Taking Out The Trash

Most women will admit, albeit grudgingly, to moments where they would love to be rescued by a man. Ah come on! So you’ve never contemplated doing bit of flirting to avoid getting your nails ruined washing your car? Or getting that spider squashed? Never even crossed your mind?

For me most of these moments involve taking out the trash.

Being a rampant feminist, I view ‘male’ and ‘female’ domestic tasks as totally outdated. Terribly passé.

[Okay, technically I’m more of an “equali-gist”. Word or no word, its descriptive right? Don’t expect me to go burning my g-string though. It could get mighty drafty.]

Point is, according to me there’s just plain unisex, everyone-hates-it shlep work. I don’t need a guy to fling his coat (or himself) over a puddle for me. I have very stylish black & white gumboots thank you very much. I’m also quite capable of killing my own creepy crawlies, changing the light bulb, doing the odd DIY project and, on the rare occasion where it actually crosses my mind: checking my car’s oil and water. Yet, when it comes to this one itty bitty domestic duty, I look for the nearest knight in shining armour!

I’m not a particularly squeamish person. I don’t flinch at Nip Tuck’s graphic surgery scenes or Fear Factors’ worm-gobbling nonsense. I watch whatever the horror genre has to offer with abundant relish. And I do so without having to watch peeking through my fingers. I don’t faint at the sight of blood and, as long as it isn’t a Rottweiler, I’ll even give the dog a bath. Yet, on my keychain I keep an extra long key, to a gate not attached to my door anymore, for the sole purpose of lifting the trash can’s lid when taking out the trash. Eeew…germs!!! The lengths I have gone to, to avoid touching the actual trashcan… Let’s just say that on occasion, more than one occasion, I have lifted the lid with one high-heel clad foot while balancing on the other, chucking the bag in and quickly snatching away my foot.

Now, get that mental picture out of your head. And stop sniggering. We all have our quirks.

I’m not sure how much truth is in the old saying “the path to a man’s heart leads through his stomach”, but the path to my heart definitely goes through my dustbin. Jewelry is nice. Flowers are okay. Lacy underwear is overrated. (Dude, you WILL get the size wrong. And there WILL be shit).

But when a man takes out the trash - without me asking – it…it takes my breath away. (Partly from disbelief). It makes me want to declare my undying love to wildly inappropriate men.

And have his super duper polite, helpful, magnificent babies. I mean, if they breed dogs to get a certain trait perfected… It couldn’t hurt to try, right?

Most Mortifying Moments

While I'm in the process of sorting out my plans for next year, I've been chatting to one of my old lecturers who was also my masters supervisor a few years back. He is a wonderful person, inspirational lecturer and a great psychologist. One of the people who make me want to be a clinical psychologist. His office is also the scene of what is probably my worst embarrassing moment on campus. And I had a few.

The day I, with a giant racket, fell down the steps in my undergraduate academic building is right up there as well. I landed on my ass with my books scattered around me and one of my shoes lying a few steps below. Naturally, I wasn’t alone in the stairwell when that happened... (There are always witnesses when I do something utterly stupid!) There were tons of nice people picking up my stuff and bringing me my shoe, asking if I'm ok, did I get hurt? To which I replied: "No, I’m fine. I landed on my butt so I didn't feel a thing." Sigh. Now, it is true that my butt is pretty padded, but did I really have to say it??

Talking about butts... I studied at Stellenbosch. Most of Stellenbosch University's academic buildings are scattered around a big garden/square called the "Rooi Plein" (aka Red Square). Due to the general acoustics (empty space surrounded by high buildings) sounds on the Rooi Plein tend to eco. So the day my little brother walked past me on the Rooi Plein, slapped me on the ass (loudly - it echoed), and just laughed and kept walking as people stopped to stare, was also SLIGHTLY mortifying. Apparently I had a tendency to be in my own little world when walking around campus. You can't exactly blame me - It's really nice in there! Anyway, I would pass people (friends from school, res, class, lecturers, my students, roommates...) on campus without noticing them. I could even walk past my own brother without seeing him. Which I did. Multiple times. Which is why, when he saw we were going to walk right past each other and I was completely lost in thought - again, he decided to catch my attention... Admittedly, he probably underestimated the volume of the sound his little pat on my backside was going to create. I still owe you for that one lil bru.

