alone.  But my body didn’t care, I needed to expel some waste and I needed to do it now.  After wiping the toilet seat down with antibacterial wipes I sat down and tried as best I could to go quietly.

Half way through my bowel movement I heard the person next to me finishing up.  He opened his stall’s door, flushed the toilet and left without washing his hands.  He just had a shit, wiped his ass and didn’t wash his hands!  While breathing in his feces air particles that were released when he flushed his toilet, I sat there hyperventilating and freaking the fuck out!

“It’s 11:30am and there is a person on my floor touching stuff, touching stuff I touch with feces on his hands!  I am going to have his feces on my hands!  Motherfucker!” I thought with utter dismay.  Who does that?  Who goes to the toilet, takes a dump and then leaves without even washing their hands?  Are people who do things like this raised by fucking homeless people?  If a person does this at work, what the hell goes on in their homes?  The more I thought about it the more disturbed I got.  Till this day I still don’t know who it was but I do have my suspicions.  But this is not the worst of it.

Not washing your hands is one thing but shedding your pubic hair is a whole different story.  You see not only do we have a non-hand-washer and feces spreader to deal with at our office, we also have a guy who sheds his ball hair.  I have found pubes on the toilet seat, the urinal and the basin.  It evokes a similar reaction in me as that time I found dry cum stains on a certain hotel room’s wall.  It’s disgusting.  It should not be there.  It makes me feel violated.  It is just plain wrong.

What if this jungle bush pube shedder catches the crabs or the syphilis?  Are we going to get it to?  Does he even know he is shedding worse than my five cats combined?  Going to the restroom and finding his pubes is upsetting and always serve as just another reminder that I am sharing that space with other people.  People who I don’t always know.  People with questionable personal hygiene.  The same as with the feces hands guy, I do not know who pubes guys is, but with him I too have my suspicions.

Going into a public toilet is like playing Russian roulette at the CDC’s most secure virus vault.  Every time you go in there you run the risk of contaminating yourself with other people’s germ, catching a super virus or helping a new virus mutate.  The worst must be restrooms at airports especially in Muslim countries.  I remember my experience at Cairo’s International Airport vividly.  The floor was wet, stuff was floating around my feet and it smelled like shit.  That’s exactly why I now won’t eat anything strange or spicy before a long trip and why contracting food poisoning by eating crab cakes from a buffet before an international flight never ends well.

Yes, public toilets are perilous places with a gauntlet of viruses, bacteria and fatal diseases you must successfully navigate and avoid.  Sure, public toilets are needed and we sometimes have no choice but to use them but when we do we must try and be safe.  Remember just because you have excellent personal hygiene doesn’t mean the gazillion other people who have been there before you do too.  There are some pretty disgusting people out there and chances are they used the loo before you.

Till next time.

Too Gay for Ugliness!

It is well known and documented that I am generally unpleasant and bitchy when I am not surrounded by beautiful things, running water, air-conditioning and flattering lighting.  Case and point would be that court case (of which we do not speak) that I had to attend in the Johannesburg CBD.  Every day of the week (for months) I dragged my ass there and had to walk across a road that the fire department had to hose down every morning because homeless people would piss and shit on it during the night.  Every day I sat in a courtroom with little to no air-conditioning or flattering lighting, had to buy food for lunch (and sometimes dinner) from places you just knew was infected with all variations of hepatitis, and the only water I could surround myself with was carbonated and bottled.  I wasn’t happy then, and I am not happy now.

Road rage is something I suffer from and my most recent episode caused me to have an epiphany.  You see I was driving back home from work when an old lady cut me off.  She didn’t use her indicator lights before she cut in front of me (which fucking drives me insane) and she was driving way under the speed limit.  When I honked my horn at her she proceeded to stick her wrinkled and liver spot covered hand out of the window and flipped me an arthritis encrusted bird – twice!  She had done exactly the same thing to me three months earlier, as I recognized her deathmobile (a 1974 Toyota) and her geriatric middle finger.  So I did what any normal person would do - I contemplated killing her!

For a brief moment I considered where exactly I would have to bump her car in order for her to veer violently into oncoming traffic.  I knew it would have to look like an accident or else my insurance would not pay and I am far too pretty for prison and didn’t want to be charged and convicted of vehicular manslaughter.  As I was considering my evil plot of revenge and murder by car, I looked around me.  I was surrounded by hawkers, beggars, dirt, broken paving, weeds, trash and dust.  I was in the middle of Uglyville.  Then I realized, maybe the old lady wasn’t the real cause of my anger, it actualy was the hideous road.

