Friday, September 08, 2006
Ferrero Rocher
Undoubtedly, indisputably, THE best chocolate there is. My challenge to you... name one better. You won't be able to....
Thursday, September 07, 2006
"Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much." Oscar Wilde
At some point in the night I became aware of a warm, small and purring body lying against my thigh. At another point he shifted to actually lie on me. He was, of course, lying on my bladder, but since he had seen fit to forgive me, I magnanimously forgave him for reminding me I needed the loo.
As a result of the bladder I had bad dreams, but I forgave him for those too since he lifted his little head when I woke up from them and started his purr engine roaring till I felt better.
mmm - I love my cat.
As a result of the bladder I had bad dreams, but I forgave him for those too since he lifted his little head when I woke up from them and started his purr engine roaring till I felt better.
mmm - I love my cat.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
[Water is] the only drink for a wise man. Henry David Thoreau
I am weak! I have no willpower! I am awake. Sigh. Coffee again.
No one can hold a grudge like a cat
Brain the size of a walnut and he uses up the limited space to remember that he is not speaking to me. At the beginning of the week I treated him to his monthly flea medication. This involves catching him, holding him down and dropping some oily smelly stuff onto the back of his neck where he can't get to it. Then I release him and he runs around the house like something is chasing him. To top this off, I have to lock him in the house all day on flea-meds day, otherwise he finds someone to clean it off.
Needless to say, Henry is pissed. Very pissed. So peeved he has to show me how peeved he is. I was sitting on the couch with my roomy, he came over and lay down on her lap with his back to me. We knew he was punishing me because he clearly wasn't happy to be there, his ears were back and he wasn't purring. When I tried to be friends again his tail started twitching as if to warn me that an attack was imminent. My other roomy still has a scar on her nose from when she was being friends, so I gave up on trying to get some kitty luv and decided to go to work. He wouldn't even say goodbye to me when I left.
When I got home he was so excited that someone was there to alleviate his boredom other than his sometime demented and tortured sister that he momentarily forgot how peeved he was and was even prepared to chase a fluffy toy. But then he recalled that his neck was sticky with meds and had to stalk away from me and said fluffy toy in a superior manner. His next tactic was to sit just out of reach and glare at me while I attempted to ignore him and nap on my bed.
He continues to give me the cold shoulder. Frankly I am just relieved he didn't pee anywhere to display his disaffection.
Who says cats have less personality than dogs!
Needless to say, Henry is pissed. Very pissed. So peeved he has to show me how peeved he is. I was sitting on the couch with my roomy, he came over and lay down on her lap with his back to me. We knew he was punishing me because he clearly wasn't happy to be there, his ears were back and he wasn't purring. When I tried to be friends again his tail started twitching as if to warn me that an attack was imminent. My other roomy still has a scar on her nose from when she was being friends, so I gave up on trying to get some kitty luv and decided to go to work. He wouldn't even say goodbye to me when I left.
When I got home he was so excited that someone was there to alleviate his boredom other than his sometime demented and tortured sister that he momentarily forgot how peeved he was and was even prepared to chase a fluffy toy. But then he recalled that his neck was sticky with meds and had to stalk away from me and said fluffy toy in a superior manner. His next tactic was to sit just out of reach and glare at me while I attempted to ignore him and nap on my bed.
He continues to give me the cold shoulder. Frankly I am just relieved he didn't pee anywhere to display his disaffection.
Who says cats have less personality than dogs!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
He taketh away and he giveth
I know I know, I have it the wrong way round. But I just have to make the point that even though my father successfully ensured that all the avocado in the house was his, he also shared with me something that has affected who I am and the choices I make. I am not talking here about the usual dad stuff; groundings, school grades, shoelaces. I am talking about elemental stuff, things that will never change no matter how old I am, things I have no choice about. I am talking about Tracy Chapman and Eric Clapton.
"We improve ourselves by victories over ourself. There must be contests, and you must win." Edward Gibbon
I have done it. I have kicked caffiene. I have not had coffee in a week, I have only had one and half cups of tea today, and I am awake, alert and ready to analyse my budget! To the D's of the world... it is possible! Let's see how I am faring at 3pm though. That is the true test, when I still have another hour at the office, I have done all the interesting things for the day, sleep was and is a long way away and lunch is using all the brain power left in my body. THEN we'll see.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
How things change
When I was a child, the smell of cheese made me feel sick. I could not understand how people could eat cheddar and enjoy it, let alone blue cheese! I vaguely recall that I had a gouda and peanut butter sandwich, which, I think is to blame for the aversion. What I don't recall is at what point things changed. I luuurve cheese. I eat it on everything, every day. It's the sole reason I have put on so many pounds. And just when I thought I had reached the peak of my cheese-eating, we are offered the delight, the joy, the rapture of Cambozola.
Right now I am eating a large bowl of oatmeal. It's deliscious. It has nuts and craisins and honey. Back in the day, I went to a playschool during school vacation while my parents were working. The first order of the day at the school was to get a good healthy bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. The problem was this: the oatmeal had been sitting on the stove-top since about 5am. It was congealed, it tasted slightly of the burned bottom of the pot and there were no nuts, craisins or honey. Needless to say, it took a long time to eat that bowl every morning, and it took a long time before I realised that it was not oatmeal's fault that it was so unpalatable.
Also when I was a child I had an aversion to Avocado's. Why would I deprive myself of this delectable delight? Well, actually, it was my Father who deprived me. He should have had sons, a whole bevvy of them. Instead he had daughters, so while he did scale down his teasing, tomfoolery and pranks, he still scarred me for a long time. I was 11, that awkward phase of becoming aware of your body and realising it has betrayed you before you have even hit puberty. Puppy fat abounds, hormones rage. My mother was in the bath, my father making a sandwich. he got that gleam in his eye as he took the pip out of the avocado, the gleam that says; "Run, Forest, Run!" I, not being named Forest, did not run.
