Camping: No thanks
Artist, with romantic glaze in his eyes: “Why don’t we go camping this weekend?”
KC: “Have you lost your mind entirely?”
He has been working with glue and stuff, so being stoned could be the reason for this highly dubious suggestion.
Artist: “No, it will be great, just the two of us, in nature.”
KC: “Nature is messy and dirty. I don’t camp.”
Debate ensues.
I hate camping. I don’t feel close to nature, I feel dirty and plagued by insects. Anyone seen those spiders in Namibia? Why can’t we stay in a nice little bed and breakfast and do day trips “into nature” – an altogether more tolerable state of affairs?
I can’t cope with the creaks, tent bits flapping, weird noises that could easily be a lion or a very large spider or something altogether worse. Like a cannibal in them there hills. An inbred cannibal.
And the camping with ablution blocks is even worse. I feel like I want to wear my whole wetsuit and booties just to take a shower, which somewhat negates the purpose of the whole thing. There is always black mold on the floor and god-alone-knows-what horrible infectious diseases left by other campers.
Then there are the horrible cooking utensils. Which all need to be washed and by that stage generally have congealed gunk of unknown origin on them.
No – camping is a disgusting pastime. I will not do it.
Under the boots
Gorillas in the Mist
Not all fat people are jolly. Take Lolly for example.
We were on holiday with friends at their gorgeous Hamburg home. Peace and tranquility. Then Lolly and her feeder/husband arrived. Lolly wears a kaftan, mostly because the only other option is a tent, and has a constant sheen around herself, evidence of the energy consumed by moving. In the words of Shakespeare: Lolly lards the lean earth as she moves along. Watching her grunt, sweat and complain through the vehicular extrication process was amusing. But that didn’t last for long.
Special outside chairs needed to be dragged into the dining room, because Lolly’s arse was too large and her weight to much for the more delicate ones. Although even they were robust by most people’s standards.
Lolly is a long-time friend of our friends and easily slips into the jibing banter they have always had. But Lolly likes to put down the people around her. ‘You have put on weight,’ she says to Antoinette. However, dear Toni is used to this by now and does not rise to the bait. But Lolly keeps picking and stabbing with words.
I can see it will get ugly, so retire to the upstairs verandah with my book, rejoining the group later for supper. By then the large woman has my children involved in a card game called Spite and Malice and is verbally abusing them with words like stupid and runt. My rage levels are high. I take a valium. One can’t be upsetting the people with whom one is staying.
Dinner deteriorates into an argument between Lolly and Toni’s husband. The argument is about breakfast. Lolly does not want an omelet, which we have all been happily consuming for days as a beginning to high adventure including kite flying, swimming, boating etc. No, Lolly wants fried eggs (4) and bacon. She is adamant because this is what her feeder always prepares and delivers on a tray in bed. Every day.
Toni’s husband, John, gets a tad, well, bitchy. Lolly staggers upwards and gets up to smack him. Repeatedly. She cuts him open with her rings. There is blood.
‘Fuck off Lolly.’
I squirm we never have anything like this in our lives. Certainly not from grown-ups and these are mature friends in their early 50s. I can see the rage. I go to bed. Discomforted by the display of petty anger.
Next morning I walk through and see John gazing through the large window at the sea. My two children are there, peering at the white, shimmering gloom which encompasses the little hills leading to the sea. Lolly is standing at the kitchen table.
John: ‘Tell me girls, have you ever played gorillas in the mist?’
KC Kids, in unison: ‘Oooh. No?’
John: ‘We send Lolly outside to hide and then we have to go find her.’
I snorted with laughter, turning puce, I am sure, to smother the belly laugh that was coming up like an unwelcome and ungovernable burp.
Lolly left that day.
Tapeworm – a grim story
This is possibly one of the nastiest stories I ever heard and was reminded of it today by my mother. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but my grandpa swore it was how they got rid of tapeworms in the French Cameroon.
It came up because my mom gave me one of her antique lockets and it still had a photo of that reprehensible colonial in it.
Anyway, this grandpa had a coffee plantation in the (what was then) French Cameroon. There are a great many very horrible bugs there, along with it being the birthplace of diabolical diseases. Tapeworm is a common thing in Africa. For those of you who don’t know, tapeworm is a parasite that lives in your intestines. It gets HUGE like a couple of metres. This is common enough to require deworming once every year or so. It was very popular amongst Victorian women because, basically the worm eats your food for you (ok not quite but sort of) and you get skinny. They would eat raw pork in the hopes of getting it.
So, here is the deal. You know you have tape worm when you pooh, wipe and can see little white bits of worm it starts to dangle out. (those of you not sick by now, read on).