Back to my most embarrassing blond moment. No, I’m not blond so I don't even have an excuse. At least this story doesn't involve my ass...

On the morning in question, I had an appointment with my supervisor, so I got dressed all neat and studenty. That particular year, the very feminine look was really in. Everything was pastels and flowers and blouses and related girly stuff. So I put on my flowery, pastel, girly blouse and a skirt and skipped of to my boyfriend’s residence. Thereafter I was supposed to go to the library to search databases and print articles before my appointment at 12. The boyfriend said no, stay here and work from my PC. So I sat myself down and did my searches while he went to class. At about 10, my work was done-ish and his bed was starting to look really inviting. In order to not crease my frilly girly blouse, I put on one of his t-shirts, got in bed and promptly fell asleep. The boyfriend got back to his room and decided this mid-morning nap thing looked really inviting and joined the club. At about 11:45 I awoke to someone softly snoring in my ear and realized I was very late. Plus I was on the very opposite end of campus to where I was supposed to be.

I jumped out of bed, yanked my girly button-down blouse over my head, combed my fingers through my hair in front of the minute guys-residence mirror, applied some lip-gloss and asked the very sleepy boyfriend: "How do I look?" Who replied: "Fine, fine, very pretty. Now run." Which I did. Past all the mens' residences, through the little student shopping mall, over the Rooi Plein... and all in peak lunch-hour student/pedestrian traffic. Just past 12 I flew into my lecturer's office, apologized profusely and plopped down in a chair with my notebook in my lap. As I was looking down at the mentioned notebook a though crossed my mind: Where is my buttons? Hmm... The blouse's thin cotton material basically looks the same on both sides, but a lack of buttons, the presence of seams and a washing-instructions label are still a pretty good indication that you are wearing your top inside out.

Trying to cover my surprise, I flipped the notebook up and clutched it to my chest while trying to subtly flip my hair over my shoulders. Goodness knows whether he noticed anything. I was out of his office as soon as I could find an excuse! Keeping in mind the label at the back of my shirt, I backed out of the office, shook his hand at the door and then just kept backing down the hallway while making small talk. The staff's toilets were just around the corner from his office, so I backed around the corner…

I have found that, when in doubt, blame the boyfriend! Outside, I phoned him. "Jan!* I had my top on inside out! And you said I look fine." The snorts of laughter from the other side isn't doing anything for my bruised ego. "Jannie*, It isn't funny. I just walked across campus AND sat through the whole meeting with my top on inside out!" Increased laughter. "Okay, it’s a little funny, but it isn't funny to me right now!" He finally calms down enough to speak: "Ag shame my skat, I'm really sorry. I honestly didn't notice." I am slightly mollified. "Did Dr. ***** notice you were inside out?" I can hear he wants to laugh. "I don't know! He always laughs at me so much that I couldn't figure out if he noticed or whether he's just laughing at me anyway." At that point the boyfriend forgets he is supposed to be sympathetic and completely loses it again.

You know that saying: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Right. This just taught me to check the mirror twice before leaving the house.

Room with a view

Many moons ago (ok, about two years back) I lived out in the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town. Muizenberg to be precise. I stayed in a teensy weensy absolutely charming little flat. The place was great! The building was an old hotel which had been renovated and turned into apartments. It had high ceilings, wooden floors and a stunning view of the mountain. (Okay, the guys on the other side of the building had a view of the sea, but you take what you can get, right?) Except for the "teensy weensy" part, the place had only two real flaws. Well, three. But that specific stalker neighbour is a story for a different day.

