New Year, Stay You

It’s the whole #newyearnewyou epidemic that hits the shores of the world annually.

Thanks to 2019 and dreams for 2020 are overwhelming all social media platforms as I write this.

I had quite a great 2019 with plenty of newly- created memories, firsts, different experiences, and further developing dreams.

As much as I love delving into pasts, happy has- beens, and laugh- inducing photos, my blog post is going to have a look at the year laid out in front of me: empty, clean, undiscovered, waiting for our steps to imprint stories over it.

It’s corny, cliche, and eye- rolling, but u really do believe that there is a place for New Year’s resolutions; it creates a hopefulness for our futures and dreams that we are willing to fight for.

Maybe these resolutions will collapse at the base, but maybe (like I’ve actually done before) I will succeed and plant seeds that will bud and bloom in the future, be it this year or in the years to come.

• Tick off the days on a calendar that you went without processed sugar, and try have more ticked days than unticked (I usually am pretty good with this, but Christmas did dent my 80% processed sugar- free days. I’m quite looking forward to getting back to healthier eating patterns and clean skin)

• Exercise four days a week (I run four mornings a week and follow that up with Kayla Itsiness workouts, which I love, but I am quite keen to switch to Pilates this year for my posture and cyadica)

• Don’t buy meat (after spending the Christmas holidays with my flexitarian parents, the health benefits of this lifestyle have crept into my way of thinking)

• Research and find online job/s to supplement my salary (as a past university student with a current study loan standing like a mountain in front of my dreams, I am desperate to find ways to pay it off as fast as I can)

I hope that you dream big plans and cultivate the strength to see them through. I hope that this year is an adventure. I hope that you are brave. I hope that you don’t change for others but that you stay your beautiful self.

Comforter

There is fear jailed between my eyes and eyelids,

Torturing my nightmares,

Stress eats the butterflies in my stomach,

Anxiety bullies my sore heart.

Softly, I whisper hope for layers of peace.

A layer of peace to silence the fear, a layer of peace to shatter the stress, a layer of peace to snuff the anxiety.

Whispers of hope to fall asleep beneath a warm and safe Comforter of Peace.

I am Mist

I am mist

Here today, gone tomorrow

Hiding blemishes in the landscapes

Letting the sun mix with my murky white to create quiet, hopeful beauty

The trees look more magnificent, the mountains look more majestic when the sun and I play around them

About a Girl

Last week, South Africa heard the cry of her women who have had enough. Rape story after murder story plastered the news and angry ladies marched the streets, proclaiming that they would not stand for cat calls, male expectations on them, rude or stereotypical comments made about females.

The injustices done to women because they are women hit a peak when a beautiful young lady was raped and murdered in a post office. The outcry was immediate and the women finally screamed, “This isn’t our fault that these incidences keep happening!”

There were news reports, poster boards, new hashtag movements and social media posts colouring South Africa in deep shades of angry red.

I love how our generation know how to speak up. Older generations criticize us for being idealistic and individualistic, but our parents always told us to follow our dreams and always be on the look out for ‘stranger danger.’ Well, this generation are now fighting for their dreams; dreams to be able to safely mail a letter. This generation are now screaming because they know that both strangers and friends are danger, and they are willing to scream until they are heard.

Image result for women protest south africa
https://news.yahoo.com/africa-toxic-masculinity-film-hailed-womens-protests-grow-091940167.html

However, in the midst of blasting canons full of sore words and angry tones, I sat in the back row in church on Sunday and listened to one girl’s voice. It was strong and rich and said things that unraveled things in the hearts of her listeners. Waterfalls of words splashed the cheeks of the people listening with their ears, their eyes and their hearts.

She spoke a poem that she had written to herself on her twenty- first birthday, ‘Daughter.’ She described her beauty, her curly hair, and rich dark skin, her worth and her place in a white city. She asked white women to raise their daughters to see all the different shades of skin colour and to love the rainbow that they create. She promised to raise her daughter just the same.

Her audience could not sit down at the end of the poem.

Through the chaos and the desperate screams of a desperate country, the #menaretrash and #aminext movements fell away. Men looked at her in awe and wonder over her incredible gift (not at what she was wearing or what she owed them), and I think many women answered her request with a solid ‘yes.’

Whenever I speak about it, my words ironically gush in nonsensical rapids of excitement over just how beautiful, powerful and defining it was.

How to fix the flu

After date and Durban shenanigans, I went down to the depths of disease.

During my turbulent two weeks, male came to visit. He offered to make me tea and proceeded to stand in the kitchen cluelessly searching for mugs and milk and tea bags.