My Father tenderly placed the pip in my shorts, while I kicked and screamed. Then dragged me into the bathroom where he announced to my semi-submerged Mother that I had Pood my pants. It is quite remarkable how similar an avo pip is to poop in your pants. Needless to say she was shocked and appalled. Not because her husband had played a cruel joke, but because her 11 year old daughter had lost bowel control in such a spectacular fashion.
It was another 10 years before I ate my first avo. I had been living out from under his roof for four years at that point, and felt safe enough to be within spitting distance of an avo pip. I have now been living on my own for 11 years, and am even speaking to him again. I also ADORE avocado.
Right now I am eating a large bowl of oatmeal. It's deliscious. It has nuts and craisins and honey. Back in the day, I went to a playschool during school vacation while my parents were working. The first order of the day at the school was to get a good healthy bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. The problem was this: the oatmeal had been sitting on the stove-top since about 5am. It was congealed, it tasted slightly of the burned bottom of the pot and there were no nuts, craisins or honey. Needless to say, it took a long time to eat that bowl every morning, and it took a long time before I realised that it was not oatmeal's fault that it was so unpalatable.
Also when I was a child I had an aversion to Avocado's. Why would I deprive myself of this delectable delight? Well, actually, it was my Father who deprived me. He should have had sons, a whole bevvy of them. Instead he had daughters, so while he did scale down his teasing, tomfoolery and pranks, he still scarred me for a long time. I was 11, that awkward phase of becoming aware of your body and realising it has betrayed you before you have even hit puberty. Puppy fat abounds, hormones rage. My mother was in the bath, my father making a sandwich. he got that gleam in his eye as he took the pip out of the avocado, the gleam that says; "Run, Forest, Run!" I, not being named Forest, did not run.
My Father tenderly placed the pip in my shorts, while I kicked and screamed. Then dragged me into the bathroom where he announced to my semi-submerged Mother that I had Pood my pants. It is quite remarkable how similar an avo pip is to poop in your pants. Needless to say she was shocked and appalled. Not because her husband had played a cruel joke, but because her 11 year old daughter had lost bowel control in such a spectacular fashion.
It was another 10 years before I ate my first avo. I had been living out from under his roof for four years at that point, and felt safe enough to be within spitting distance of an avo pip. I have now been living on my own for 11 years, and am even speaking to him again. I also ADORE avocado.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
small surprises
I love it when life gives you little happy surprises. Like when someone at the office has made five roses tea, in a tea pot, with a tea cosy. Or when your loved one calls on their way home, and is much closer to home that you thought they would be. Or when your cat suddenly remembers a game you haven't played with him in three years. Or when the bus arrives as you do. My life is suddenly filled with these kinds of things and perhaps I just was not in the right frame of mind to recieve them, but now that I am aware, I hope they happen all the time!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens excursion
There is a Kenilworth in Cape Town too. I don't recall that they have any gardens though, and even less likely - aquatic gardens. We managed to get all the house-mates dressed, fed and sunblocked in an hour and bundled into the car to drive up to NE DC. Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens is apparently the best thing to do in August in DC. This is quite a claim as there really are MANY things to do in DC, in any month. The gardens completely met my expectations! Mostly because I have never seen plants such as these!
August is when the lotuses bloom. I always imagined that Lotuses were like lillies, floating peacfully on the surface, reflecting their colours off the mirror of the water. These lotuses however were astonishingly different. Their leaves are huge, like elephant ears, as one of the house-mates commented, waxy and rough to the touch. The flowers are Giants as big as my head when they are open fully, and the buds are like massive artichokes, but beautifully pink and red. The leaves, flowers and buds are all appended on the end of a long, rubbery and solid stem, which brings them up out of the water, high up above the heads of visitors to the gardens.
The most remarkable feature for me were the seed pods. I had seen them in specialty shops that sell incense and potpourri, but never known what they were. They grow up out of the center of the flower, starting as an emerald green and then drying out to dirty brown. At first glance it looks like an old-fashioned shower head, with the seeds sticking out of many little holes. The holes slowly expand as the pod dries and shrivels and that allows the seeds to drop out, falling 5 feet into the water below.
Kenilworth in DC has certainly given me an experience that Kenilworth in Cape Town never did. Although I hear they have some protected marshlands in the center of the race track. I doubt that you would see people wondering around there with their mouths in a constant 'O' of wonder at the spectacular behemoths nodding above them.
**Forthcoming attraction: photo's
August is when the lotuses bloom. I always imagined that Lotuses were like lillies, floating peacfully on the surface, reflecting their colours off the mirror of the water. These lotuses however were astonishingly different. Their leaves are huge, like elephant ears, as one of the house-mates commented, waxy and rough to the touch. The flowers are Giants as big as my head when they are open fully, and the buds are like massive artichokes, but beautifully pink and red. The leaves, flowers and buds are all appended on the end of a long, rubbery and solid stem, which brings them up out of the water, high up above the heads of visitors to the gardens.
The most remarkable feature for me were the seed pods. I had seen them in specialty shops that sell incense and potpourri, but never known what they were. They grow up out of the center of the flower, starting as an emerald green and then drying out to dirty brown. At first glance it looks like an old-fashioned shower head, with the seeds sticking out of many little holes. The holes slowly expand as the pod dries and shrivels and that allows the seeds to drop out, falling 5 feet into the water below.
Kenilworth in DC has certainly given me an experience that Kenilworth in Cape Town never did. Although I hear they have some protected marshlands in the center of the race track. I doubt that you would see people wondering around there with their mouths in a constant 'O' of wonder at the spectacular behemoths nodding above them.
**Forthcoming attraction: photo's
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Substitute
Tea is not that bad really... you just have to drink it two hours before you would have had your cuppa coffee to get the same eyelids peeled back feeling at the right time. Also, drink two or three cups instead of one. And then pee all morning long.
Monday, July 31, 2006
coffee breakdown
One week of vacation, getting up at 10:30 everyday.