So, grandpa always said there were no medicines in FC to treat this. He claimed they would take a matchstick and have someone ‘catch the worm’ as you bend over. Wind it on to the matchstick a bit and then tape the matchstick to your leg or bum cheek. Next day, stick your arse in warm water and then wind it on a bit more. After many days of this you get the whole worm out.
Now, I reckon this was a scary story told to children to stop them putting dirt in their mouths- anyone else heard anything like it?
Today’s Boots
For all you boot fetishists out there…
Keep up the good work. Chicks with a passion for boots require an adoring fan base.
Dead Animals
I don’t understand the general revulsion for skinned and/or stuffed dead animals as décor and apparel. In no way do I think hunting is ok, but there is a great deal of antique and vintage dead animal paraphernalia around that should be made better use of. These animals are dead. Long dead. And they were killed in order to be worn or displayed on a wall. The *vomit* noises and general shunning I received from my artist upon my exuberant discovery of a full fox fur stole, is entirely uncalled for.
It was attractive. It had nice glass eyes and still had its claws, nose and tail. Very good condition and only R240. Yes, folks, two hundred and forty ZA Rand. Good deal huh? Not according to my family.
Then there was the ancient zebra skin. It had holes and mangey looking patches, but it was done it that old way where the ears are pinned back and everything left on. Very nice. Except the guy wanted just under R4k for it. I could get a better rug out of my mother’s daschund (one example of humane pet euthanasia if ever there was one – the little rodent eats books, passports and half done jigsaws). If it had been reasonably priced I would have stuck it onto the old kelim rug that was killed in a flood at my old house.
I am not sure how this dead animal fetish started. I was anti-fur for the longest time. Now I find myself scouring antique shops for them I just have not yet found the perfect thing. Someone suggested today that I go to some taxidermist out in that god-forsaken hell hole called Fourways, but they miss the point. I don’t want a NEW dead beast. I want an old one. That wasn’t shot in some sort of canned fashion. I want one that was stalked across the savannahs and shot by some crusty old pom called Nigel or Rupert or something.
It is my dream to one day have one of those giant stuffed polar bears in my hallway to put my hat collection on. It’s glassy little eyes can peer out at visitors from beneath the brim of my panama, while he dangles the others off various other parts of bear-body.
I cheat and kill….
I need to tell you something I have not yet shared. You know about my booze problem, sex (or lack of it), relationship stuff, work stuff, kid stuff- sheesh you guys probably know more about me than I do about myself. Yet, here is a deep dark secret:
I love games and I cheat at them.
Not card games and stuff. PC games. I am currently thoroughly addicted to Purple Dot’s Sims 2 game. Before that was Warcraft, Starcraft, Caesar (I can always play those old city simulation games) the list is pretty long. I cheat. I get online and I google a cheat for money, each and every time. What does this say about me?
Not good things I suspect.
The crappest is when I have a game like Age of Empires and find the cheats, to discover I can have flying rainbow hippos that annihilate everything. Then I lose all interest. It is just the money I want. Loads of it.
I do play console games but only if in a pinch. We have an Xbox 360 and every game available, but they just can’t get RPG and adventure games right. Those games suck. You can’t cheat. Then I get all excited because something like Ninety-Nine Nights comes out and it looks so damn sexy. Then I get it in the machine and the monsters are so lame ass you want to scream. I hear Halo 3 will be cool, but I am reserving an opinion here.
Artist gave me the ‘I don’t play games’ talk. Well, we got that Xbox and it was like I was widowed for three weeks. Some racing game. Dinner chat:
Artist: ‘I bought a Ferrari today-’
KC: ‘That’s nice.’
Anyway, back to these pesky Sims- This is the reason I am not online at night much. I am Simulating. I wish I could watch them fuck though, instead of this sad fireworks and toes thing I see in the hottub when they get it on. They are essentially Sim Trust Fund Babies cos I found the money cheat. So all they do is laze about, fuck and play computer games. The female one, I am sure, is having an internet affair cos she loves that email, man!
I have killed a few too. Make them shower and immediately change lightbulbs- *bzzzt*. The best is building them into a fenced garden area and watching them die. Eeek more psychosis than I thought there. Then they haunt your house-.
It’s an old game, but they keep making new builds. Can’t wait for the pet one. I will torture some dogs and see if they get tombstones and ghosts.
I wonder, if I build two into a little fenced off area with no food, will they eat eachother? Sim cannibals? Hmmm….
My Sims are calling-.
Tot siens.
