Why you should go see the Riverdance show

On Wednesday night Jon and I went on a date.  First time in ages, actually.  Ahem.  Just saying.  Anyway, we went on a date.  It was awesome, actually.  Southern Sun was kind enough to call me up last week offering a double ticket to see Riverdance at Montecasino which is cool because usually I’m the one giving away tickets and invitations, so it was nice to be on the receiving end for a change.

I grew up on my mother’s love of Michael Flatley.  She used to fawn and sigh at the TV whenever he was on, and I know that if she lived anywhere near Jozi there would’ve been a snowball’s chance in hell of me taking anyone but her to the show.  So to say that I was super excited is a mild understatement.

Jon, however, was not.  At first he asked if we could skip it, then he said “it’s not really my thing, but ohhhhkaaaay I’ll come with” and then he was all “Sigh.  Riverdance.  Kill me.”

Well!  Let me tell you, both of us were enchanted.  From the music to the dancing to the setting to the stage presence of dancers to the outfits to the sound system, I was amazed on every level.  I’ve been lucky enough in the last two years to go to quite a few theater productions and let me tell you – including Cats – this show has been my favourite.  I highly recommend you go if you can, and don’t worry if you fall in love with the male prancer too, he’s brilliant.  From whooping and grinning wildly at the audience, he commands your attention and everything in his vicinity fades while he performs.  The girl was okay too, I suppose.

I think the only gripe I have about the entire experience is that half of the show (the second half) is the ending.  Seriously.  For forty five minutes the performers stand on stage waving and bowing at you and smiling at each other and trilling their hands.  Forty. Five. M I N U T E S.  Worse still, is that while they’re doing it, you’re standing there in the audience like a douche ball clapping and grinning and nodding to those standing next to you clapping and grinning and nodding.  Eventually your feet start aching because you’re in heels and the tall guy in front of you starts looking around wondering how soon he can sit down, which is precisely the exact thought going through your mind at the same time.  Except out of sheer will and determination you refuse to give in first.  ”I will not be the first douche to sit” I thought.

Five minutes later, the prancers were still clapping shoulders and congratulating each other for a fantastic show, and I found myself saying “yes, yes, you’re dainty and pretty and flap around quite elegantly.  You’re wonderful, magnificent, marvellous, now getoffthefuckingstagealreadymyarmsarekillingme!”

And that’s when it hit me: stage performers are selfish.  We’re every bit of that show as well, us audience members.  If not for us, why would they perform?  Therefore, after the fourth encore of the evening, I felt that the prancers had done quite enough and I needed some appreciation for my amazing skills in clapping like a primate.

And so I took a bow. Because the audience has feelings too.

Also, my arms had since lost theirs by that stage.

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Go see the show, it’s seven kinds of awesome.

PS: Thank you Southern Sun, Jon and I had a great night.

x

Lookin’ for a job in digital? We got ‘em here…

Dudes, excitement!

Aqua’s sister agency, Base Two, is hiring!  They’re based in Jozi, and no – they don’t want freelancers just yet.

The positions available are as follows:

• Designers -> graphic, not interior
• Copywriter
• Flash Lead
• QA
• Java Lead
• HTML Developer
• Campaign Administrator
• Community Manager-> kind of like what I do, but a little less
• Traffic Co-Ordinator ->projects, not cars
• Client Service Managers
• Project Managers

If you’re interested, pop me a mail sheenag at aquaonline dot com.  The application process closes at 5pm on Jan 31st, so move  your asses.

Okthxbi!

Did I tell you we went shooting?

On Saturday we went to a gun range in the middle of Midrand, dressed like terrorists and got a selection of various shot guns, Uzi’s, AK47′s and hand guns to pick from.  For Goose’s birthday.  At her insistence.  Because she’s so classy like that.

Tam and I sat on the sidelines and cheered everyone else on, muffled ears and all.  I was all for shooting, myself, but once I stepped into that range my legs turned to jelly and the gun thing was a bit too close to home for me to really enjoy it, so I became cheerleader and Tam & Jon joined me.  I know that guns don’t kill people, humans do, but still – I’m still rather surprised at the inner wuss I found inside me.

