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Archive for the ‘Various pleas’ Category

I am not responsible for your newsfeed

I’ve recently had a ‘Facebook purge.’ This is not something I’m particularly good at, for two reasons. Firstly, I don’t like upsetting people, despite having a temper and occasionally going on an offensive rampage; I really don’t like the idea that what I say or do, could hurt someone. Secondly, I like to keep in touch with people from my past and I love Facebook for that specific reason.

Most would think my purge was due to the Parisian crisis and the ‘anti-refugee’ nonsense that is spreading through most of our newsfeeds. In truth, I was hurt a few days prior by someone, whom I had considered a friend. She posted a rather nasty and hurtful article about parents ‘arrogantly’ posting photos of their children.*

Now, I’m no fool. I don’t expect everyone to enjoy the constant stream of baby photos, to like every one of them or even to give to give them a second glance. What I do expect, however, is for my ‘friends’ to show a modicum of respect and intelligence.

Who the fuck are you to insist that I stop posting photos of my son, on my Facebook profile, because you don’t want children? Well, whoop for you. My posts in no way suggest that you should jump on the breeding bandwagon. In fact, by the sounds of it, you probably shouldn’t. I post stuff about my child, on my newsfeed, for my enjoyment, not yours.

Facebook has these fancy features, called ‘hiding,’ ‘unfollowing,’ ‘blocking’ and ‘unfriending.’ It may be hard for you to understand, but:

I am not responsible for your newsfeed and I do not expect you to be responsible for mine.

I have often been annoyed by people’s incessant posts of their children (21 photos showing a child holding a dead bird) or photos of their pets’ poop and so I have simply unfollowed them. Facebook has made it really simple for me to decide what appears on my newsfeed and so I choose to use these features – why is it so hard for you to do the same?

If you don’t like something that I post then hide it, unfollow me, block me or unfriend me. Frankly, I don’t care either way. It’s been a long time since those actions offended me. I understand that you’re not keen on your newsfeed being filled with photos of children, but understand that, whilst I have other aspects of life that interest me and I don’t define my personality by motherhood, nothing is more important to me than my son. My partner and my child are my everything and I love posting about them.

I post for other reasons – I have family and friends in South Africa that love to see photos of my son’s development and I love to have these memories pop up on my feed a year later – but mostly, I post because I want to.

*For my hypocrite and irony seekers out there (and there are many), I am aware that this too is a nasty and hurtful article.


15 Grammar Goofs and the Urge to Maim

This is the first time I’m reblogging another’s infographic. A friend found it on StumbleUpon and I just had to steal it.

As most of you know, I’m a bit of a Grammar Nazi. It’s not something I’m proud of, as I tend to insult people or patronise them unintentionally. It’s not purposeful, it’s more a of a …tick. I can’t help it.

I have a long list of pet peeves, including dolphins, touchy-feely people,  maggots and men who spend more time on their hair than I do. The below 15 Grammar Goofs are well up there, but I also find my blood starts to boil when I see grammatical errors in corporate documents, emails or marketing material.

We all have some form of spell check on our emails; for God’s sake, even Hotmail has a our friendly little ABC (tick) button. How can we allow emails to go out to clients that are riddled with, not only grammatical errors such as the below, but smiley faces (punch me now), exclamation marks (really?) and (God forbid) quotes. You may need someone to tell you each day that obstacles are there to be overcome or that you’ll regret more the things you didn’t do, than those you did, but your clients don’t.

Personally, it makes me want to punch you in the face.

Wouldn’t you just love to respond to these people and show them the error of their ways? It’s my daily wish, but sadly, I’d have no money, as I’d spend all day correcting emails. On a side note: If there are any errors in this post, after I’ve pressed the button and read it through, it’s because I have a new keyboard, with an overly sensitive mouse that likes to type in random places.

May I burn in Grammar Nazi hell for all time.