I don’t know how he got past my duck slippers and croaky croaky voice, but he called me the next day and declared that homemade soup would for sure take away my coughing, sneezing situation and fix me right up.

My favourite, sexy ducks

It didn’t. But with a lot of stress and worry on his side, he made the soup, asking me if it looked right. (Again, my cooking skills are none- existent so he was totally asking the wrong critic). It was delicious, not lying.

After which he threw blankets on me and tea at me and asked several times if I was really warm enough. When my reply to, “what do you feel like watching?” Was Jurassic Park, he looked pretty confused and after clarifying like five times, he began to look pretty stoked. There were also wine gums that he brought out halfway through the dinosaur- chasing- a- human scene.

Hopefully my next post will have more substance to it. I’m trying to go in order from where I stopped writing, up to now. Unfortunately budding relationships take up a lot of headspace, and I need to remember that I’m the only one who cares about my own one. Sorry guys, when I stop seeing stars, I’ll go back to my old, usual stories.

And I’m getting coffee, and it’s not even for me

This job-less mania hasn’t ever really been a problem for me before. Yeah, there was a baby freak- out when I graduated, but a few weeks later a friend gave my CV to her boss and I had a call a few hours after the interview to say that I was hired.

A year into varsity, I was put in touch with a tutor company who I worked for for a year. The following year I was asked to privately tutor two girls, and in the year 2016 my best friend convinced me that it would be fun to do a barista course. She ended up marrying the guy who trained us, am I wrong to think she had ulterior motives…? (I’m kidding, they hadn’t met before the training)

Once we could decently pull a shot and poorly steam our milk, the guy who trained us asked if we would like to work for his coffee events company. Another job that falling beautifully into my lap. Of course, the customers of the first few events that we worked received overheated cappuccinos, and bitter- tasting espressos, but with time comes practice and with practice comes deliciousness in a cup.

We gave up the late weekend nights and traded our holidays to serve coffee to person after person, staining our hands in coffee grind for days and splashing our hair with milk drops. Weirdly enough we liked the trade off. We could not think of a more fun or challenging or hilarious place to be. Exhausted baristas trying to banter with customers equated to many word- slurs and brain farts, switching a blender on without the lid caused one fabulously maintained lady to swear uncontrollably at our ‘incompetence,’ and latte art competitions that sometimes meant someone was served a rather dodgy- looking flat white.

One of my friends who worked with me misheard the order, and the poor lady on the other side of the counter got handed five cappuccinos. She only ordered one.

I know, I know! It’s not good to longingly wish for the past to reappear into our present reality, but I guess it’s okay to think about it sometimes and appreciate how lucky I was to be asked to work, and to do work that I absolutely adored and would do all over again.

Yesterday felt like a knock- out challenge. We started with training, and then got sent details to do a demo. If you passed the first demo, you were sent more details for the second demo. After experiencing several heart palpitations throughout the afternoon, I finally received the “Congratulations” email. Yes friends, I am now employed to work as an online English teacher.

I rarely take photos of my art, so here is my rather amateur- looking stack

Here we have a highly professional photo of of one of the best baristas in the company…

The One with the Flashbacks

Before I start my story, there is one critical thing that you have to know about me. I have one addiction. Friends. You know the sitcom? Yeah, that one… Hence the title (if you have to ask, we might have some conflict).

Back to my ‘riveting’ story. I sit in my room, wall to wall with unpacked bags filled with belongings that almost still smell salty from the ocean air, and a friendly faced overgrown dog at my bedside.

Holidays are over and it’s time to see if I’m going to sink or swim this year.

But before I launched myself into interview upon interview, I would really like to reminisce on RCM.

You don’t know what that is, because obviously your family is not as great as mine.

RCM stands for Roast Chicken Mondays, and it’s when any family member that can make it is invited for roast chicken at my gran’s house, on Mondays. Pretty self- explanatory.

If someone were to walk past our dinner table this last Monday, they would have seen a table hosting too many hungry humans, and they would have heard incredible amounts of laughter. And I bet they would never guess what was bringing such joy and hilarity.

The uncle I feel I know so well, but wasn’t born in time to meet, was full of mischief, cheek, sheer naughtiness, adventure and a teddy bear- like disposition at times. Before he passed away, he made sure that there would be story after story of him that could keep his family entertained decades later.

From speeding in his sister’s car, almost getting him and his little brother arrested, to burning his sister’s boyfriend’s eyebrow off with his cigarette butt – he has left, even those who never knew him, hours of dinner topics and laughs. Seriously though, how wonderful is it to have fun while talking about someone who is no longer here?

Maybe it’s time to consider having something like RCM yourself, and even think about adding in one or two with flashbacks.