For just under three years I have been driving the same stretch of road to work.  It is ugly, straight and there is nothing inspiring or aesthetically pleasing about it.  Sure some days there are people collecting money at the traffic lights for whatever cause or charity they represent while dressed in costumes.  Some days it is delightful and other days it is not.  Just this morning I drove past a bunch of students collecting money for their college.  The one guy was either dressed as a zucchini or a squid; I couldn’t tell which it was because the costume was that badly made.  I sometimes give them money, if they are cute, and on such a day the road seems less dreadful.

Then there are those days when straight guys insist on publically embarrassing their soon to be married mates and I do like watching heterosexuals making fools of themselves in public.  Last week I drove past one such spectacle.  The guy was dressed in nothing but a diaper and a cowboy hat begging for cash at a traffic light.  He was build like a Greek God.  I did slow down and gave him a donation because I wanted to see his biceps up close and express my sympathy and regret over his lifestyle choice.  He would have received a bigger donation had it not been for the diaper and the fact that he wasn’t gay, but I digress…

Any self respecting homosexual will tell you there is nothing more unsightly than an unkempt bush and on my stretch of road there are plenty.  My city seems to have an aversion to pulling out weeds, trimming bushes and general beautification.  So my road remains ugly and it ruins my day daily!  Would it destroy the national budget to plant a few trees, a flower or two or God forbid just clean up a bit?  Would it kill my city council to even consider lifting up their fat asses from their comfy chairs, for which I as a tax payer pay for, and put forth an effort to make my city attractive?  I ask these questions daily while breathing in dust and dodging hawkers, taxis and old women drivers.

Sure, I know the economy is in the shitter and the price of crude oil is having her period, but this is all the more reason to make an effort to gayify our environment.  I don’t deserve to be depressed by my commute to work and back, and neither does my fellow road users.  The only reason I get road rage is because I drive to work surrounded by hideousness.  It is my God given gay right to have my stretch of road beautified!  So this is what I am going to do.

First thing tomorrow morning I am calling up my Mayor’s office and demanding they fix this madness.  I don’t care if they have bigger problems at hand like municipal strikes, pot holes, prostitution and drug dealers.  Even whores and drug dealers deserve a pretty work environment and most people in my city drive 4X4 vehicles and recycle anyway.  If they get pissed off at my demands my response will be simple.  I will merely ask them “How was your drive to work this morning?” and I will ask them this every day until they get a restraining order.

How long it will take for my hideous piece of road to get its facelift, I do not know.  But I will be driving to work from now on with seeds in my car; seeds for flowers that I will be throwing out of my car’s window ever couple of feet.  It’s not littering if it’s natural and the world could do with more daisies, poppies and sunflowers!  Hopefully my small concerted effort will shoot sprouts, the flowers will grow and bloom into something spectacular.  One day my commute to work and back will bring a little smile to my face and perhaps to others too.

Till next time.

Don’t Look Like a Terrorist

There’s no two ways about it, the world after 9/11 irrevocably changed. And no industry felt the effects of 9/11 more than that of the aviation industry. Gone are the days when flying was relaxing, when checking in for your flight took just ten minutes and your biggest concern when boarding a flight was being seated next to a morbidly obese dude with chronic flatulence. Nowadays, the biggest threat to flying, apart from the odd annoying volcanic ash clouds, bird strikes and/or wind shear, are terrorist and airlines have devised intrusive and humiliating measures to counter this threat. Having had my fare share of humiliating run-ins with airport security, customs officials and cabin crew, I thought I’d share some of my tips on dos and don’ts to help make your next flying experience as smooth and stress free as possible.

Do NOT look like a terrorist. Now you may ask, what does a terrorist look like? Well, I cannot tell you for sure, but suffice to say if you do look like one you will be searched and interrogated. Therefore, always make sure you are abreast of the newest fashion fad for seasoned terrorists and then avoid wearing that! Avoid reading any material containing the words Al Qaida, Osama Bin Laden, Jihad, Taliban, Hijacking and/or Bomb Making in its title, as it will land you in an interrogation room. Pre-ordering a Halaal meal while you check in online is also not a good idea, especially when your name clearly indicates that you are not Muslim. I talk from experience people. Earlier this year I mistakenly clicked Halaal as food preference and I was harassed by airline staff 4 times: once during check in, once during boarding, and twice during the flight. But, even remotely appearing like you may be a terrorist, sympathetic towards terrorists or in any way affiliated with terrorists are not the only hurdle you will face at an airport.

