Paul

As I’ve mentioned, I watch A LOT of movies (note the spelling of “a lot” – for a laugh see this blog about alternatives). Most of the movies I watch are science fiction / fantasy / action, with the occasional chick flick thrown in to prove that I am, in fact, a girl.

I recently watched saw Paul, a brilliant movie by two of my all-time favourite actor/writers, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. (If you’ve never seen Spaced, Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz, you haven’t lived!).

*PLOT SPOILER WARNING!!!!!*

Paul contains a number of both subtle and overt references to classic sci-fi films such as ET, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Star Trek, and, of course, numerous Star Wars mentions. In one scene, cool-ass Fed Jason Bateman (so awesome!) shoots his radio in the middle of reporting to his superior (played in awesome cast-typing-ness by Sigourney Weaver), and comments:  “It was a boring conversation anyway”. Now for a confession: It took me more than a day to figure out where that line came from. I knew it was a quote from somewhere, but I kept trying to associate it with either Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz. As a lifelong, committed Star Wars fan, I was quite embarrassed to realise that the line comes from “A New Hope”, from the scene where Han and Luke are rescuing Leia from the Death Star. Luckily for my ego, I did manage to place it myself, without resorting to searching for it online, but still.


Perhaps it’s time for another Star Wars marathon?

Scary gifted

Yesterday was my sister’s birthday, and her husband took her out for dinner, so I went round to babysit my nieces. Now you have to understand that these are the most incredible girls on the planet – and I’m not just saying this because I’m biased.

The oldest is 9 years old. She is the epitome of the word “lissom” – tiny, slim and fairy-like. But, despite her delicate appearance, she is tomboy-ish; or so she insists – she doesn’t have enough if the daredevil in her to be a true tomboy. Her 6-year-old sister, on the other hand, is a stereotypical girly-girl, with a passion for pink, ponies and princesses.

They are both unbelievably bright. They’ve been tested, so it’s not just the voice of familial affection speaking. I believe that the educational psychologist actually referred to them as “scary gifted”. So you know that’s way up there with the geniuses. My sister started home-schooling them not long ago, and they are progressing in leaps and bounds beyond expectations.

Anyway, so last night I was babysitting them, and had the great pleasure of experiencing first-hand a few of the amazing things that they come out with. The youngest spotted a moth on the wall, and immediately went to the bookshelf and pulled out her butterfly book, saying “I know I’ve seen this moth in my book.” She paged through the book, and did, indeed, find a picture of the moth. She says to me: “This is the one, if I look very closely I can just make out the white spots on it’s wings.” Verbatim, I swear! And this from a six-year-old!

The oldest one is convinced that boys are a lower life form. Her comment was: “Boys can only think like boys, but girls can think like boys or girls.”

There is one fundamental difference between my two geniuses. The younger one, while incredibly academically gifted and advanced (she’s completed Grade 1 maths!), has been blessed with all the standard filters of self-absorption and disinterest that the rest of the human race has, and so she can cope with the world in the normal way, with a little bit of extra twee for the edification of her peers, parents and miscellaneous acquaintances. She’s a people-pleaser, but only as long as she always gets what she wants. And very often one finds oneself doing her bidding without the conscious decision to do so. She casts a very intricate and subtle glamour that somehow convinces everyone around her that she must be indulged. Which, of course, is only right and proper.

This was made by the youngest in Paint, and entitled "Cutey's Rocket" by the elder

The elder, however, does not seem to be similarly equipped. She has no need to win approval for her actions, but she feels every emotion to an extreme degree, and is overly concerned with the well-being and comfort of those around her (a fact which her sister shamelessly and effortlessly exploits). She is also the most faith-full person I’ve ever met. She believes so strongly that she distorts the world. And, without regular-person filters, she has a point of view that I have never come across in any other person. The observations she makes and the questions she asks (which are never-ending) often have no response, because they come from a direction that no one else has ever approached.

And, beside all this awesomeness, they’re also movie-star beautiful.

Update on my morals

Of course, I could be single because I'm waiting for Michael Fassbender to come along and sweep me off my feet...

The End of the World; and other trivial matters

So apparently we’re living at the end of the world. I must say, I don’t see any themed restaurants. Oh, wait – that was at the end of the UNIVERSE, not just the end of that portion of it which happens to contain human life as we know it.

As a follower of the Judeo-Christian school of thought, this should not be surprising to me. After all, these events were described for us more than two thousand years ago: rapture, tribulation, Armageddon, millennial kingdom, etc, etc.

And now we see floods, world-wide climate changes, falling space debris, rogue planets, colliding galaxies, super-volcano activity in both Indonesia and the US; not to mention the impending culmination of both the Norse and Mayan prophetic calendars. So, yes. It is very likely that the world is about to end.

I have a couple of problems with this.