Holy Mass and eyebrow crabs
Mass is a biohazard. I don’t do the blood of Christ, cos actually, it is booze. Transubstantiation is all well and good, but I ain’t putting alcohol in my body. Then there is the germ factor. I understand that it is alcohol and therefore the germs from hundreds of people will be killed, but hang on- didn’t they say it becomes blood? Baffling huh? The body, well, let’s just say I hope to God the priest washes his hands before touching the bits of Christ that stick to the roof of my mouth for about 40 minutes. Fecal matter on my body of Jesus is not too cool a thought- What currently has me worried is the Holy Water, however.
Picture it, we are all there to confess sin. Sin frequently involves the use of hands. Most common sin? Probably wanking. Come on, most of us are guilty of that. Or sex. Did you know that something like 60% of people don’t wash their hands after peeing? If that’s the case, how many people don’t wash after a quick jerk-off? Disturbing huh? My head does this thing where I can picture tenacious vaginal fluids or semen, being comingled with the holy water on the way in to Mass. We Catholics do the holy water as we go in and go out. What if I get herpes on my forehead, shoulders or chest? Can you get eyebrow crabs?
Or does the fact that it is all blessed stuff mean it is entirely germ free and harmless?
More importantly, why did God give me a brain that works like this?
My Space
Today I evicted the things that have been invading my space for months on end. I turfed My Artist’s dead relative’s ashes in their nasty little box, I threw away all the miscellaneous Barbie crap, I dusted off my desk, I moved the arbitrary bits of sculpture and put the TV room stuff where it belongs. Yes, today my study became my own again. And I found the key. Those aliens that I live with can leave me alone when I want to be alone.
I still have three massive bloody 30 year old model airplanes hanging from my dado rail but I don’t know where to put them without pissing on somebody’s battery. They will be noted as missing if I burn them or throw them away. My green death star light is shining bright and my blinds are closed. My Catholic stuff and pictures of the small aliens are on the wall. I keep seeing things that do not belong to me and reallocating them to where they should be. Give me a few days and this space will be filled with only my memories. My scratches on the wall, my spider diagrams of my stories. My books. My iPod and Bose setup. My Pin-Head. My dolls. My little spare bed. My erotic armchair. My pinboard. My little collection of things. MY SPACE.
For months while we redid the TV room I have been unable to even look at my study. It was like a junk yard. Everything from everywhere else was stashed in here. I got a bit resentful. Maybe that shows? Hah! No longer. The reclamation process has begun.
I am lying here, on my little bed, sulking a bit because I can’t find one of the twenty fucking extension cords we own, but it’s MINE. All mine. They can whistle. Artist can cook. Kids not here.
Buwahahahahahah.
What brought this frenzy on? A new book. Something to write. Something proper. And it requires space and time that is not continuously interrupted by the aliens and their needs.
Things are getting back to the way they ought to be in K Chasu’s universe.
One New Catholic: Me.
Bar a few swearwords and impure thoughts, I am currently sinless. There is not much chance of this state remaining. But having been covered in holy oil and almost drowned by my priest last night, I am feeling pretty squeaky clean. Spiritually.
It was great, actually, lots of candles lit and burning of palm leaves- then we all filed into the lemon squeezer for the real ceremony. It was long, and I wanted a cigarette. My friends and family came along. About 14 of us were due for confirmation and only three for baptism. I still smell of incense.
Baptism was easy- lots of saying ‘I Do’ to the creed and then a promise that I believe in the Church and that everything it teaches, professes and proclaims to be given from God. Which I do. I may have core faith issues around Jesus and the Bible but boy, I love that Catholic church.
The priests all looked so pretty in their sparkly celebration outfits. I swear he wet me more than anyone else. They don’t do full body submersion with adults. Too much like a wet T-shirt contest. Not entirely fitting for the Holy Roman Church.
Confirmation was a bit more trying. I had to kneel down around the altar on marble, my knees hurt like blazes. But, weirdly, once the priest was talking, I lost focus on the physical discomfort.
I got to light a candle off the Easter candle. My candle had the words Courage and Right-Judgment on it. I could do with more of that, so it seemed appropriate.
So, there I am kneeling down and the priest is confirming all of us- my candle in my hands. I nearly set his robes on fire. Well, I would have if he hadn’t forcefully made me move the candle.
Anyway, humour aside, here I am. A largely sin-free catholic girl. Woman. Whatever. And it feels pretty good.
I have never ever in my life wanted to belong to anything. I never have belonged to anything, other than AA and my scuba club. I am a firm subscriber to Groucho Marx’s view on any club that would have him as a member. So, this is a first and it’s very interesting.