The boys had a blast, but none of them as much as Goose.  She should’ve been born with a penis, that one.

The instructors were something of magnificence, by the way.  With oxcents to die for, them dressed up in cammo and army boots, I didn’t bat an eyelid when I realised all the men were armed.  For every day occurances, like shopping.  To them their guns are like necklaces are to me.

We were entertained by stories of gun shoot-outs, competitive pissing competitions of who’s more badass and who gets more chicks (pronounced ‘cheeks’ in that part of the world) and collectively my thoughts were screaming “YOU’RE JUST A WANNABE!  MY BROTHER IS WAY MORE BADASS THAN YOU.  Also, he doesn’t need to carry his gun around permanently like an accessory”.

It was fun.  Will I go again?  Probably not, but the main thing is that everyone else seemed to have a blast, and that’s what matters right?

How do you feel about guns?

Protected: I miss this.

I’ve switched from Blackberry to iPhone

It’s a 3Gs, not 4.  I’m still keeping my BB as a back up.  Don’t slay me, please.  Jeebiz, I just need help not a religious sermon from the BB fans.

I have a few questions, would you mind helping out please?

1. Best browser app
2. Best apps you couldn’t live without
3. Anything you think I need to know about
4. How the eff do you use USSD menus on iPhone?

That’s all I can think of for now…

Yay! New phone!

Employment advice. Before I lose my mucking find!

In absolutely mind-boggling, breaking news Gloria broke the fucking toaster.  The cool flat pan toaster to make killer zarms.  It was all the cats fault, naturally.  Because you know, cats go around ALL THE FUCKING TIME BREAKING TOASTERS.

I just got notified by my beloved via skype:

Jon: so.. apparently the toaster is broken.  Not sure if Gloria meant the normal toaster or the snackwich thing.  She blamed it on the black cat that was on the counter, and while jumping off when she came downstairs knocked it over.

Fucking awesome.  This comes after I found the sugar pot without half it’s lid.  Was I told? No.  Did she put it somewhere I could see it? No.  Could I find a note anywhere? Big, fat, fucking NO!!!!!!!  She just neatly put the half-lid back on top of the sugar pot and I nearly dropped the entire thing all over the kitchen floor when making my coffee half asleep yesterday.

Seriously, I have now just about had enough!  Jon and I have been discussing getting rid of her.  More like me wailing and Jon calming me down with ‘we’ll get a new one, sweetheart, a better one, a nicer one that will speak English properly and one you will love’.

We need to find out how to go about this.  I want her gone.  But I don’t want to screw her over, either.  She’s aged and I’m sure no one will employ her straight away, so I’d like to give her at least two month’s notice and a severance of sorts.

Questions:

1. Do we need to back pay her UIF? (It’s not currently activated)
2. How does pension work?
3. Will she be able to claim anything from the government?
4. Do I need to worry about CCMA?

Assvice, I need it.

Annnnnnnnnd GO!

Baboo the barbarian…

A lot of you will know all about my brother Baboo, also known as Brandon.  If you don’t you can read all about his story here, here, here, here, here, and here.

In a few weeks, it’ll be two years since the shooting.  Two years of physio, triumphs, failures, Power Balance bracelet arguments, not enough therapy, love, sibling quality time, phone calls filled with laughter, frustration, pain and love.

Most importantly, love.  And gratitude.  Because you see, despite some mentally insane criminal shooting my brother while on duty to protect his country, despite my brother being paralyzed and learning to walk again, despite him losing his best friend Nero, despite us putting our lives on hold to help him heal and gain his life back, despite everything that happened because of that dark and terrifying day two years ago: Baboo is still alive.

Even though my mom and I are convinced he went through a second puberty (seriously, he is 10cm taller than he used to be.  His moods at one stage were unbearably childish.  He’s also learnt to be naughty and mischevious again – just like a kid!), even through the second puberty I find myself thinking:  He’s still here.  He’s living, breathing, running, jumping, swimming, loving and spreading around his cootie brother germs.

He has a stunning girlfriend who loves him very much, he has a collection of Nike shoes that most athletes would envy, he has a fantastically funny set of new friends, and he has his whole life ahead of him.  Yes, his short term memory is shot, yes his right foot will never be 100% okay, and his big toe doesn’t have skin most of the time because he can’t feel when he scrapes it on the floor, but he’s living.