One long drive back from the beach.
One glass of wine to get over the drive.
One morning of getting up at 6:30.
Sixty One emails clamouring for my immediate attention.
All equals one cup of coffee that I should not be drinking. SIGH.
One long drive back from the beach.
One glass of wine to get over the drive.
One morning of getting up at 6:30.
Sixty One emails clamouring for my immediate attention.
All equals one cup of coffee that I should not be drinking. SIGH.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
the greatest thing about the United States
Toilets that flush automatically. No need to remember to flush. Just think, all those hours my Mother spent training me, each time she asked: "did you flush?", wasted! Unnecessary! I just know that it was a Mother who came up with the idea of self-flushing toilets! it is one of my favourite topics to tell people about overseas. Also - tissues with lotion! Genius! Bet you a Mom came up with that one too!
Of course these things do have their downsides. For example - the loos at work are a little boisterous. I believe the idea behind self flushing toilets is that they save water. Well I think the loos at work are scared of humans and flush in panic. I open the cube door:'OMG a human!', - flush! I turn around to start undoing my belt:'yikes what's it doing?' - flush! I sit: 'OMG it's sitting on me!' - flush!
At which point I start to get annoyed, not only because of the waste of water, but because now my bottom is wet. AND THEN, when I am done, I stand up... nothing. I do up my belt... nothing. I wave in front of the red light... nothing. I open and close the door to the cube a few times... nothing!! It's as if the commode is in shock. Eventually I give in and press the teensy weensy button provided... flush! And now that it is on a roll... I Open the door; 'She's leaving!' - flush! close the door: 'Yay' - flush! wash my hands: 'phew' - flush! like I said, boisterous, but in principle, the best thing about the United States.
Of course these things do have their downsides. For example - the loos at work are a little boisterous. I believe the idea behind self flushing toilets is that they save water. Well I think the loos at work are scared of humans and flush in panic. I open the cube door:'OMG a human!', - flush! I turn around to start undoing my belt:'yikes what's it doing?' - flush! I sit: 'OMG it's sitting on me!' - flush!
At which point I start to get annoyed, not only because of the waste of water, but because now my bottom is wet. AND THEN, when I am done, I stand up... nothing. I do up my belt... nothing. I wave in front of the red light... nothing. I open and close the door to the cube a few times... nothing!! It's as if the commode is in shock. Eventually I give in and press the teensy weensy button provided... flush! And now that it is on a roll... I Open the door; 'She's leaving!' - flush! close the door: 'Yay' - flush! wash my hands: 'phew' - flush! like I said, boisterous, but in principle, the best thing about the United States.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
meeting misadventure
Today I re-discovered the un-enviable position of falling asleep in a meeting. Or rather, trying NOT to fall asleep in a meeting. There were only three of us, so no dozing in the back of the conference room for me. No legs out in front of me, arms folded high on my chest and eyes delisciously closed for a nap.
No, no, I had to contribute, or if not contribute, at the very least I had to keep my head where it should be: on my neck and not on my chest. For a while I tried keeping notes to keep me awake. But that had me looking down, and down meant chin on chest and that was just a natural position for a nap, may as well just have laid my head on my notebook.
Second I tried flexing my calf muscles, I have heard that getting the blood flowing will keep you from falling asleep. But how do you clench your calves without clenching your buttocks? It started to look like I was desperately holding in a pee and was getting some worried looks from my boss. So I decided I would practice that one when back to my desk and no one would be concerned with me gently bobbing up and down in my seat.
Third I tried the deep breathing trick, get oxygen to the brain and all that. Well, either I was breathing wrong, or I don't have a brain, but that just made me feel more like taking a nap.
So, maybe I should allow myself to have a cup of coffee before going into a meeting. It's just so embarrasing when your head suddenly jerks up and you blink and squint at the same time and the other two people in the room seem perky and smart.
yours in continued caffiene deprivation
No, no, I had to contribute, or if not contribute, at the very least I had to keep my head where it should be: on my neck and not on my chest. For a while I tried keeping notes to keep me awake. But that had me looking down, and down meant chin on chest and that was just a natural position for a nap, may as well just have laid my head on my notebook.
Second I tried flexing my calf muscles, I have heard that getting the blood flowing will keep you from falling asleep. But how do you clench your calves without clenching your buttocks? It started to look like I was desperately holding in a pee and was getting some worried looks from my boss. So I decided I would practice that one when back to my desk and no one would be concerned with me gently bobbing up and down in my seat.
Third I tried the deep breathing trick, get oxygen to the brain and all that. Well, either I was breathing wrong, or I don't have a brain, but that just made me feel more like taking a nap.
So, maybe I should allow myself to have a cup of coffee before going into a meeting. It's just so embarrasing when your head suddenly jerks up and you blink and squint at the same time and the other two people in the room seem perky and smart.
yours in continued caffiene deprivation
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Time IS relative
3:17pm - For my bank account and my waistline (or my butt, or the flabby bit under my arms) I am attempting to give up coffee. Which should not be that hard to do. I only have one a day, at the beginning of the day, and I don't think coffee is actually addictive. right?
3:18pm - It is now 3:18 and I am convinced that a. green tea is no flavour substitute for a moccachino, b. 3 cups of green tea does not one cup of coffee make, and c. Einstein was right. Although I have an improvement to make on his theory. It is also possible for time to, in fact, flow backwards.
3:20pm - I could swear it was four o'clock, half an hour ago. I even checked the start menu to be sure that my computor clock was correct. Of course, my cell phone clock could be wrong too...
3:16pm - Mmm, maybe FOUR cups of green tea make one cup of coffee?
3:18pm - It is now 3:18 and I am convinced that a. green tea is no flavour substitute for a moccachino, b. 3 cups of green tea does not one cup of coffee make, and c. Einstein was right. Although I have an improvement to make on his theory. It is also possible for time to, in fact, flow backwards.