No matter what your mood when you arrive at any airport always be cordial. Sure you may smell and feel like shit after your eleven hour flight. Sure you may be tired because the dude next to you snored the whole flight through keeping you awake. But no matter what your situation may be, know this - security and customs officials do not give a rat’s ass about your problems. Even if you are late for your flight they will take their time and any snide remark or inkling of an attitude or noncooperation from you will, in all probability, lead to a full body and/or cavity search. Which leads me to another important rule to remember – always wear nice underwear! Because you never know when or where you may be asked to strip down to your tidy withies and we don’t want to be any more embarrassed than we need to be. And then there are those tedious security questions.

The airport has no place for a sense of humour. If you think you are a stand-up comedian please make sure you stay very far away from me when checking in at the airport or going through customs. All airport staff has their sense for humour surgically removed on their first day on the job. No matter how stupid or fantastical the questions they ask you may be, answer them as brief and concise and non-incriminating as possible. I once made the mistake of answering “Did you pack your own luggage?” with “No, my husband did”, causing a twenty minute delay as they searched my bag. I was also recently asked in Kenya whether I “ever assemble or tried to assemble a nuclear or chemical device”. Naturally after being asked this question I paused as I was trying to figure out if the natural poison concoction I developed last year to ward off pests in our garden constituted a “chemical device”. So I answered “No, not recently”. Needless to say both my luggage and I were thoroughly searched and each item carefully inspected. Speaking of luggage...

Be very mindful of what you pack in your hand luggage. A couple of weeks ago I took a national flight for a short business trip. As usual when I checked in the check-in-counter-chick was adamant in reminding me not to leave any electronics in my luggage that’s to be loaded into cargo. Being the seasoned traveller that I am, I knew not to do this and I had my laptop, BlackBerry, their respective cables, a digital recorder and its batteries and my camera and its cable in my hand luggage. (Guess you can see where this is going). I gaily made my way to the security checkpoint, got my little plastic container, took off my watch and belt, took out my laptop and BlackBerry and placed all my items in the container.

As I, my bag and other items made our way through the metal detector and X-Ray machine alarms sounded and I was immediately pulled to the side. “Please empty your bag” I was insolently instructed. Apparently all the different items in my bag looked like pieces of a homemade bomb ready for assembly. As I emptied my bag the pièce de résistance fell out – a knife (don’t ask). The one time I forgot to check my bag before I leave home and I left a big ass knife in there. It was confiscated, I was questioned and I, my “bomb” and knife delayed my flight with a good 26 minutes. And then there is your passport. Possibly the most important document any traveller owns.

Make an effort to look like your passport photo. Sure many of us don’t look our absolute best on our passport photos and there is a reason they don’t allow us Photoshop or Airbrush these mug shots – the reason being that if you don’t look like your mug shot customs won’t allow you to enter the country. Exactly this happened to hubby and I with our last trip to Madagascar. You see, a few days prior to our departure both hubby and I decided to bleach our hair. We figured that blonds have more fun and therefore being platinum blond on an island would be ten times more fun. Boy were we in for a surprise.

Once we departed from the aircraft in Antanarivo and completed our little entry form, we fell in line to have our passports checked and stamped. When we reached the top of the queue our trouble began. The custom official looked at our passports, looked at us and looked at our passports again before handing them off to a second customs official who then took us aside. With a thick French accent the bearded lady asked “Is this you? Is this you here in the passport?” pointing to our pictures. “Yes it is, it’s only the hair that’s different” we responded. “No, not you, no, no, no.” She responded clearly befuddled. A good 15 minutes of negotiation later which also addressed my weight gain and subsequent weight loss, at that time, she was finally semi convinced our passports contained our likeness and we were allowed to legally enter Madagascar.

Yes, flying after 9/11 and the subsequent stringent security measures do, at times, make our lives difficult and drive me mad, but at the end of the day it’s all done in an effort to keep us safe. After all I do prefer landing at an airport rather than the alternative – intentionally crashing into a building. It is an inconvenience that is here to stay and an inconvenience we best get use too. I do hope my dos and don’ts will contribute to making your next flight less stressful and a much more pleasant experience.

Till next time.

A Day in My Head

In life one can and should expect many surprises. Living on the southernmost tip of Africa, I like many of my fellow South Africans, sure have no shortage of that. But today I choose not to dwell on the circus that is politics, nor will I focus on gay rights or the lack thereof in the rest of the world. Today I choose to focus my attention on a subject matter far more interesting and complex. Today I will provide you with an unbridled glimpse of what goes on inside my head. So brace yourselves here is a rundown of a typical day in my life.