Two years later, I am still so grateful.

And if you ask him, he’s completely convinced that he’s still bulletproof.

STRONG and bulletproof!

Cooking shit with SheBee #1

If you read my last post, you’ll know that I have decided to embrace my inner house bitch.  I like domestic bliss, I think it suits me.

I’ve been experimenting in the kitchen with things that I never used to.  Ingredients like fish, for instance. I know, don’t die…  I’ve started eating my phobia.  Still can’t touch it though, Jon does that part.  So I thought I’d share my latest recipe invention:

Smoked Salmon Tagliatelle aka The Shiznizz.

Incredible Ingredients:

• 1 x Smoked salmon fillet (about 60 bucks from Woolies)
• 1 x tub of smallish creme freche or fresh cream (250ml)
• 1 x bag of tagliatelle pasta
• 1 x cup of your choice of white wine (down the rest of the bottle to prepare yourself mentally)
• 1 x Woolies fish rub spice in a bottle of awesomeness
• Handful of chives
• Handful of parsley
• 2 x bright red tomatoes
• 1x finely chopped large onion
• 1/2 yellow pepper julienne-chopped (much like judo-chopped, but not quite.  Yellow for colour, really, no other reason)
• Salt, pepper, whatever other spice you have that’ll work
• Olive oil
• 1 x Woolies sweet chili garlic roll

Method to the madness:

1. Preheat your oven to 180
2. Drizzle a little olive oil over fillet, rub in fish spices
3. On a high heated stove, flash-fry the salmon fillet for 4 minutes on the skin side just to brown it
4. Remove the fillet, place in between two plates to hold in moisture while it rests off the heat
5. Chuck the garlic roll into the oven
6. At this point, turn on another stove plate and chuck some water into a pot with a pinch of salt and some olive oil
7. Back to the pan, chuck in your onions and saute until soft and clear in a bit of olive oil
8. Add in the peppers for about two minutes, then the tomatoes, chives, and parsley
9. Spice it all up with salt and pepper to taste
10. PS: Your pot of water should be boiling by now, add in the tagliatelle and give it a stir in one minute to make sure it doesn’t stick to the bottom
11. Back to the sauteed veg, add in your cup of white wine, turn up the heat (the stove, not your dude)
12. Let the sauce come to a boil for a bit and then lower the heat considerable (’2′ on my stove works well)
13. Stir in the creme freche, taste again (add more spices if need be)
14. Once you’re happy with the sauce, carefully place your salmon fillet over the sauce in the middle of the pan, skin side facing up
15. Place a lid on it and let the steam from the sauces cook the insides of the fillet for no longer than ten minutes

Finishing up:

Keep an eye on your pasta.  Once it’s ready (shouldn’t boil for more than ten minutes ideally), pop a few fresh mini asparagus shoots into a steaming microwave bowl.  Nuke for 4 minutes. Strain, drizzle with olive oil, black pepper and salt.  Check on your garlic roll, it should be done by now.

Plate the tagliatelle in the centre of the serving dish first.  Once the fillet is flaky and cooked through, place it on top of the tagliatelle carefully so it doesn’t break.  Scoop the veggies out of the sauce and shove those bitches right on top of the fish.  Drizzle remaining cream wine sauce over it all.

Garnish with a few asparagus sprouts on top.

Eat with gusto.

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Can you believe I forgot to take a picture of the finished product?  I am a dumbass, sorry.  Let me know if any of you do this and how it turns out.

Until next time my little kitchen concubines…

xxx

Home is where the heart is.

I realised something recently.  I am totally, completely and utterly over the dark head space I’ve been pretending to not be in for the last 7 years.  Although I haven’t exactly been depressed to the degree of lying in bed and crying all the time, I’ve kind of avoided a lot of things other people do because they have one life and they make the most of it.  I’ve kind of always been in this state of putting things off, like ‘oh, whatever, I’ll get my debt sorted out next year’ or, ‘Meh – who cares that my bedroom consists of one bed, a dressing table and a bunch of packed away nick-nacks I couldn’t be bothered to put up?’.