3:20pm - I could swear it was four o'clock, half an hour ago. I even checked the start menu to be sure that my computor clock was correct. Of course, my cell phone clock could be wrong too...
3:16pm - Mmm, maybe FOUR cups of green tea make one cup of coffee?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Good news about culling
I love it when I can read happy news. This piece is about badger culling in the UK, the general public have come out against it. Yay!
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/5172360.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/5172360.stm
Save the Seals
Just feeling the need to do my bit - the annual culling of seals is about to happen in Namibia. In general, I support the concept of culling, but in this case it is just the kind of stuff to give me nightmares where I wake up needing to be held. The preferred method of culling the younger seals is to club them over the head and then stab them through the heart. This puts me so much in mind of the quote: life is nasty, brutish and short. In this case the death of the seals is nasty and brutish, but not short. Doing something about this is as easy as opening your email. have a look at these sites for some really constructive information and actions to take.
http://www.seashepherd.org/seals/seals_around_the_world_south_africa_latest_news.html
http://www.oipa.org/campagne/seals_namibia.htm
The second site has a petition to sign. I never know whether petitions work, but it makes me feel better to make my mark.
Be warned, the sites are pretty graphic, and probably not something you should look at, at work, or without a tissue box nearby.
As Francois Hugo says on his site: For the seals
N
http://www.seashepherd.org/seals/seals_around_the_world_south_africa_latest_news.html
http://www.oipa.org/campagne/seals_namibia.htm
The second site has a petition to sign. I never know whether petitions work, but it makes me feel better to make my mark.
Be warned, the sites are pretty graphic, and probably not something you should look at, at work, or without a tissue box nearby.
As Francois Hugo says on his site: For the seals
N
Saturday, May 06, 2006
An expedition
We do not usually have a car, living in the city makes it unnecessary. When by chance and the love of a good friend we do have a car and the weekend looms sweet and long and empty in front of us, we feel the need to do something we cannot usually do.
We keep hearing that it is at this time of year that one can see many and varied and beautiful warblers. So our expedition began. Diane read the birding blogs, I asked the birder at my work for the best birding spot and Keir polished up his camera lens. Early on Saturday morning we stirred ourselves and grumpily got through the shower, or rather, I grumpily got through the shower and Keir mostly did it in a fog of sleep. Diane, of course had been awake since sparrow fart, and was not in the least hungover from the previous night's margheritas at Haydee's. She was definitely perky, but as she had made coffee, Keir and I graciously forgave her. We made a quick stop at Heller's Bakery for donuts, brownies (I had a sudden craving) and more coffee and then we were on our way, after a brief spat over whether Keir knew where he was going or not.
We headed across the Potomac and into deep dark suburban Virginia and were much relieved when we started to see the first sign for Huntly Meadows, our destination de jour. When we pulled into the semi-filled parking lot the sole inhabitant was a dour faced man strapping a Bazuka to his back. On second look, it wasn't a bazuka, merely a spotting scope. The size of his lens made us certain that we had come to the right place to fullfill all our birding expedition dreams.
Huntly Meadows is a treasure trove of mixed ecosystems. They have a mature marshland surrounded by young, old and medium forest. The visitors center is a low and dark building and is well camouflaged in the trees. It is also closed until 9am, so make sure you don't drink two cups of coffee before you get there.
We headed into the forest, where the trunks of the trees were long and headed skywards to burst out of the canopy in spring greens, and within minutes I was rooting around in the backpack for my Binoculars. It was so wonderful to walk underneath and between those trees, feeling the cool breeze and looking up with my mouth slightly open in awe of the serenity up there. It is no wonder that we could hear a dozen different songs coming from all directions.
The mission was to find warblers and so we decided to try and focus on songs that we had not heard before, and then try and spot the bird itself. None of us have much experience, and even though we could hear the birds we had difficulty finding them. Luckily we were also completely content to just wonder along the pathway and enjoy the fact that we were outside without a coat, hat, scarf and gloves. Well, we had hats, but they were the sun kind, not the warm kind. We did see a few little birds we were unable to identify except as being lbj's or european starlings, but we were having no luck with the warblers.
I was looking at a nest in a dead tree about 8 trees diagonally away from me, when the nest moved. immediately the binoculars hit my face and I was trying to locate the bird, at the same time making wild gestures with my free hand for Keir and Diane to look too. It was a huge bird, easily 20 inches, flecked brown and puffed out, preening himself. The first bird that sprang to mind was that it was an eagle of some sort, but then he looked up sharply into the canopy and I saw the face. It was an owl! Owls are the most exciting bird for me to see. I think they are the bird of stories to me, the barn owl, keeping the farm clean of vermin, the scops owl, tiny and wonderful, and all owl calls, haunting and stirring. At that point I could have turned around and gone home and the day would have been seared in my memory. A couple of other birders came along the path to see what was fascinating us, and helped us identify it as a Barred Owl with liquid dark eyes looking out from a dark brown face.
Eventually we set off on the rest of our expedition, but it was the elation from seeing the owl that kept me going all day. The rest of the walk was also amazing. We met more wonderful, helpful experienced birders who indulged our excitement of seeing the common yellowthroat, carolina wren and a multitude of blackbirds. The best spot in Huntly Meadows, or at least, that part of Huntly Meadows that we explored, is a blind that has forest behind it and looks out over the Marsh. Sitting there, enjoying the sun we saw barn and tree swallows, an egret, canada geese, Mallards and the mighty Great Blue Heron, bird of Maryland, but hanging out in Virginia.
You can also walk out around the Marsh to the mudflats and see waders. We saw, with the aid of our new friends, greater and lesser yellowlegs, killdeer, semipalmated plover and baby chick Canada Geese.
For anyone who has a car, you should get into it, and head out there. My birder friend from work was so right when he said it is a wonderful place for new birders to go and become enraptured with birding. The birds are so close, and they live in happy concert with squirrels, turtles, snakes and the biggest toad I have ever seen. If you go next weekend, maybe we'll see you there, except this time, I will skip the margherita and get up earlier, maybe I can be perky too.