Number 1: Why is it that people like Hank Campbell; scientist, probable atheist, definite sceptic; can write intelligent, witty, humorous, sensible prose (kudos on the “Thor” reference – by the way!), while proponents of the theological point of view, which, philosophically, I support, come across as ignorant, uneducated, illiterate, scare-mongering, fanatical idiots who live on a different, scarily one-dimensional, planet?

Secondly (and this is my real beef with the state of affairs): How is it possible that the world can end while I’m still single? That just seems monstrously wrong.

Jack

As promised, here is a post about my cat.

My cat’s name is Jack; as in Jack Flash, Jack be nimble, Jack Sparrow, Jack and the Beanstalk, Jack Spratt, etc. He was purchased for my niece but he chose me, and, as every cat lover knows, the cat decides who its human is.

Jack is grey and white, similar in colouring to Tom from Tom and Jerry, although he has the cutest stripedy-spots on his hind legs, patches of darker grey that form horizontal stripes. He has a crooked tail, which is apparently a genetic anomaly, not the result of a break.

Jack in NOT a cuddly cat. Except when it suits him, like when it’s cold, or when I’m wearing an outfit that should absolutely not get covered in cat hair. But, he is a very affectionate cat, and always greets me the second I get home, even if this means launching himself from his favourite perch in the ceiling. The ceiling spot is a point of contention between us, as he believes that the trapdoor in the ceiling must ALWAYS be open, and who cares about the cold breeze that it lets in in the middle of winter? Also, the shelf section of my cupboard is there solely for use as his personal staircase (although he is very good at getting me to airlift him as well). Closing the cupboard door to make the place look tidy is off the cards, as this evidently interferes with his chi. He immediately begins a vocal protest the moment I close the door, even if he’s busy with something else and has no desire to go into the roof at that time. Actually, he views the closing of any door as a sign of my intention to bar him from something exciting, or at least something edible, and he scratches and scratches and scratches until the obstacle is removed.

Jack is also the only cat I’ve ever met who plays fetch. Ever since he was a kitten, he’s been addicted to marbles, and loves chasing them across the floor, picking them up in his mouth and carrying them. (No, he’s never swallowed one and I have no fears that he ever will). Recently he discovered that if he brings his marble to me, I will throw it for him, thus increasing the joy of the game tenfold. He will chase them until he collapses, panting, on the floor, or until they disappear under the fridge or the bed or behind the bookshelf, a much more common occurrence.

And I am very fortunate (hear the drip of sarcasm?) to have a truly biological clock. Exactly five minutes before my alarm clock goes off every morning (unfortunately this includes Saturdays and Sundays), I am awoken by a nuzzle to the nose, a paw across the eyelids or a tooth in the toe, depending on Jack’s level of playfulness or frustration with his ever-inert mistress. This would be cuter and more useful if it didn’t occur before six in the morning.

He has a number of other quirks, which I’ll put in another post sometime.

Freudinger's Cats

Apparently I am experiencing a plague of weird dreams. Last night’s instalment was truly bizarre. I dreamt that I went to the house of one of my sister’s cousins by marriage – someone I have met a couple of times and got on with pretty well, but not someone that I know very well. She was not home, and it was almost like I was house sitting or something. The house itself was stunning: sort of my ideal place. The entrance hall was a bit strange: it was floored with small, square white tiles, edged in a sort of slaty green tile. The hall was a very strange shape – almost like a pentagon, with a kitchen off to the left as you entered and a guest bathroom to the right. Straight ahead were two archways into two separate wings. All the ceilings were double volume, and besides the entrance hall the floors were all gorgeous hardwood. I remember knowing that the entrance hall was going to be converted into an indoor planted courtyard.

As it turned out, the reason that I had access to the house was to host a cat show in which my cat was going to compete, which is in itself very peculiar, as I definitely do not hold with animal shows. This was also a very strange show, as contestants kept arriving, and none of the felines was in a cage, they just had free reign of this highly decorated home.

And then came the strangest thing of all. I ended up getting together with one of the other contestants. A straight single guy with a cat. How often does that happen? He was quite sweet, too. Not particularly hunky, but sort of like Eli Wallace from Stargate Universe.

So, once again, any thoughts?

Any Freuds out there?

Last night I had the weirdest dream. I dreamt that I was living on the site of the house that I grew up in, with my mother, my sister and my nieces. (Side note: Over the years, I have had many, many recurring nightmares about the house that I grew up in. This was not a nightmare, just a very peculiar dream) I don’t know where my dad and my brother in law were, but it was just us girls. The house had been torn down and replaced with an apartment block. The area that we were living in consisted of four bedrooms, three with single beds and one with a bunk bed for the girls, all centred around an sort of open plan kitchen / dining area laid out like a café. We were on the second floor, and there was a central staircase leading up in the middle of the storey, with a mirror apartment arrangement on the other side, occupied by another family. (I seem to remember that there were a lot of guys in that family, but they were entirely incidental to the dream.)