Flaw number one was the rumoured "drug element". Well people, this was Muizenberg... According to the caretaker they had had a few less pleasant tenants of the drug dealer variety a while before I had moved in. They had apparently been kicked out and the complex got electric fencing and security cameras. Problemo solved. One evening, a few months before I moved out, I started to imagine that I was smelling smoke. I checked the kettle. Checked the toaster. Also the oven, TV, computer, flat-iron and just in case, also everything else with a plug. I decided it must be my imagination (my nose is purely ornamental anyway) and continued with whatever I was busy with. A while later I realized the place was looking a bit hazy. Only then did I notice the smoke tendrils wafting underneath my front door. I yanked open the door to find a solid wall of smoke. I was still standing there mildly perplexed, when two firemen in full gear ran down the corridor past my open doorway. Through the thick smoke they looked like a pair of ghost firemen. Anyway, I closed the door, changed out of my pajamas and into something more suitable for when your house is burning down, shoved my camera in my handbag and headed for the door.

Finally, four flights of stairs later, I strolled down the front steps and found one very upset caretaker (my car was on its usual spot and I wasn't answering my intercom), a crowd of people (apparently everyone else's intercoms had worked...), six fire trucks of different sizes and varieties and about 2 rugby teams of fire-fighters. Total overkill of course. We were about a kilometre from the fire station and they must have been having a slow night over there? Back to the point. According to the caretaker (my usual source of info) a petrol bomb had been thrown through one on the ground floor windows. This specific apartment had been targeted before and they believed it had something to do with the tenants and drugs and or money.

The damage was pretty much limited to the ground floor, but all four stories were covered in soot for the next few weeks. I had to basically wash everything I own. Including me. Ever had soot up your nose? Not pleasant. But that is apparently pretty normal after walking down four flights of stairs and up again. Hey, it was cold outside! I wasn't going to stand there with stalker boy staring at me for the next hour...and the fire was basically under control...

I digress...

The actually point of this, the real fatal flaw of the complex, was the doves. The friggen doves. I had a serious problem with the doves in general, but specifically with the little dove couple (later family) that lived right outside my bedroom window. If measured, about 1.2 meters from where my head hit my pillow. And that is not very far, or for that matter, soundproof, when all that lies between you is the slanted roof (I stayed on the top floor and my outside walls were basically the roof of the complex). Fun fact of the day: doves do not have the same sleeping rhythms as humans... Less Fun Fact nr.2: when doves are awake, you will know it. They are noisy! That "Koer Koer" sound can drive you insane. I spent many a morning - I use the term morning very loosely because in my world when it is dark it is not yet morning - banging on the wall right on the other side of their nest. Until they got used to that. Then I had to resort to sticking my head out the window, screaming at them and waving my arms in a threatening manner. I am not by nature a violent person, so I declined my brother's offer to shoot them with his airgun. I was severely tempted though. So, I just continued attempting to intimidate them into moving somewhere else. Regrettably though, you can not frighten a dove to death. You can try, and I did, but eventually they will get used to anything. Or so I thought...and now I will actually get to the crux of my story.

I was not the only one with the dove problem. Especially the apartments with balconies really had a dove sub-letting problem. As mentioned I lived on the top floor and I normally took the stairs. We had a lift. A really, really old lift. About the size of a cupboard. With a door that you manually opened and a gate that slammed shut behind you... Still I didn't really mind the lift, but this was during the time of the power outages in Cape Town and I didn't especially want to be stuck in that mini lift for a few hours. So, on my "daily commute" down the stairs I passed the window that overlooked the third floor balcony of two of the apartments. Now that balcony had the most spectacular view all the way to the Muizenberg beach... (Regrettably the photo doesn't really show that as I had to take it from an upward angle to get my little friend in). Almost every morning, depending on how late I was, I would stop to have a quick look at the view. Yet, I almost never saw people using the balcony. Probably because the doves used it as a permanent residence.

One morning I saw the little scene in the photo above. Someone had gotten tired of their feathery friends and had placed a orange toy snake on the balcony. Very effective indeed. But what tickled me ....well, orange, was the placing of the snake in a pose so that it looked as if he was admiring the view. From then on, every morning (when I was not too late) I would stop to admire the dove-free view and to chuckle at the snake. So, did I get my own little snake to evict the doves from outside my window? Nah. It was their home too and in all fairness they had been there longer that me...not that that I suddenly stopped banging on the wall or shouting out the window.