We keep hearing that it is at this time of year that one can see many and varied and beautiful warblers. So our expedition began. Diane read the birding blogs, I asked the birder at my work for the best birding spot and Keir polished up his camera lens. Early on Saturday morning we stirred ourselves and grumpily got through the shower, or rather, I grumpily got through the shower and Keir mostly did it in a fog of sleep. Diane, of course had been awake since sparrow fart, and was not in the least hungover from the previous night's margheritas at Haydee's. She was definitely perky, but as she had made coffee, Keir and I graciously forgave her. We made a quick stop at Heller's Bakery for donuts, brownies (I had a sudden craving) and more coffee and then we were on our way, after a brief spat over whether Keir knew where he was going or not.
We headed across the Potomac and into deep dark suburban Virginia and were much relieved when we started to see the first sign for Huntly Meadows, our destination de jour. When we pulled into the semi-filled parking lot the sole inhabitant was a dour faced man strapping a Bazuka to his back. On second look, it wasn't a bazuka, merely a spotting scope. The size of his lens made us certain that we had come to the right place to fullfill all our birding expedition dreams.
Huntly Meadows is a treasure trove of mixed ecosystems. They have a mature marshland surrounded by young, old and medium forest. The visitors center is a low and dark building and is well camouflaged in the trees. It is also closed until 9am, so make sure you don't drink two cups of coffee before you get there.
We headed into the forest, where the trunks of the trees were long and headed skywards to burst out of the canopy in spring greens, and within minutes I was rooting around in the backpack for my Binoculars. It was so wonderful to walk underneath and between those trees, feeling the cool breeze and looking up with my mouth slightly open in awe of the serenity up there. It is no wonder that we could hear a dozen different songs coming from all directions.
The mission was to find warblers and so we decided to try and focus on songs that we had not heard before, and then try and spot the bird itself. None of us have much experience, and even though we could hear the birds we had difficulty finding them. Luckily we were also completely content to just wonder along the pathway and enjoy the fact that we were outside without a coat, hat, scarf and gloves. Well, we had hats, but they were the sun kind, not the warm kind. We did see a few little birds we were unable to identify except as being lbj's or european starlings, but we were having no luck with the warblers.
I was looking at a nest in a dead tree about 8 trees diagonally away from me, when the nest moved. immediately the binoculars hit my face and I was trying to locate the bird, at the same time making wild gestures with my free hand for Keir and Diane to look too. It was a huge bird, easily 20 inches, flecked brown and puffed out, preening himself. The first bird that sprang to mind was that it was an eagle of some sort, but then he looked up sharply into the canopy and I saw the face. It was an owl! Owls are the most exciting bird for me to see. I think they are the bird of stories to me, the barn owl, keeping the farm clean of vermin, the scops owl, tiny and wonderful, and all owl calls, haunting and stirring. At that point I could have turned around and gone home and the day would have been seared in my memory. A couple of other birders came along the path to see what was fascinating us, and helped us identify it as a Barred Owl with liquid dark eyes looking out from a dark brown face.
Eventually we set off on the rest of our expedition, but it was the elation from seeing the owl that kept me going all day. The rest of the walk was also amazing. We met more wonderful, helpful experienced birders who indulged our excitement of seeing the common yellowthroat, carolina wren and a multitude of blackbirds. The best spot in Huntly Meadows, or at least, that part of Huntly Meadows that we explored, is a blind that has forest behind it and looks out over the Marsh. Sitting there, enjoying the sun we saw barn and tree swallows, an egret, canada geese, Mallards and the mighty Great Blue Heron, bird of Maryland, but hanging out in Virginia.
You can also walk out around the Marsh to the mudflats and see waders. We saw, with the aid of our new friends, greater and lesser yellowlegs, killdeer, semipalmated plover and baby chick Canada Geese.
For anyone who has a car, you should get into it, and head out there. My birder friend from work was so right when he said it is a wonderful place for new birders to go and become enraptured with birding. The birds are so close, and they live in happy concert with squirrels, turtles, snakes and the biggest toad I have ever seen. If you go next weekend, maybe we'll see you there, except this time, I will skip the margherita and get up earlier, maybe I can be perky too.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Returning
Washington, DC is at it's most beautiful at this time of year. Spring has sprung and between rubs of my itchy eyes I am repeatedly awed by the Natural world in this area. One of the best things about DC is how green it is, leafy neighbourhoods, tree lined avenues, circles that are parks, and a multitude of monuments, surrounded by trees, lawn and tulips.
Just as DC is at its most giving, we received a letter on Tuesday telling us that we are going home. At last, finally, after three years of being "when-we's" we are returning to Namibia. What I felt when I read the letter was a combination of fear and exhiliration and elation. The latter two are obvious, returning to what I so often, with a slip of the tongue, call Home. Fear, though, I felt fear that this was not true, that somehow it was an elaborate prank. To make myself believe it to be true I sent text messages to those nearest and dearest to me to tell them, my mother, father, sisters, my two friends who I have been close to since I was 6. Imagine them as they grumpily awaken, look at their phones and then go back to sleep.
I also called my closest friends here in DC. They work at the same place, and they called me back and put me on speaker phone. They were then so ecstatic that at one point I couldn't distingiush one girlish voice from the other. They were so thrilled for me because they are both foreigners in a friendly land too and perfectly understand the heavy sadness that comes from not seeing your mother for long periods of time. Towards the end of the phone call when we three had sufficiently calmed down, they suddenly remembered that this would be goodbye for a time.
So did I. We have no idea when or for how long we will retun to the states, and if we do so, whether we will return to this fair city. Washington has started to feel like a substitute mother to me. I recognize her moods, when she wants to play and there are crowds picnicing and playing frisbee on the mall, which is her heart. I also recognize the windy, grey days in winter where we all rush from indoors to indoors, putting on coats and taking them off again again and again. On when you leave the house, off when you ride the bus, on between bus and Metro, off in the metro, on for the walk to work and then they are discarded on your spare chair till hometime.