It seems that I’ve changed.  In fact, I’ve metamorphosed into some semblance of a domesticated homebody.  Suddenly, my surroundings matter.  The fact that the picture on the wall is a bit lopsided matters. Not having the spare bedroom’s curtains up matters.  Things that I would turn a blind eye to in the past suddenly crawl up my ass and eat their way up my insides until I do something about it and make nice and pretty.

I’ve hated flowers for years and years (since Kiera died, actually) to the point that I would get offended if anyone ever bought me flowers.  To me, they were symbols of death, apologies, pity and shame.  Negative gestures passed off as a good intention.  Well, no more.  Around my birthday last year, I suddenly woke up to the beauty of flowers, the fragrance they let off, the colours they show us, the intricate details that go into each and ever flower petal, the way they make me smile the minute I walk into Woolworths and pore over all the new additions to the flower section and read carefully how each one should be watered and when.  Flowers are goddamned beautiful, blog.  How could I never notice?

So it goes without saying that in compensation for all the years I’ve hated flowers, I suddenly need to surround myself with them.  Jon teased me the other day saying that I can never do something half-mast.  I used to hate the things with a fierce dispassion but now I have to go overboard and in excess with my latest need to be one with the flowers.  I now have two and half gorgeous orchids; white, purple and yellow.  I also have the most precious little pink thing outside on the veranda in a pot on the patio table which replaced the last lot that went suicidal by water drowning.  Every time I’m in a shop that sells seedlings I’m tempted to empty their supply into my shopping trolley.  I have the sudden desire to plant herbs, seeds, vegetable pips, pot plants – anything.  If you stood still for long enough next to me, I’d probably attempt to plant you if you looked the other way.

The sad and shameful fact that my fingers are most certainly not what the tree huggers call ‘green’ is of no consequence. Practice makes perfect, right?  And practicing I am.  It doesn’t matter that my first orchid, Yellow, died a very slow and painful death by drowning.  It doesn’t matter that I’ve thrown out wrinkly, wilted, brown and very sad looking purple daisies.

What matters is that I’ve done enough reading up about the bloody things to research how to bring an orchid back to life.  What matters is that I keep trying.  What matters is that I feel like I’ve finally woken up from a very dark, lonely space where there was only me and my obsession with not wanting to admit that I am a grown ass woman, I should be asking you to hear me roar while I ooh and ahh over flowers, cook books and general pretty things that other women like.  And baking things and making things with like, beads and shit.   For so long I’ve avoided these things that leave an imprint on the world, I’ve avoided participating.  I didn’t want to – I was quite happy in my little empty shell of a facade that all was right with the world of Me.  I liked it in my head.  Going out there and changing things, even as small as putting up photos or hanging curtains meant too much participation in this life.  Participation was for lame people who had OCD.  Like Cath and my mom and Britt, who used to do decoupage and sew things.

But now I am participating.  It started when Jon and I moved in together.  Albeit that our house has been a bit of a chaotic bomb shelter until very recently, I’ve suddenly become enthralled with the prospect of paint swabs, fixing up old and dusty lamp shades, refurbishing my dressing room table, decorating with nick-nacks, making things to hang up my jewelery.  Unpacking boxes that I haven’t looked at in years and putting my trinkets all over the place and buying tons more that we don’t need, things that Jon kindly says nothing about and looks the other way, even though it isn’t really his kind of taste or his first, second, third or tenth choice.

Which brings me to the crux of this new-found matter: Jon lets me be.  He questions, sure, he totally puts up a defense if he really does not share my vision of something for the dwelling, but ultimately he has sat back and observed and given me the opportunity to nest, if you will.  He’s made me want to get into this whole domestic thing.  He’s provided me with the most beautiful home I could ever ask for, and he encourages me putting my woman-roaring touch on things.  He’s given me the space and the support to grow (and I don’t just mean sideways at my waist, either, even though that’s happened too) and he’s offered open arms to crawl into when I chicken out and want to hide away sometimes too.

And I don’t thank him often enough for it.

I’ve found my way back, blog.  In every sense of the word, I’ve come home.