15 Grammar Goofs That Make You Look Silly

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A special kind of hell

Friday looms. Most look forward to Fridays, more so as they start to mark the end of the year and the coming of vacation.

Cat + little redhead that looks just like I did = perfect picture for me.

I have no life, I work throughout the weekends and I don’t have a vacation – therefore, Fridays loom. But more so this one, as Friday marks the day I turn a whole 28.

I’m not all that fussed about age. The older I get, the further I seem to get from my small goals, but the closer I get to my big ones, so technically, I’m sort of balanced. However, birthdays for me hold a special kind of horror.

Firstly, a day that’s all about me is likely to send me cowering under the desks and holding back remotely telling anyone about said day (which, due to my terror, I always seem to do – earning myself my very own high-five to the forehead). Don’t get me wrong, I’m plenty selfish and self-centred on any given day, but a day that forces you down on your knees to beg for attention isn’t my idea of fun.

I don’t want everyone looking at me. As a redhead, that comes part of the package and it’s the part I despise. I need no more attention please. I don’t want the world to see my fly’s undone, or I’ve, yet again, spilt coffee down my front. I don’t want hugs from smelly strangers or lovely smiles that, regardless of who they’re from, I feel the need to smack off the holder’s face. And I don’t want presents 😥

Don’t laugh, this is where I quiver in fear. The present giving. Yes, we all like to get shit that we’ve wanted to for ages and the shit I get is good…great even, but the process of getting it? Let’s just say I’m not sure it’s worth the sacrifice.

Days before the big day looms I start to practice my expressions. A one-size-fits-all expression doesn’t work. Present givers know me too well and would know that one present is by far superior than the other, and therefore determines a superior expression. But what if I don’t like said present?

If I’m ecstatic, am I showing my appreciation enough? Do they know that inside I’m yelling for joy and offering them my first-born child? If I hate the present, is it showing? Can they see me plotting revenge behind my tightly stitched on ‘thank you smile?’

The idea that someone would know that I’m not happy with something they went out of their way to get me, sends me off into a stressed, panic-driven spin. The idea that they haven’t the foggiest that I’m happier than I’ve been in years, does the equivalent.

A short example: My parents call me to the nearby mall the other day, as they struggled to find the speakers that I had hinted I wanted (the hint itself took much effort). I rush off there, in dread, but pasted a solider-face on, only to find they’d organised for me to ‘test’ the various speakers. I was in Hell. I tried to look at prices (choose the cheapest), but the folks know me too well and hid the prices. I tried to choose the first one, but they insisted I try them. They know me horribly well.

By the time I arrived home, my ulcer had actually started bleeding again.* This is how much stress birthdays are.

Do any of you suffer the same? Would any of you truly (now let’s be honest) prefer to cancel birthdays and have absolutely no money spent on you?

*On the plus side, the speaker I chose was awesome.

Monday morning moan

I need a quick vent before I go about making money and making my life worth something.

We all get affected by what others say and, perhaps my biggest flaw, I am often floored by something as trivial as a condescending comment. I take what others say way too personally and it quite often ruins my day and even my week (depending on the severity of the comment). I try my hardest not to act this way, but often can’t see past my own interpretation of said comment.

I do try hard and put my utmost into not being a sensitive little tart, so what I’d like to ask others is: “Please make an effort not to be a prick. If you’re not severely affected by what I say or what I do, if someone’s not going to die if you don’t figuratively rip my head off, if your life will continue to move on the way it did prior to my actions or words…then TRY NOT BE A PRICK.” You may not mean the venom that you spit my way and you may not personally despise me for what I say or do – if that’s the case, realise that when you act like that, I start to despise you.

Okes, if your life doesn’t depend on it and you won’t hate me forever for what I say or do, give calm, objective criticism if asked. Don’t go off like a pmsing bull, because I assure you. I can do worse.

Free charging bull phone wallpaper by thejojo
(Side note: angry venomous statuses [hideous plural] have a similar effect. Calm, objective criticism is at least listened to. If you status includes over three exclamation marks, I will either ignore it or instantly be offended by your implied anger. This is the internet. We don’t shout. We type. Grow a pair and start to act like an adult.)