There is so much going on in DC that we frequently deliberately ignore her on a friday night and vegetate on the couch to watch Numbers. We have attended concerts, I have seen the hair-raising Tracy Chapman twice, gone to Zoo lectures, frolicked on the Mall and walked up and down 16th street absorbing the chilled Saturday atmosphere.
DC is also the center for places that have influenced my childhood, and then adulthood. National Geographic headquarters are here. So are WWF, CI, TNC, African Wildlife and so many other's. I am still awed when I attend National Geographic events, readings by famous conservationists, photo exhibits, and I get to meet these people! Of course, I would have absolutely nothing to say to them if I had not had my beginnings in Africa, and in Namibia. The Owens blithely told me how they have repeatedly crashed their plane in Namibia, a fact which made my heart warm to them even further.
A charmed life is what we have led while living here and I know, from experience, that even if we move back everything will be different. Which is making me greedy for the life here. I feel that right now I should be riding through Rock Creek park and tonight I must go to the WWII memorial to be enchanted by its fountains. I still have 7 months and some change here, one summer, half a winter and what is left of spring and I want to enjoy the things I have already done, and loved, and still there is so much to discover. One day, when we come back I hope DC will still be the rebellious, integrated and scintillating city that is the soul, when you get past Capital Hill and the lobbyists.
At 1:35 in the morning, my cell phone rang on my bedside table. It was my Mom and sisters. They had woken up to find my messages and were so excited that they had to call me immediately, despite the cost and the time of night, day... whatever. Their excitement equals mine. Soon I will be there, with them, watching the sunset over dusty Windhoek, sipping gin and tonic. Maybe I can teach my family the card game that I play incessantly with my friends here, while we watch the sun go down, and sip gin and tonics. Really, what you love will happen wherever you are, as long as you love wherever you are.
While I write this Abdullah Ibrahim's "homecoming song" is playing. The drums beat like my heart at the happy thought of seeing red sand dunes and smelling the ozone after the rain. The saxophone and trumpet play a tune so that you feel like your feet should be doing a complicated quick step, but somehow there is a mournful note there. The joy of Homecoming will always mean that I am leaving something else behind and Dollar Brand has captured that emotion in this song.
Just as DC is at its most giving, we received a letter on Tuesday telling us that we are going home. At last, finally, after three years of being "when-we's" we are returning to Namibia. What I felt when I read the letter was a combination of fear and exhiliration and elation. The latter two are obvious, returning to what I so often, with a slip of the tongue, call Home. Fear, though, I felt fear that this was not true, that somehow it was an elaborate prank. To make myself believe it to be true I sent text messages to those nearest and dearest to me to tell them, my mother, father, sisters, my two friends who I have been close to since I was 6. Imagine them as they grumpily awaken, look at their phones and then go back to sleep.
I also called my closest friends here in DC. They work at the same place, and they called me back and put me on speaker phone. They were then so ecstatic that at one point I couldn't distingiush one girlish voice from the other. They were so thrilled for me because they are both foreigners in a friendly land too and perfectly understand the heavy sadness that comes from not seeing your mother for long periods of time. Towards the end of the phone call when we three had sufficiently calmed down, they suddenly remembered that this would be goodbye for a time.
So did I. We have no idea when or for how long we will retun to the states, and if we do so, whether we will return to this fair city. Washington has started to feel like a substitute mother to me. I recognize her moods, when she wants to play and there are crowds picnicing and playing frisbee on the mall, which is her heart. I also recognize the windy, grey days in winter where we all rush from indoors to indoors, putting on coats and taking them off again again and again. On when you leave the house, off when you ride the bus, on between bus and Metro, off in the metro, on for the walk to work and then they are discarded on your spare chair till hometime.
There is so much going on in DC that we frequently deliberately ignore her on a friday night and vegetate on the couch to watch Numbers. We have attended concerts, I have seen the hair-raising Tracy Chapman twice, gone to Zoo lectures, frolicked on the Mall and walked up and down 16th street absorbing the chilled Saturday atmosphere.
DC is also the center for places that have influenced my childhood, and then adulthood. National Geographic headquarters are here. So are WWF, CI, TNC, African Wildlife and so many other's. I am still awed when I attend National Geographic events, readings by famous conservationists, photo exhibits, and I get to meet these people! Of course, I would have absolutely nothing to say to them if I had not had my beginnings in Africa, and in Namibia. The Owens blithely told me how they have repeatedly crashed their plane in Namibia, a fact which made my heart warm to them even further.
A charmed life is what we have led while living here and I know, from experience, that even if we move back everything will be different. Which is making me greedy for the life here. I feel that right now I should be riding through Rock Creek park and tonight I must go to the WWII memorial to be enchanted by its fountains. I still have 7 months and some change here, one summer, half a winter and what is left of spring and I want to enjoy the things I have already done, and loved, and still there is so much to discover. One day, when we come back I hope DC will still be the rebellious, integrated and scintillating city that is the soul, when you get past Capital Hill and the lobbyists.
At 1:35 in the morning, my cell phone rang on my bedside table. It was my Mom and sisters. They had woken up to find my messages and were so excited that they had to call me immediately, despite the cost and the time of night, day... whatever. Their excitement equals mine. Soon I will be there, with them, watching the sunset over dusty Windhoek, sipping gin and tonic. Maybe I can teach my family the card game that I play incessantly with my friends here, while we watch the sun go down, and sip gin and tonics. Really, what you love will happen wherever you are, as long as you love wherever you are.