The street had been transformed into some kind of boulevard, and everyone who lived there seemed to know everyone else, kinda like one big, happy community. I went for a walk, shortly after we moved in, and saw a shop being set up and stocked in one of the houses of the side of the road. On the way back from my walk, the shop was up and running, so I bought two rolls of individually wrapped toilet paper, which I quite triumphantly presented to my mother and sister at the apartment, where they were sitting at a table in the café-like dining area. While I was doing my little bit of shopping, however, the Indian proprietor of the little store insisted that we had met before. I even remember that his surname was something like Vaneshin. I know that he told me his first name as well, and it’s right on the tip of my mind, but I can’t recall it right now.

Anyway, that was my dream: living in a strange place, in a strange community, with a strange family configuration, talking to strangers and buying toilet paper. Any thoughts as to what it might mean?

Morals? I be having it!

My walking time is supposedly my thinking time, but since my wanders a lot, it’s a bit difficult to form coherent thought threads. Today on my way to work I started off thinking about how I should try to write another blog post today, and then wandered off on various ideas for topics. I was going to write about my cat (which I definitely will do at some stage in the near future), briefly considered writing something about the rugby world cup (which would be pointless as I know very little about the game and the guys aren’t really all that hot), then I thought I should write about my quest for physical perfection in myself (huh!), and somehow I got around to the subject of men and my lack of one. This is not really surprising, considering that it’s one of the main themes of my life at the moment.

A little while ago I had a quasi-sexual encounter with a near-stranger. This is not nearly as slutty as it sounds, when you factor in that I have had NO encounters of any kind for more than 5 years. No, that is not a typo. Before this one, the last time that a guy had come near me was in February of 2006.

Anyway, the upshot of this tacky and singularly unfulfilling encounter was that I discovered a few truths about myself. It was pointed out to me by the non-gentleman in question that I do not behave like a thirty-two year old woman of the world, and this was made to sound like a bad thing. Yes, I am somewhat prudish about sex (unless you ply me with enough alcohol, in which case I can be quite forthcoming. I’ve cut down dramatically on my alcohol intake since 2006 also). I don’t think of this as a bad thing. I watch A LOT of movies, and in almost all of them, having regular sex seems to be a major motivating factor for almost all the characters. Pardon me for finding this a little sad and depressing. Can anyone explain to me what the purpose is of having multiple sexual partners? How does this in any way improve your life? Yes, you know that you’re attractive, but to be honest that’s something that you should be able to determine from within yourself, not by constant attention from people who are only interested in you because you’re willing to get naked.

Why is it that taking a moral stand is so anathema in today’s society? Fifty years ago I would have been ostracised as a “low woman” for the (relatively few) number of sexual partners that I have had, but today I am scorned as a prude for the same reason. Is the drive toward promiscuity merely a rebellious reaction to the mores of the previous generations? If so, that is a very bad reason to jeopardise one’s health, both physically and emotionally.

And since I know what you’re probably thinking, let me tell you right now that yes, I am frustrated, but that is not going to cause me to lower my standards for a prospective partner.

Also, it is not a bad thing to want to get to know someone before sleeping with them. I’m often initially attracted to someone physically, only to find out that they have zero cognitive ability, which immediately turns me off. The people that I have been the most involved with have always been those who could stimulate me mentally as well as physically. On this subject, three dates does NOT fulfil my requirements for acquainting myself with the finer points of someone’s personality. And being able to have an interesting conversation is way more important to me than the size of his biceps.

Why grasshopper?

This morning, while I was walking to work, I had three epiphanies. (Well, I call them epiphanies, but really they’re just random thoughts. I have quite a few of those).

Anyway, today’s thoughts went as follows:

1. I am built like a grasshopper. Average sized on top, with really BIG legs. Unfortunately, I cannot jump 20 times my own length (what an awesome super power that would be!)
2. I should write a blog about how I am shaped like a grasshopper and call it Grashopper Girl (Hellooooo, world!)
3. The title could also be an ironic allusion to the search for meaning in the world. Of course, since I use sci-fi and fantasy as source material, I’m not sure that I’d come up with anything a) useful or b) real. In the meantime, I’ll just say “42”.

My mind then proceeded to ramble down all sorts of strange pathways, like how the pursuit of meaning can be very cleverly disguised by the pursuit of hot bodies such as Chris Hemsworth in Thor, Jason Momoa in Conan and Hugh Jackman in just about everything.

Luckily, I arrived at work at that point, so my musings were curtailed.

But when I got to work I made my profile pic:

Not my best work, admittedly, but I had to make it in between doing the job that I'm paid to do. I'm quite fond of the boots, personally.