Bad, bad friend

I have to let a very good friend down and I’m not quite sure how to go about it.

I’ve made promises, or rather almost promises, to people in the past and have had to break them, as we all have. It makes me feel yucky and particularly horrible, but this one stands out above the rest.

I’ll start with my excuses first; get them out the way. I’m starting a business. There, that’s pretty much it. I have no cash. I have enough to get through the month, which is pretty f’ing fantastic if you think about it. Most starter-uppers can’t get past the first few months without capital and I have none, but my sales have soared me past them. Which means, after expenses, I literally have around R500 for food. Most wouldn’t be able to live off that, but to that I say ‘piffle!’ I’ve lived off of plenty less. However, it does mean I won’t be able to make it to Joburg for a very important day of a very important friend of mine (screw the grammar).

I haven’t promised, but I have told her I will do everything in my power to be there for her and she was beyond grateful. Now, I must tell her I can’t. I have supported her in this goal for years and even did the stupid 94.7 Christmas wish to try and get her there quicker. Now, I must break her heart on the very day that we have both longed for. In all reality, I won’t break her heart and probably won’t ruin her day, but nonetheless, she will be sad…very, very sad. And it will be my fault.

And she’s pregnant.

So tell me, how do you break a pregnant woman’s heart? Especially when that heart means so much to you?

The terrible text

So Mr From a Lesbian texted me this morning (sms for the saffas). I find some black humour in the fact that when he texted, I was in the midst of a made-up scenario that included me in ninja-wear, him in agony and whole bunch of surveillance equipment (which I had used to track the sneaky bugger down…and find proof that he has my cat).

Said text:

“hey girl im so sorry about sadow. f*king hart broken after all this time.”

This was after many texts and calls from me, begging for him to call me back with his Gran’s number, so I could contact her and find out more, which he’d promised to send. I hadn’t heard back from him until this morning. I wonder if he read this blog (he’s on my FB list after all) and knows it’s been suggested I take legal action… I doubt it though.

After my attack of the short fuse, I know he’s more wary of me, so perhaps that’s why he contacted.

But why don’t I believe him? I would much rather believe him, than have this sinking doubt that keeps me up at nights….and not to mention the rage. It ebbs and flows and I resemble a melodramatic schizo.

I joke, but it’s not funny. So I responded, in a rather curt way, asking for his Gran’s number again, so I could contact the nearest shelters. His response was:

“You think i hvnt done that…and sorry I cnt give her extra stress.hope you understand. ill find her” (please note, the cretin’s spelling, not mine).

He won’t find her. He’s lying. Even if I were to take all my emotions out of the equation, logic says he’s so far from the truth it no longer has meaning – there are too many variances. I’ve never been good with logic, it fails me almost daily, but this time, I’m certain.

Firstly, he moves to Durban, apparently has two places, one with the cat, one that’s not pet-friendly. Then, the cat’s in Harrismith with his Gran. I can pick the cat up first of September. He then refuses to answer my repeated calls. Eventually, nearly a month later, he tells me she’s been missing for ages….then tells me missing for a week. Then somehow forgets he told me she’s at his Gran’s. And now he won’t give me said Gran’s number, so I can call the shelters around there.

Am I wrong, or does this not add up? (I’m not so good at maths either).


Side note: for those that don’t know the story, 1st post and 2nd post.

Dear From a Lesbian, I want my cat back.

I’ve recently returned from the UK and I can easily say that one of the hardest things I’ve had to do  is leave my cats behind.

I left nigh on 2 years ago, my old (not-so-wise) 16 year old and a young (absolutely bonkers) 2 year old with a lovely woman and her wayward fiancé , who agreed to foster them for this time, whilst I paid them. I managed, almost successfully to turn off my emotional switch and only occasionally find myself huddled in a corner, bawling guilt-stricken tears and banging my head against a sadly not padded wall. A moment like this struck, as a week before I left, the woman announced that her fiancé was indeed wayward and had run off… with my cats.