While I write this Abdullah Ibrahim's "homecoming song" is playing. The drums beat like my heart at the happy thought of seeing red sand dunes and smelling the ozone after the rain. The saxophone and trumpet play a tune so that you feel like your feet should be doing a complicated quick step, but somehow there is a mournful note there. The joy of Homecoming will always mean that I am leaving something else behind and Dollar Brand has captured that emotion in this song.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Hazel Rusthoi
My maternal Grandmother would have been eighty eight on Sunday, were she still alive. My Mother told me this over the phone and I blithely kept speaking about the trivia of my life brushing over this comment as if it were another dust bunny in the path of my broom. As often happens, the comment stayed with me after the phone call, and is with me still, three days later.
Hazel, I have her first name as my second, so does my Mother. I like to think that Hazel started a new tradition in our family, a family with precious few traditions. I will gift my first born daughter with the second name Hazel, and she will do the same for hers and so on and so on until we run out of first born daughters. Hazel is a cumbersome name for a young girl, and I am relieved that it was my second name and not my first. As it was, "Hazel nut" was always a favourite with the teasing boys. Although I am sure that my daughter will suffer less, what with names such as "Apple" and "Tullulah Belle" hanging around. Although I must confess to secretly being a little jealous of Tullulah, it rolls of the tongue so conviently, and yet, how do you teach a small child to say her name when it is that complicated for the mouth to form?
My Grandmother, my namesake, was an incredible woman, she told me that she became a teacher at age 13. To this day I am sceptical of the tale, I cannot imagine a 13 year old girl controlling a class of sniffing, whining and bored children, and then managing to make them learn something! I have stood in the front of a classroom, between the desks and the blackboard, chalk in hand, and there is no place more terrifying and exhilirating. Well teacher or not at age 13, I do know that she was a teacher, and even a Headmistress, and one of the first Coloured women to be head of a School in Apartheid South Africa.
Which segues neatly to more of her incredibleness. Like many women during that era she was fighting her government for every part of her life, her right to marry the man she loved, even if he was white, the right to work where she wished, to live where she wished, to travel where she wished, and for the same for her children, and thankfully, for her grandchildren. She did this by supporting her husband in his rebellion, cared for her four children and gave something invaluable to the children that she taught.
To me she was a strict maths teacher on my school holidays. She was the smell of baked bread. It was almost the only time in our house when the bread was not store bought. She had brown hands with long fingers, her skin smoothly soft and you could slide it around on the back of her hand. Her hands were so strong, and even close to her final sickness and death, she could hold your hand so tight.
My favourite memories of her are when she visited us in Namibia and we would lie on her bed, while she smoked and drank her brandy slowly, slurping slightly and enjoying the flavour thoroughly. That is when, if we begged suitably, she would tell us stories. I have always wished that I remembered them more clearly. I could never perfectly guess what type of creatures the stories were about, but I do remember that they lived under a tree, and they had a wayward son called Timmy and that every story had a moral to it. Like Aesops fables, but smelling of brandy, cigarettes and Oil of Olay, and, if we were lucky, granny smith's boiled sweets. Mr and Mrs Snodgrass. Of course I now know that my well read and well educated Grandmother must have picked this name out of a Dicken's memory the first time she told the stories. My Mother's favourite author is Dickens. I wonder if this is because she was taken to enchantment in a meadow under a tree with Mr and Mrs Snodgrass's troubles with Timmy.
Thank you Granny for warmth and discipline and thank you also, for my Mother.
Hazel, I have her first name as my second, so does my Mother. I like to think that Hazel started a new tradition in our family, a family with precious few traditions. I will gift my first born daughter with the second name Hazel, and she will do the same for hers and so on and so on until we run out of first born daughters. Hazel is a cumbersome name for a young girl, and I am relieved that it was my second name and not my first. As it was, "Hazel nut" was always a favourite with the teasing boys. Although I am sure that my daughter will suffer less, what with names such as "Apple" and "Tullulah Belle" hanging around. Although I must confess to secretly being a little jealous of Tullulah, it rolls of the tongue so conviently, and yet, how do you teach a small child to say her name when it is that complicated for the mouth to form?
My Grandmother, my namesake, was an incredible woman, she told me that she became a teacher at age 13. To this day I am sceptical of the tale, I cannot imagine a 13 year old girl controlling a class of sniffing, whining and bored children, and then managing to make them learn something! I have stood in the front of a classroom, between the desks and the blackboard, chalk in hand, and there is no place more terrifying and exhilirating. Well teacher or not at age 13, I do know that she was a teacher, and even a Headmistress, and one of the first Coloured women to be head of a School in Apartheid South Africa.
Which segues neatly to more of her incredibleness. Like many women during that era she was fighting her government for every part of her life, her right to marry the man she loved, even if he was white, the right to work where she wished, to live where she wished, to travel where she wished, and for the same for her children, and thankfully, for her grandchildren. She did this by supporting her husband in his rebellion, cared for her four children and gave something invaluable to the children that she taught.
To me she was a strict maths teacher on my school holidays. She was the smell of baked bread. It was almost the only time in our house when the bread was not store bought. She had brown hands with long fingers, her skin smoothly soft and you could slide it around on the back of her hand. Her hands were so strong, and even close to her final sickness and death, she could hold your hand so tight.
My favourite memories of her are when she visited us in Namibia and we would lie on her bed, while she smoked and drank her brandy slowly, slurping slightly and enjoying the flavour thoroughly. That is when, if we begged suitably, she would tell us stories. I have always wished that I remembered them more clearly. I could never perfectly guess what type of creatures the stories were about, but I do remember that they lived under a tree, and they had a wayward son called Timmy and that every story had a moral to it. Like Aesops fables, but smelling of brandy, cigarettes and Oil of Olay, and, if we were lucky, granny smith's boiled sweets. Mr and Mrs Snodgrass. Of course I now know that my well read and well educated Grandmother must have picked this name out of a Dicken's memory the first time she told the stories. My Mother's favourite author is Dickens. I wonder if this is because she was taken to enchantment in a meadow under a tree with Mr and Mrs Snodgrass's troubles with Timmy.
Thank you Granny for warmth and discipline and thank you also, for my Mother.