Contrary to popular believe, I am not a morning person nor do I break out in a glee like musical with the first break of light. In the morning it takes a good hour and a half to become me. Due to chronic insomnia and an approximate 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep a night, I awake in the morning totally personality-less and somewhat unpleasant For this reason I try to avoid any form of human interaction before I am fully awake as I may hurt someone. Like a computer my brain needs to boot up and any application request during this process will lead to my brain crashing and the rebooting process to start afresh. I absolutely hate morning people or any person who wakes up happy – they are freaks of nature. Should a cheerful morning glory bitch cross my path I tend to fight the urge to cut them up like a cracked up tranny hooker and wipe their blood from my pillow wrinkle imprinted drool covered face. I sometimes wish I had a little billboard on my forehead that reads “Approach with caution!” and proximity warning bells, because if I had many an early morning grunt and sneer could have been avoided.

After I have shaved my man hair, powdered my face and wrestled my hair and wardrobe into a recognizable submission, Facebooked and Twittered it is time to face traffic. I am what you may call an impatient and aggressive yet courteous driver. I have no patience with taxi drivers, people applying makeup and/or hair products while driving or people who fail to use indicator lights. As such I also have no dilemma with driving these people of the road and I have done so in the past. Even though, in recent months, I have made a conscious decision to keep to the speed limit, I do see my drive to work as a race against time. A race I am adamant to win but looses daily. So if the speed limit is 120Km/h I expect everyone else to drive at 120Km/h or get the hell off the highway and/or out of my way.

Work is something I enjoy and suffer simultaneously for about 8 hours a day as it pays my bills and sustains my not so lavish lifestyle. Like most work places there are people and when there are people there are issues. I, for one, absolutely detest it when I greet someone and they look me square in the eyes and ignore me. Are they deaf, in a semi vegetative state or are they just plain rude? But just the other day, having had a dreadful morning, I too was greeted with a cordial “Good morning” to which I duly responded “What is so fucking good about it?” Maybe I should have kept quiet, but hey that’s better than just being ignored don’t you think? Alternatively, if they don’t want to speak the least they could do is give a polite smile or a nod of the head. It only takes 17 muscles to smile and if I can crack a smile with my Botox laden face even when I don’t want to or don’t feel particularly friendly they can do that too Damnit!

At work, as I am sure most of you will agree, there are times that your attention is not as focused as it should be. As for me, during those times, I tend to get lost in what is called my “Ally Mcbeal moments”. For those of you too young to remember the series I recommend renting it. There have been some meetings during which my imagination got the better of me. In one particular meeting, about a rather serious subject matter, I caught myself sitting in a room and everyone were wearing pink ballet tutus with the one rather bombastic gentleman additionally in fishnet stockings and red 9 inch high heels – it took some restraint not to giggle. Don’t get me wrong I always give my full attention in important meetings, workshops and interviews I just tend to livening it up a bit and make otherwise dull situations a little bit more colorful. After all I do bore easily and everything is more fun and interesting in pink!

After a hard day’s work and road rage there is nothing I like better to do than come home and smell my cats. Sure it is not an exercise they enjoy but it gives me pleasure and they are rewarded for the indignity with a treat. After I get my daily whiff of pussy, worked in a spot of television it is time for dinner. An exercise fraught with complications when it’s hubby’s turn to cook: You see, when it comes to food I can be full of shit. I have issues with textures of certain foods and I also have an aversion to pasta, pancakes and two minute noodles. With the latter being a painful reminder of my student days when I was poor and it use to be my staple diet. Two minute noodles with mayonnaise, avocado and lemon juice to this day brings back the angst of exams and project deadlines.

After a long day bedtime is usually between 10pm and 12am, sometimes 1am. I did mention I have insomnia, right? Our sleeping arrangement could be peculiar to some. In bed, other than being fabulous, I tend to be a blanket hoarder and, of late, a pillow thief and I am still not sure why I do that. Also being somewhat claustrophobic our 4 cats have learned that my side of the bed is off limits and crossing the border will result in retaliation involving feet. So many nights/mornings poor hubby would awake without a pillow, only a small part of the blanket and our four cats on top of him with the soothing sounds of my quiet and very adorable snoring. So this is how most of my days go down. Boring aint it?

Till next time.