Eventually I tracked down the poofy haired, joint toking thief and we agreed to stick to the initial plan. Except…he didn’t. He didn’t answer my calls, he sent one email (a week after I landed) with a lovely picture of my beauties, but that was it. I was stuck in Ireland at one time, stalking him online and calling all but his mother (only for lack of finding her details) to find out what was happening with my surrogate-children. The man was beyond useless. I eventually heard from him…on Facebook…by way of a very sensitive message telling me my 16 year old had died: “Sorry, girl, she’s dead.” That’s it. It wasn’t much of a surprise, considering she’d made it to 16, but one expects a modicum of decency. I let this slide by, as it turns out she’d died on his bed, whilst he was sleeping – implying he was taking care of them in some way.

Skip to my return [insert months upon months of incessant missed calls and no emails – a total lack of correspondence] – I call up my little friend, who answers…when I call from a number that wasn’t mine. I explain that soon I’ll have a place where I can accommodate a cat, but not for a month and is he OK with me taking her back, as I realise 2 years is a long time and he may be attached. He agreed to everything.

Now here is where I must take blame. I didn’t call. In fact, I avoided him. I couldn’t find a place that would allow cats and my work sucked rather large donkey balls, so I didn’t want to commit to somewhere, when I wasn’t sure where I’d be working, so I stayed on at the wonderful home I had (but which didn’t allow cats). I tried to call him a few times, to explain, but I got no answer. I didn’t push it, as I found myself nudging towards the seriously un-padded walls with each call. My guilt was eating me up, but my avoidance was doing a good job at saving my skin. Skip again to me moving to the coast, 3 months after my return (yes! I know, my bad, but I had called him, incessantly).

Fluffy, aka Shadow.

Many, many calls from my number failed, but I finally got him, by calling from my beloved mother’s phone. He agreed that I could pick up Shadow, who was incidentally not with him, but his Grandmother, in Harrismith (roughly 3 hours away). I was to pick her up at the end of August. Two weeks before this, I start calling. No answer. I try my Mother’s phone, no answer and eventually stretch to my Dad’s phone – Answer!! Although, coincidentally, the poor sod couldn’t hear me once he got past my name… I have now sent him Facebook messages, sms’s and repeated texts. My patience has worn thin.

This is why I ask you today to forward this to as many of your friends as you can (no, not to punt my blog, it’s pretty pathetic and my ‘make money’ button will probably only result in slightly disgusting overtures), in order to catch this slimy cretin and GET MY CAT BACK!

For legal reasons I can’t name him (and if I can’t describe him either, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know), so, this is how it goes:

  • He was Benoni based – out in the bundus, with a lovely fiancé called Danè, until he abandoned her and run off with some floozy – like he ran off with my cat.
  • He’s now based in Durban (North, I believe)
  • He’s young(ish), around 24/25 now, I’d say.
  • He’s from a small town, I think Klerksdorp, but not sure.
  • Here’s the kicker – his surname is a literal Afrikaans translation of “From Lesbian” – please stretch the last word to all forms of creativity, I’m not above defamation, if it helps me find my cat (although, many of my friends are lesbian, so defamation is definitely NOT intended).
  • His first name may rhyme with ‘Dark’ and be of a French origin…it may also be the first name of a Springbok rugby player whose surname is Fourie, although spelt differently.
  • He had very poofy, curly hair, with striking blue eyes, until he recently shaved it all off, mercenary style and his eyes now resemble something Attila the Hun would fear.
  • He sounds incredibly, utterly stupid, but is obviously smart enough not to answer a phone.
  • Oooh, and I believe he’s working in some form of work shop.

Any help in spreading the word would be greatly appreciated. It probably won’t work, but I’m pissed. I’ve had enough and I will try anything at this point.

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