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Decoys vs Rolling Thunder
On Saturday I went Duckpin bowling for the first time. I have been Tenpin bowling a few times, once in England with a memorable visit to the Brighton beach where I was introduced to the concept of not being able to take your shoes off on the beach because of needles, broken beer bottles and other such charmingly hazardous materials. Actually - before I slur the name of Brighton - it may have been Whitstable, I was so disoriented in those days. No Southern Cross you see.
But to return to the subject at hand. Rental shoes. I know that many people before me have covered this topic in a more lavish and humerous manner. I just want to pause briefly on the uncomfortable feeling when your feet sweat in the garish, plastic, tightness that are bowling shoes. The uncomfortable feeling where you have a sinking realisation that multitudes of other people have sweated in the self same shoe, and you find your stomach wishing that a) you had not eaten the deep fried cheese fries as breakfast and b) you had worn thicker socks or c) you had your own pair of bowling shoes.
Once you get over that, and you work out how to brake whilst carrying a heavyish ball, accelerating for only 2 metres and wearing plastic shoes on polished wooden floors, the game is highly enjoyable. I associated the day with so many high school and teenage emotions and cringing insecurites, and also came to terms with a couple of them. The first being the worst, maybe. Teams were chosen "schoolyard style". This means team captains are chosen and with the bouyant relief that comes from choosing rather than being chosen they pick teammates out of the huddled and fear-grinning crowd.
The person before me bowls with competency if not brilliance and now it is my turn. Suddenly I recall why I wasn't in the A team for volleyball, why I didn't play field hockey with my friends, why I chose not to play any team sports. I detest 'letting my team down' with my shocking inabilities. Also, now I am standing in front of about 10 people, all watching my butt, my ass, my hiney. Last time I looked at it myself it was the proverbial traitor with it's ever growing presence. Luckily I look good in these jeans. Which are falling down because I forgot to put on a belt. Should I hitch them up? That requires a completely undignified hip wiggle, and I only have one hand, the other being occupied with a bowling ball in speckled green. But if I don't do the hip wiggle I may end up face down in the lane following my ball into the gutter with my nose. Aargh. Hip wiggle with one hand, switch ball, hip wiggle with other hand, readjust t-shirt for least butt crack protruberance, deep breath, run, brake, swing arm and release. WHY would anyone do this more than once?
Unfortunately, in the interest of 'not letting my team down' I did do it more than once, I may even have done it 14 times. Somewhere in the middle, around #8 or 9 I managed to hit the white things in the middle. Which I was told, with much laughter, was what I should be aiming at. ha ha. There-in is the shining light in bowling of any kind. When you run, brake, swing and release and you have the sweet feeling of successfully coordinating all that perfectly and the ball rolls down the middle of the lane, at just the right speed and with just the right curve, and smacks into the white things and they all go falling down even sometimes, gleefully, knocking each other down. That will make you do it another 7 or 8 times. Just the Hope of that satisfaction is enough to keep you playing, and even to consider returning to the game.
Finally, after 3 hours and two games, I was allowed to remove the offensive shoes and was released, blinking into the sunlight by my team.
PS. As said by House, (brilliant Hugh Laurie) There may be no 'I' in team, but if you mix up the letters, there is 'ME'
But to return to the subject at hand. Rental shoes. I know that many people before me have covered this topic in a more lavish and humerous manner. I just want to pause briefly on the uncomfortable feeling when your feet sweat in the garish, plastic, tightness that are bowling shoes. The uncomfortable feeling where you have a sinking realisation that multitudes of other people have sweated in the self same shoe, and you find your stomach wishing that a) you had not eaten the deep fried cheese fries as breakfast and b) you had worn thicker socks or c) you had your own pair of bowling shoes.
Once you get over that, and you work out how to brake whilst carrying a heavyish ball, accelerating for only 2 metres and wearing plastic shoes on polished wooden floors, the game is highly enjoyable. I associated the day with so many high school and teenage emotions and cringing insecurites, and also came to terms with a couple of them. The first being the worst, maybe. Teams were chosen "schoolyard style". This means team captains are chosen and with the bouyant relief that comes from choosing rather than being chosen they pick teammates out of the huddled and fear-grinning crowd.
The person before me bowls with competency if not brilliance and now it is my turn. Suddenly I recall why I wasn't in the A team for volleyball, why I didn't play field hockey with my friends, why I chose not to play any team sports. I detest 'letting my team down' with my shocking inabilities. Also, now I am standing in front of about 10 people, all watching my butt, my ass, my hiney. Last time I looked at it myself it was the proverbial traitor with it's ever growing presence. Luckily I look good in these jeans. Which are falling down because I forgot to put on a belt. Should I hitch them up? That requires a completely undignified hip wiggle, and I only have one hand, the other being occupied with a bowling ball in speckled green. But if I don't do the hip wiggle I may end up face down in the lane following my ball into the gutter with my nose. Aargh. Hip wiggle with one hand, switch ball, hip wiggle with other hand, readjust t-shirt for least butt crack protruberance, deep breath, run, brake, swing arm and release. WHY would anyone do this more than once?
Unfortunately, in the interest of 'not letting my team down' I did do it more than once, I may even have done it 14 times. Somewhere in the middle, around #8 or 9 I managed to hit the white things in the middle. Which I was told, with much laughter, was what I should be aiming at. ha ha. There-in is the shining light in bowling of any kind. When you run, brake, swing and release and you have the sweet feeling of successfully coordinating all that perfectly and the ball rolls down the middle of the lane, at just the right speed and with just the right curve, and smacks into the white things and they all go falling down even sometimes, gleefully, knocking each other down. That will make you do it another 7 or 8 times. Just the Hope of that satisfaction is enough to keep you playing, and even to consider returning to the game.
Finally, after 3 hours and two games, I was allowed to remove the offensive shoes and was released, blinking into the sunlight by my team.
PS. As said by House, (brilliant Hugh Laurie) There may be no 'I' in team, but if you mix up the letters, there is 'ME'
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